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PROLOGUE - The Matchmaker

Furina, the Hydro Archon, is known for many things. For being a little childish sometimes, very dramatic, fond of cakes. She is, however, also very well known as a renowed and respected matchmaker.
She delights in using bouts of free time to set up couples in the court - the young new guard and the stunning widow, the respected soldier and the feisty researcher. She finds the true match for others just by looking and talking to them, and she rarely fails.

That is, unless the Iudex of Fontaine is in the picture.

She has tried, at first, to find him ladies he would like. She would invite him to outings in the gardens, tea parties and evening dinners, and find every day a new lady to introduce to him. They’d all be smart and gorgeous, just the best for him, polite and well spoken and rich in literature. He’d have long conversations with them, smile softly at times, but he never called them back, never cared for them after those rendezvous. Not that he ignored them - Neuvillette is nothing if not polite - but he would not pursue them.
Then, blaming herself for her naivety and her very heteronormative take on her Iudex’s preferences, Furina tried with men. She’d find the most loyal, handsome guards, the most eligible gentlemen, the ones quiet and just, and again invite both them and Neuvillette to Opera shows, to dinners together and luncheons. And yet… nothing. He’d have pleasant conversations and would smile to them very amicably, he’d greet them in public afterwards but, just like with the ladies, he would pursue none of them.

The great Hydro Archon found herself bested, for now. She’d heard of people who cared not for romance, but her drama-loving heart just couldn’t take it! She had to create the most tragic and show-stopping love story for her Iudex! And so she kept on trying. She was glad Neuvillette never caught on to what she was doing, making him meet all those people, just so he wouldn’t ask her to stop, and she was free to keep on trying.
Her answer would rise from above the waves, just like in a prophecy… in the shape of a man.

Chapter Text

#1 CENSORIAE TABULAE
Third day of the third month
We are in spring. Lovely flowers, but the air is warmer, even if the weather is wetter. Lovely rains abound, my favourite spring has found new life, after the ice of the winter, and I can drink its water anew.
The trials continue, the Archon is always the same. I am… tolerant of her in the way one is of a nosy but friendly pup.
I find myself sometimes wondering if my detachment to the people leads to poor judgement, but then I read on the press of judges and lawyers who get swayed by clients, by love and friendship, and I get the harsh reminder of why I do this. I must perform my duty.
You wrote a deep and terrible fate for Fontaine. I hope you know it. And I hope my duties keep it at bay.

CHAPTER ONE - Enter Duke

It was a pleasant, if windy, day for trials in Fontaine. A more experienced voice would say that every day is a trial day in Fontaine, but some trials are so boring and lifeless one dares not call them even that. They’re mere formalities.
These, Furina hates. She calls them a waste of time, especially when that time so precious she could use to find new matches for her courtlings. There is nothing bold in an old criminal stepping forward to pass his last years in Meropide, shriveled by old guilt. There is no drama in a researcher who embellishes her papers with lies and false data. The Archon and her people have heard those stories many, many times already, and they just don’t care anymore.
The Opera Epiclesse is half empty, that day, just a few stragglers, people with nothing better to do, trials aficionados, Furina and Neuvillette, and the warden of Meropide.

The Duke doesn’t always attend trials - just some. He picks based on his mood, on the convict, on the need for him to be there. If the criminal is particularly vicious, he accompanies his guards to be sure to keep everyone sharp and ready. Today, he’s just there because he has a meeting with Neuvillette afterwards and the Iudex is so busy he couldn’t find the time to go down in the underwater fortress.
The Duke is sitting, manspreading, on a velvet seat in the far left corner, third row or so, and he’s staring intently at the Iudex delivering his sentences.
Furina sighs from her throne up above, twirling her hair and pulling it, playing idly. The sound of Neuvillette’s cane (three distinct taps) signaling the end of the trials for the morning feels more like bells and singing of angels to Furina’s ears.
She hops down from her seat, happily reaching Neuvillette, who has just descended from his position.

“My Iudex!” she greets, bowing elaborately.
“Focalors” Neuvillette gives her a curt bow, gesturing to his left. “I believe we have company. Greetings, Duke.”
Furina turns, clapping her hands at the Duke’s arrival. He walks confident, slow, like he knows people will wait for him even if he takes his time.
“To you both” he says, his usual tone of voice, dragging along letters as if he can’t be bothered to fully pronounce all of them. “I have a meeting with the Chief Justice. Was told you can’t make it out of the Opera today?”
“It is so” Neuvillette adjusts his neckerchief, sighing deeply. “There is much to judge today. We can indulge solely in a walk to the Fountain de Lucine. By the time we get there and back here, my break will be over.”
“Let’s not waste time then - I’ll follow you.”
Furina looks at them with interest. Well, here’s a man Neuvillette already knows. She finds herself rubbing her chin in thought. What if? Duke Wriothesley is just and polite and knowledgeable. And there is something purely delightful in his rough exterior… especially when put close with the refined blues and hues of the Iudex. She stares as them as they exchange their formalities, walking towards the door.
When they’re about to leave, Wriothesley turns around to her.
“Lady Furina” he says, most serious. “Would you mind leaving me with your judge for a bit? Not that I wish to keep you away from my business… but I’d rather our precious Archon used these precious minutes of break to eat something. I heard there’s cake in the foyer…”
Furina’s eyes lit up. “Cake!” She closes her hands in fists and swings them around, happily. “Oh why, Duke, you are too indispensable to this nation! I’ll go right away - I couldn’t possibly deliver my perfect judgement with an empty stomach!”
“Right on that, my lady” Wriothesley seems amused.
Neuvillette gives another bow. “We’ll be right back.”

It’s only when Furina is in the foyer, eating cake and waiting for the break to end, surrounded by other attendees who fight over each other for a word with her, that it hits her: the Duke got rid of her on purpose! So that he could talk alone with Neuvillette! Oh, he must be interested!
A smile creeps on her face as she eats another big bite of cake. She did not see this coming… but she does not back down from a challenge.
The bell rings twice and Neuvillette steps back inside the Opera, Wriothesley nowhere to be found. He wears a faint smile he did not wear before.
Furina waltzes on the stage, skipping and hopping to her seat, and spends the rest of the day thinking about just how she is going to orchestrate the love match of the century.

INTERLUDE - Furina and Clorinde

Furina, Focalors, the Archon of Hydro, Her Highness the sole Justice of Fontaine is marching up and down the boulevards of the city this evening. She is accompanied by two butler mekas, both holding trays of cakes and chalices of hot cocoa and tea ready for her, and she nibbles and sips as she walks.
Her glorious path starts from her apartments at the Palais Mermonia to the second richest arrondissement of the city - where high officials of the court live.

People step aside as she marches, her hat perched proudly on her head, cake in hand and stressing her steps with the beating of a ceremonial sword. Whispers flood the streets, people looking down from the window of the shops in the roads blessed by the Archon’s presence. What is she going to do? Who is she going to meet?

Furina, Focalors, the Archon of Hydro and sole Saviour of Justice is going to see Clorinde, the Champion duelist. It’s her day off, so that’s why she’s not already at Furina’s side - as her bodyguard. Furina unhurriedly gets to her house (pretty, a two floors thing with purple and yellow flower vases all around the windows but otherwise no decorations) and snaps her fingers. One of the meka accompanying her steps forward to ring the bell, as she takes that time to set herself into a glorious pose most becoming of the Hydro Archon.
The bell rings, and Furina holds her pose for what seem to be ages. After long, long minutes of posing, Clorinde finally opens the door, a confused expression on her face. She’s wearing pajamas and a nightcap, holding a book whose cover she seems very intent on hiding.

“Your Excellence?” She groans more than salutes.
“It is I!” Furina finally loosens her pose. “I bring you cake and my presence as a salutation, my brave bodyguard!”
A beat of silence follows. The people crowding the streets behind her hold their breath.
“Of… course” Clorinde jostles the book so it goes into hiding behind her back, when she sees the crowd outside. “Then I humbly request you, O mighty Focalors, to step inside my house and have tea and biscuits with me.”
It’s a ceremonial invitation but there is absolutely nothing ceremonial in the way Clorinde says it. She just seems tired and upset her reading time was interrupted.

Furina is blissfully tone deaf, so she just smiles, nods and enters the house with great stomping, with her mekas in tow. Clorinde closes the door, not caring about the upset noises the crowd makes at the disappearing of their Archon. She would groan again if she could - she knows the gossip that’s gonna start immediately after the news reach The Steambird’s rabid ears.
But for now, she just follows Focalors inside (after carefully hiding her book - it’s a lesbian romance novel called “Her fiery Blonde Hair” and she does not need Furina to know that), thinking to herself why the sudden visit. She’s not buying the “salutation” and cake thing Furina had going on out there.

“SO!” Furina shrieks as soon as she reaches the living room, sitting down on the best couch, her cakes surrounding her. “Clorinde! My brave Clorinde—”
“What might you need?” Clorinde says, perhaps a bit too straightforward. Furina brings her hand to her chest, shocked by the audacity.
“My - let me explain! I am, however, so glad you’re so eager to step in and help your dear Archon!” (Eager is not the word Clorinde would have used. But she shuts up for now)
Furina gestures ‘come closer’ to Clorinde, conspiratorily. Clorinde stays put. Furina gestures harder and the bodyguard sighs and comes closer.
“I request your aid” Furina practically giggles, “in matters of Love!” (No idea how, but Clorinde can hear Furina just said that with a capital L)
The woman cocks her eyebrow, crossing her arms. “You’re… in love?”
“Not me, silly goose!” Furina emits a sound between a gasp and a retch. “Neuvillette!!”
Her eyes positively sparkle, while Clorinde’s get more clouded with confusion.
“I… did not believe the Chief Justice to be capable of— that.” She says after a while.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Furina gets comfortable on the couch, drawing her knees up to her chest and licking the frosting off a cupcake, “There is no love yet in Monsieur Neuvillette. Believe me… I’ve tried.” she sighs.
Clorinde makes an interested humming noise. “So that’s why I kept seeing monsieur Chief Justice in random restaurants with people I’ve never seen him talk to before.”
“Yes, those were my sly and cunning machinations!” Furina seems properly proud of herself. “But alas… none worked. His heart stayed cold and frigid like a frozen fatuus!” She brings a hand to her forehead and assumes a dramatic pose.
“And… so?”
“I see you still fail to gather your thoughts around my most intelligent intuition!” Furina giggles, pleased. “Well, I shall leave you in the dark no longer! I have found a match - no, the Perfect match for my dear Iudex!”
Her voice raises in tone as she speaks, and she is nearly yelling by the end of the sentence.
She looks ecstatic, and Clorinde can’t help but ask: “Who?” She takes a bite of cake in the meantime.
Furina smiles, and raises a small piece of paper. On it, she has printed the symbol of the Fortress of Meropide.
Clorinde chokes on her cake.

Chapter Text

#2 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Fourth day of the third month

Spring keeps coming and its rains surely still abound. I am sorry for the flowers — I saw a small child plant some in her garden today, on my way to the Opera. I know they won’t withstand the onslaught of water that it is about to come. I feel a deep feeling of unease.

I have gone on a walk on my favourite beach and found it flooded. Please— (the following text is struck out with a harsh, black line, much unlike the rest of the perfect handwriting. The page’s paper is wavy, like it has been wetted and then dried, and there are tear marks at the top left corner. After a blank page, the writing resumes, perfectly orderly.)

Today the Duke asked for a meeting and since I was unable to hold it in my office, so he graciously took my offer of walking next to the Fountain of Lucine and talk about the issues there. He told me much about the affairs of the Fortress, and about the dear little melusine down there… I am always so amazed at her spirit. And at the Duke too, this time. I was thinking about all the humans I’ve met that treated the melusines differently, sometimes badly, and how even the most well meaning of them had some sort of misconception before knowing one of them. The Duke seems to be devoid of these. It is admirable.

It’s late. I’ll go to bed. I am thinking if I should rip the previous page out.

(Another line, written in much haste and in diagonal) I shall not rip it.

CHAPTER TWO - First Try

Neuvillette’s monthly day off is being disrupted.

It started with Furina barging into his home and insisting, pleading and all, that his presence was so fundamental today at the Hotel Debord’s restaurant.

She's in his living room right now, giving him a full show, putting on all of her theatrical tricks, kneeling and begging because he’s not convinced yet.

“Lady Furina, please…” he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m begging you, Neuvillette!” she nearly sobs, “you must come!”

“You have not yet told me exactly why is it that you need me to come. It’s simply a diplomatic luncheon, is it not? Why should my presence be required?”

Furina wobbles up to her feet, sniffling. “The thing is… I’m afraid the diplomat… may be from Snezhnaya.” She looks up at the last word, perfectly theatrical.

And Neuvillette finds himself terribly torn. This could just be Furina making up another excuse to have him accompany her and do her work in her stead, or it could be a true problem. Furina does tend to be overexcited and scared when Fatui are involved, and it leads to poor decision making and a very spooked Archon who is rendered unable to do anything for a week at least.

He stares at her, who’s looking up at him, all teary eyes and quivering lips. He sighs.

“I’ll come,” he finally says, “But—” he is interrupted by the Archon’s happy yapping.

“Oh, I was sure you’d agree to help me! Oh, you’re such a lifesaver, Neuvillette!” She giggles, jumping around, hands to her chest in a pleading pose like he just did something way more important than just agree to lunch together. “I have already called the Hotel! They said they have a new soup on the menu, and I took the liberty to tell them to make it extra watery juust for you!”

Neuvillette raises one eyebrow. She doesn’t seem to realize she just gave away that she knew he’d agree, and planned on it, and keeps talking about how it will be a short meeting and about how she’s going to go ahead and get the whole thing ready.

“Oh, and one last thing!” She says, an afterthought, as she is leaving through the front door, “I invited the Duke too!”

The Duke. After Furina leaves, Neuvillette has a moment to himself to get dressed and think. He has been thinking steadily higher and higher of Duke Wriothesley, in the last years. He remembers when he was nominated, and before that, many dark things of him. But since his new job as warden of Meropide, that darkness has left — mostly. He still retains some of it, in the way he stares, the way he sits and walks, the way some people always retain an aura of something around them, like the scent of their past.

Neuvillette adjust his neckerchief as he thinks that probably one never gets rid of such a past, not after that much time in a place like Meropide. He thinks of the little melusine, too, sweet Sigewinne. He’s glad she is watched over by the Duke. And he’s glad of his presence at this luncheon, too. It won’t be too much of a hassle having to make small talk with him.

He finishes to get himself ready with a dab of a light, watery-scented cologne and makes his way towards the Hotel Debord. The way there is devoid of any interesting occurrence, and once just outside its doors he notices the conspicuous lack of any kind of guards that usually appear at these luncheons, except for a grumpy Clorinde, who seems to straighten up her face and put on a more professional front when she sees him.

“Chief Justice.” She salutes, proper and crisp.

“Champion duelist,” he greets back, with a slight bow. “You have been called, too, for this meeting?”

“So it seems.” She says.

“Our Archon must really be scared of this Snezhnaya fellow.” He muses, cradling his chin between his index and thumb. He looks around himself, to take a mental image of the surroundings, and misses the duelist’s reaction: the face Clorinde makes is indescribable. She looks as shocked as her deadpan resting face can muster, and with a hint of pure disbelief.

“Yes…” She drawls, closing her eyes and opening them very slowly like she has a headache pulsing in her head, “She must be… so scared…”

“Well then,” Neuvillette taps lightly his cane on the floor, “Let’s not keep her waiting. Thank you, Clorinde, for your service.”

They bow to each other again, Clorinde’s deeper than the Iudex’s, and he enters.

A waiter is immediately at the door, taking his coat and leading him to a private room - he feels on himself all the eyes of the people sat there to eat, almost hears their curious whispers. What is the Chief Justice doing here? Emergency meetings? This should be his day off, he’s not been seen in Court all morning.

He ignores them, giving just a general look around, and follows the waiter straight to the private luncheon room.

“Here, monsieur.” The man says, bowing again and ushering him inside.

The room is quite large, a round table in the center, set against a big window, overlooking the Hotel’s private gardens. The curtains are drawn, providing privacy and a low lighting ambience that relaxes Neuvillette’s eyes.

“Hello there!” a voice suddenly calls from the table. Neuvillette blinks and as his eyes adjust to the light, he realizes he’s not alone.

Duke Wriothesley is at the table, twirling a silvery spoon between his fingers as he sits in front of a steaming cup of tea, from which a sweet scent arises.

“Oh, Duke,” Neuvillette turns towards him, “My apologies. I did not quite see you back there, my eyes were getting used to the light in this room.”

“Yeah, it’s so dim.” The Duke agrees, putting down the spoon and picking up the cup, blowing on it slightly.

Neuvillette finds himself interested at the lightness of his touches, how he picks up the porcelain cup and blows on it so gently. He is a rough man, someone who does very violent things for a living. But somehow there he is, sipping on honey-sweetened tea in a fragile cup. It makes him think, about the humans, their nature, their dichotomies. But now, it’s not the time for such musings.

“Indeed. I guess we cannot make use of the light outside with these curtains.” He thinks out loud.

The Duke nods, “Probably our Archon wants some privacy while discussing important matters.”

“Ah, yes, she told me,” Neuvillette sits at the table, and thanks the Duke under his breath when he serves him a cup of tea as well; “So you’re here to be our bodyguard, should things… go south.”

“In a way, yes,” the warden sits back in his chair, stretching out his arm with a wince - Neuvillette wonders if he injured himself in some way. “I do believe yourself to be more capable than you let others think…”

Neuvillette looks at him, and finds the man looking back with an amused expression. His mouth slightly turned upwards, eyes crinkled just so, a twinkle of something in them. He has to force his own mouth to stay still and not smile in response - he wonders if the human sympathetic system is getting to him.

The turns back to his cup, takes a sip.

“Who knows, hm?” Wriothesley answers to himself, and the smile is still present in his voice.

There is a small beat of silence, then the Duke stands up, going at the window and peeking outside. His coat and frame obscure the light coming in from the small spaces between curtain and window, and the room grows darker while he stands there.

“No one out here.” He says then.

“And no one at the door,” Neuvillette shoots the said door a nasty look, like he could make Furina appear just by scolding her hard enough; “I am sorry on behalf of our Archon. She has probably encountered some emergency.”

Wriothesley waves his hands, “No biggie. Let’s order something better than tea and biscuits.” He makes his way to the door and opens it, leaning outside to call over a waiter.

Neuvillette lets him take care of it, knowing Furina already told the servers his order, and sure enough when, a good ten minutes later, they get served, there is an “extra-watery” soup for him - and some beef Bourguignon for the Duke. Still no sign of the Archon, or the diplomat they’re supposed to be talking to today. The waiter, however, looks at them weird, like he’s inspecting something.

He makes his doubts known. “I wonder if perhaps the diplomat decided not to come?”

“And our Archon forgot about us here?” Wriothesley completes his musings, “You know, if we were talking about someone else, I’d say probably not. But with her… I mean, no offense, but—”

The Iudex sighs, taking a quick sip of water (he’s never liked the Hotel’s supply of it, too metallic). “None taken. Our Archon tends to be quite forgetful indeed.”

He shakes his head, picking up his spoon; “Let’s just enjoy our lunch, for now. I’ve seen Clorinde outside, she surely left by now to accompany Furina wherever she may be. I am not too worried for her safety.”

They enjoy their luncheon indeed, with a bit of small talk, and delicious food. The soup at the Hotel is much better than its water, and Neuvillette finds himself humming a little after the first spoon. The Duke seems amused, but does not comment. They talk a little of the weather, and try to avoid work topics but that leaves them with nothing much to talk about.

When they’re almost done, the door opens but it’s not Furina, not even this time. It’s a pink melusine, Neuvillette recognizes her; she patrols this area, right outside the Hotel Debord - her name is Caltha.

“Monsieur Neuvillette.” She says, polite, bowing as much as her small body allows. The Iudex stands up to greet her, bowing back and awaiting her message. And sure enough: “I bring news from our beloved Archon!”

She puffs her chest out and starts to recite: “Dear Iudex, dear Warden of Meropide. It is I, Furina, your Archon, speaking through the medium of this gentle melusine, Caltha. I announce you that the meeting has been postponed! I am in the safety of my own rooms, with my faithful Clorinde. I await you both here after your luncheon, to share friendly talks and take part in lovely mingling!”

There is a long pause when Caltha is done, in which Neuvillette can perceive the Duke trying not to laugh.

“Well,” Neuvillette coughs, a little embarassed. “Thank you for delivering that… insightful message.”

“Of course,” Caltha adjusts the hat on her head, nodding. “Do you need me to send any word back to our Archon?”

“There’ll be no need for that,” comes the voice of Wriothesley from behind the Iudex’s back. “I guess we’re going at her apartments for some lovely mingling.”

Neuvillette sighs and picks up his cane, nodding. “Friendly talks, indeed.”

Wriothesley’s eyes are gleaming again in that weird way. “Let’s go, or faithful Clorinde’s ears will fall off if she keeps having to listen to our Archon all on her own for any longer.”

They share a quick glance, and the Duke’s half smile again almost triggers Neuvillette’s, but he just lets his eyes go soft in appreciation for the joke.

They leave the Hotel, everything on Furina’s tab (that is to say, free, because the Hotel refuses to let Furina pay anything). They step outside, the Duke holding the door open for Neuvillette, all polite bows and polite conversation as they walk back to Palais Mermonia.

Back in Furina’s apartments, the mighty Hydro Archon is pacing back and forth, indeed talking patient Clorinde’s ears off.

“My spy said they were just sitting there! Eating lunch!” She says, exasperated, like eating lunch is a completely absurd thing to do at noon in a restaurant.

She disorderly throws herself down on her couch, sprawled like a starfish.

“You sent a spy?” Clorinde sighs, and promptly curses herself as Furina emits a high pitched groan and nods and starts talking again.

“I did! I asked a waiter there for a favor. I wanted to pay him but he said it was a pleasure to help me!” Her face lights up at the memory, but then it grows frowny again when she keeps talking; “I instructed him to run back here every fifteen minutes and report on the developments, and he said they just sat there, ate and then kept talking about where I was! Like, that’s not the important part! The romance was missing, maybe it was the setting?” She cups her face in her hands in thought. “Maybe that’s why! Probably having called them with an excuse related to work made them hyper-focus on that and then they could not think of each other, they could not relax enough to look in each other’s eyes and fall desperately in love!”

Clorinde grimaces at the pitch of the Archon’s voice once more. She’s about to reply when there’s a knock at the door and the usher announces; “Duke Wriothesley and the Chief Justice!”

Furina immediately sits up straight on the couch, hands clasped in her lap and an apologetic expression on her face. Archons, she’s a really good actress, Clorinde thinks.

“Monsieur! And the Duke!” The Archon calls, bringing one hand to her chest and sighing deeply. “You must have been so worried for me. I am so sorry I could not send news of my person as soon as I knew the diplomat wasn’t coming. I was… held back by….” She stammers, looks to Clorinde.

Clorinde sighs.

“Her Highness twisted her ankle while walking up the stairs. I called the Palais’ nurse and inbetween things our Archon forgot to adjourn you when we heard that the envoy from Snezhnaya wasn’t coming today.” She says it with such a deadpan face that Furina looks at her shocked at how well that lie came out.

Clorinde looks back, and raises her eyebrows, looking at Furina’s ankle. The Archon gets the hint, luckily, and she bends down to clutch it immediately.

“Ah, yes! It still hurts!” She sobs.

“I am only glad it was nothing serious” Neuvillette simply says.

Behind him, the Duke is leaning on the doorway, fidgeting with the handcuffs at his belt. “So am I,” he adds. “If that’s all, I’ll be going. Fortress doesn’t run itself.”

He’s about to turn back and leave when Neuvillette speaks once more. “Forgive me, Duke, I must ask you to stay for a little more.” All the heads in the room turn towards him, curious. “From our Archon’s words, I am under the impression that the luncheon that should have been held today is going to be held tomorrow. Correct?”

Clorinde looks again at Furina, and if looks could talk this one would say ‘this is your business, you resolve it’.

“Uhmm—” she stammers, opening and closing her hands in anguish. “Yess… I guess so—”

“You guess?” It’s the Duke now, cocking one eyebrow up and tilting his head. “The envoy didn’t say anything? How rude.”

“No! He did say something, uhm—!”

Clorinde can see the gears turning in her head. She sighs internally. “He said yes, luncheon, tomorrow, Hotel Debord.” Clorinde finally gives in and helps again; “You’re both still needed, of course. As I am.”

“Of course.” Wriothesley repeats.

“Oh, that will not be good for the trials. I am sorry, I must leave immediately,” Neuvillette has the look of a man who just lost his whole free day. “I have to organize someone to replace me tomorrow.”

He turns on his heels, makes for the door, and opens it. As he’s about to leave, he hesitates, turns back and gestures to Wriothesley. “It was a good lunch. I was glad to talk to you.” He simply says.

The Duke gives him a small bow. “As was I. Have a safe trip home.”

The Iudex leaves, then after a little while Wriothesley excuses himself aswell and goes straight to the Aquabus - it’s a long journey from the city to Meropide.

As soon as the door shuts, Furina lets out a long, happy squeal.

“Clorinde! Clorinde!” She singsongs, running to hug her. “You were awesome with those lies! And you set them up for another date tomorrow!”

“I felt rather bad seeing you struggle.” Clorinde says, deadpan.

“I’ll ignore the disrespect hidden in that phrasing!” Furina says behind her teeth, still smiling, “Because did you hear what the Iudex said!” She slides to the center of the room, posing as Neuvillette, assuming a smoldering, serious stare.

“It was a good lunch,” she says, voice deep, “Duke, you charmed me.”

“That’s not what he said.” Clorinde points out.

“Shush!” Furina giggles, “It’s not what Neuvillette says, but how he says it that matters! Trust me,” she throws herself back on the couch, kicking her feet in the air, “Tomorrow… tomorrow they fall in love!”

INTERLUDE - The Duke

Wriothesley’s journey back to the Fortress is uneventful and tranquil. The melusine’s informative talk drags on in the back of his head while he looks outside the Aquabus to the beautiful landscape of Fontaine, but he’s not annoyed by her voice droning on. If anything, it provides a nice background to his thoughts.

Meeting Neuvillette always makes him think of his past, which is weird because he knows there is no bad blood between them about it, but still it all makes his stomach churn and twist in an unpleasant way. Like Neuvillette did something wrong, when he really didn’t.

He was judging him, at his trial, and to be perfectly sincere the one in the wrong back then was Wriothesley himself. There is still a small part of himself that can’t quite accept he was wrong. Of course, he killed, and that is wrong, Wriothesley is quite old enough to understand that, but sometimes… the kid he was back then still comes out to play, and yells in his mind that it should not have been wrong, that one time. He was a kid! And they were villains, not him!

He recalls himself, barely a teen, in the Opera, in the booth of the accused, speaking without emotion of his crime. He described his actions with medical language, showing on himself where he cut them, where he hit them, and where they hit him. Half his face at the time was covered by bandages still, having just that morning been pulled out of his hospital bed to attend his trial, but on the side of his healed eye, sat the Iudex on his throne. He remembers those seawater eyes scrying into his head, and his voice when he announced the verdict, and the long pause he took before doing so.

He’s always wondered, all these years, if the Iudex holds any sort of resentment towards him; it would be most unbecoming of Neuvillette, so he does not think the Iudex does. But again, when the walls against memories slip down, the kid he was asks him again if he’s sure, if maybe the reason why he was granted the place of Warden is just because Neuvillette wants to keep him down with other convicts forever.

“We have reached our destination,” the melusine’s voice suddenly jerks him out of his thoughts, “Thank you for choosing our Aquabus!”

He wrings his hands together, standing up. He can feel his memory prod at him, so it means it’s time to rush to the Fortress and bury himself in boxing and paperwork until his brain stops working. He leaves hurried, scratching an invisible itch at the back of his neck until his skin is red and sore.

#3 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Fifth day of the third month

Today I lost my free day for a mishap. There was an envoy supposed to come in that didn’t show up, and for Furina’s failure in communicating so in a timely manner, I had to lunch with the Duke. He is not unpleasant and he was gracious and mostly silent, so I didn’t mind much. I just wish I could have had today to relax a little… and as I write this I feel as if this is almost too selfish to ask.

I’ll go to bed. There’s heavy rainclouds outside.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE - Of Prejudice

The sun rises after a humid, rainy night and finds Neuvillette up already. He’s sitting at his table, in his office, a pile of letters and papers in front of him ever so slowly decreasing as he reads, answers, and signs each of them. There is so much paperwork involved for every thing in Fontaine, and finding a substitute for the Iudex in an extraordinary circumstance like this one implies an especially exorbitant amount of it. He’s signing permits, excuses, official documentation that will forever rot in the archives but is still very much needed today. A small part in the back of his mind is irritated at the fact that he needs to do this because of some planning mistake - at least, that is what Furina ended up telling him. The envoy was always supposed to arrive today, not yesterday, but the Maison Gestion messed things up.

Anyway — none of this matters now that the day is here. The Iudex wonders why the reason behind this meeting, what it could possibly be about. It could be related to the new opening of the Northlander Bank in the Court, but he’s not sure. He signs the last permit with a final flick of the pen, then rises from his desk and makes his way to the door. He walks into the main room, greeting the melusine at the front desk, and gestures to one of the secretaries to get the papers on his desk as he slips on his coat and takes up his cane, leaving for a small walk outside before the luncheon.

Signing everything took him hours, and the sun is quite high in the sky by now, gulls circling above the gardens behind the palace, benches crowded here and there with workers taking breaks or chatting about work. He walks slowly, cane in hand, every tap of it punctuating his steps. When he passes, people rise and bow at him, staring with awestruck gazes that he dares not think he deserves. This, too, is something he’ll never get about humans.

They are easily impressed, easily swayed. He sees it in too many ways during trials, and more often than not it makes him think negatively of this peculiar human attitude.

The flow of thoughts makes him think of the Duke, for he is different in this. He seems foolproof against this part of humanity, he does not let others sway him and convince him of anything he does not wish to do himself.

Neuvillette recalls when he was first nominated as Warden of Meropide, and how he smiled proudly - if faintly - at the Iudex’s praises. Something you wish to do. It truly seems Wriothesley had found it.

He lets the day run on a little longer, then steps back inside the Palais, sending someone to knock on lady Furina’s door to wake her.

He is not making the same mistake twice - he’ll bring her with him at the Hotel.

Furina’s usual antics could result in the meeting being postponed again, if he’s not careful, and he does not quite want that to happen.

So, he waits for her outside her chambers. She emerges a mere five minutes later, her hat perched on the wrong side of her head and wearing a disgruntled expression.

“You could have just waited for me here!” She whines.

“Seeing yesterday’s happenings, I preferred to make sure you were alright. Is that a problem, lady Furina?” He inquires, turning towards the exit and gesturing for her to come along.

She doesn’t reply, just huffs and then stomps on, making everyone aware that she is passing through, very nosily, and very keen on having all who see her raise from their seats and bow to her. Neuvillette looks, amused, at her upturned face and growing pleased smile as more and more people salute her. An untrained eye would only see a diva behavior, but the Iudex knows her. She has quite the soft heart, under the primadonna, showgirl attitude she likes to put on. She’s probably sincerely happy to see her people greet her with such respect.

Outside the Hotel Debord, Duke Wriothesley is already waiting. At the door stands guard Clorinde, again, almost a deja vù of yesterday, and he greets her with a casual wave of the hand.

“Clorinde.”

“Wriothesley.” she answers in the same laid back tone.

He grins. “Back at it.”

“Let’s hope it’s the last time.”

“What? Champion Duelist, you don’t enjoy being at the service of our lady Furina, our beloved Regina?” Wriothesley smiles fully now, starting to enjoy the familiar back and forth.

“Easy to enjoy it when your job is to sit down in those velvet chairs and lunch with Monsieur and Mademoiselle.”

He leans on the wall, “Sounds to me like you need more training then, if standing still is too much for you”

There’s a beat of silence in which Clorinde looks at him with murder in her eyes. “Standing still will be too much for you if you keep talking. Knees are very fragile.”

“Oho, a threat!” The Duke laughs, “That could get you landed in Meropide, don’t you know?”

“Maybe it would be better than standing here,” she sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t even know why I didn’t just say I had another thing coming up. I said yes like an imbecile. And do not say—” she adds, seeing Wriothesley’s teasing smile coming up again, “—that I am one.”

“I got nothing to say then.” he simply states.

They stare at each other, and Clorinde gives him one of her rare smiles. “It’s good to talk. Pity our time has already ran out.” she adds, pointing to the main street.

There’s some chaos, voices overlapping and someone shouting, and a moment later lady Furina and the Chief Justice, escorted by two Gardameks, turn around the corner and show up in the Duke’s line of sight. They’re followed by the noise of a small crowd of interested people: the appearances of the Archon are always a big deal, after all. And the Iudex is with her — Wriothesley is sure the Steambird will publish an article about this tomorrow. Or even this afternoon. He can already picture the titles; “Mystery meeting at the Hotel” “What is the Iudex plotting?”

He steps forward to greet the upcoming arrivals when suddenly the door of the Hotel busts wide open and a melusine dressed in the livery of the staff runs out, crying desperately. There’s a man with a crazed look in his eyes following her, shouting at her to stop.

“Duke!” He yells, seeing him, “Stop her! Stop her right now!”

Wriothesley acts before he can think, something that saved his life many times in his line of work — he holds out an arm and catches the melusine by the shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says, seeing her teary eyes look up, “Let’s see what this man has to say together, shall we?”

“Please, let me go!” she sobs. Wriothesley is vaguely aware that Neuvillette has sped up his step (the rhythm of the cane is faster, and the Duke could recognize that cane and its crystal clear tapping anywhere), “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Nothing wrong?” The angry man has caught up to them, and is staring at the small melusine with intense hatred in his eyes; “She’s a bloody thief!”

“Gentlemen, what seems to be the matter?” Neuvillette has finally reached them. His expression is tight, worried.

“She robbed me! I saw her stealing from my room!” The man yells, pointing his finger at the tiny melusine, who is hugging herself with her soft hands. She looks up at Neuvillette, eyes searching for sympathy.

“I didn’t rob anyone—” she whispers, but the man cuts her off again.

“I know what I saw! And it was you leaving my room with my precious pocket watch!” He gets closer, face red with anger, reaching for something that the melusine holds in hands, and suddenly Neuvillette raises his cane halfway through the air, letting it rest on the man’s sternum to stop him.

“Sir.” He says, his tone cold, “Do not attempt any violence on the suspect.”

There’s silence, and the air turns humid as a few droplets condense next to Neuvillette’s hands, the power of Hydro ready to unleash. The man swallows hard, looking away, and takes a step back. Wriothesley takes the second of silence that ensues to look at Neuvillette, posed rigidly between the man and the melusine. He’s struggling to maintain his perfectly cool façade. How unlike him…

“Now,” the Iudex continues, looking from the man to the melusine, “First of all, the accusation. Your name is Sole, right? I recall you work here,” He addresses the melusine, who nods. “Is that the watch monsieur is saying you stole?”

Wriothesley looks where he’s pointing, and sure enough from the melusine’s pocket peeks out the golden chain of a watch.

“Yes. But I was only—”

“She’s trying to make me out to be the villain!” The man shouts in the Iudex’s ear, and this time Neuvillette flinches, utterly flinches and moves his shoulders in a tight motion. Clorinde takes a step forward, but Furina holds her arm to stop her from intervening. It feels like everyone at the scene is suddenly holding their breath. The tension sings in the air until the man gives in, feeling the pressure, and mutters an apology.

The moment that follows is one of long silence, the muffled sounds of the city in the background of the dramatic happening. “We cannot determine the truth like this,” finally the Iudex says, putting down his cane, “I ask you both, Sole and monsieur—”

“Dubois.” the man mutters.

“Dubois,” Neuvillette repeats. There’s a bit of something in his voice in the way he says it, Wriothesley doesn’t know if he could call it disdain, but sure it is close, “I ask you both to enter the Hotel and await for me and Duke Wriothesley at the reception. You are to tell the staff about the issue and that you are to be kept in the room usually reserved for me until we arrive, with staff to watch over you. Have I made myself clear?”

The two nod.

“Very well. Go.”

There’s shuffling of feet and the sniffling of the melusine, and the altercating two enter the Hotel.

Furina huffs, relieved. “Well, that was sure a scene!” She throws her hands in the air. “I should think you won’t be attending the meeting with the envoy, after all?”

“Indeed,” Neuvillette turns towards the Archon with an apologetic half bow. “I don’t think I need to remind you of my personal interest to follow the melusine’s legal troubles.”

Furina nods, then looks at Wriothesley.

He looks at the Iudex. “So, I am going to help you, I take it?”

Even if Wriothesley says it in an amused tone, Neuvillette still puts his hand to his chest and looks at him with saddened eyes. “Forgive me for not asking you and just assuming you would. But the man is rather violent and… I do not trust him to behave.”

“No apologies needed. I’ll help.” He simply says, crossing his arms. “Let’s go.”

They exchange quick salutations with Clorinde and Furina (“The Champion shall be my help during this important meeting with the envoy!” Furina shouts as they enter the Hotel. Clorinde looks positively terrified at the idea of being the only conversation companion of the Archon, once more) and the two groups depart in opposite directions inside the Hotel.

The two men make their way to the Iudex’s room without further incidents, if not for the people looking at them curiously and almost scared. They must make an impressive duo, the Iudex of Fontaine marching down the hallways, the taps of the cane ricocheting off the marble floors, quick and sure towards his goal; and the Duke of Meropide, the Cerberus of Fontaine, clad in black, staring back into the eyes of those who try to peek at them for too long.

They don’t say a word, and the Duke just observes the man beside him - he looks much older when he’s worried, he realizes. He feels to the eye as if he suddenly aged by centuries: the silver of his hair suddenly looks white, his cane turns into the help for an old man’s step. His clothes seem to envelope him, wearing him rather than him being dressed in them. It’s a new perspective on the Chief Justice, for sure.

The fact that he has gotten so worried and worked up for a melusine also confirms at least some rumors that Wriothesley has heard - that the only time one sees human anxiety from the Iudex is when those little creatures are involved.

He feels like he should say something, but as he tries out sentences and words on his tongue, they all fall short of what he wants to say. So he just silently follows, and soon they’re entering the room.

At two opposing sides of the same table, Sole is sat on a chair too big for her, her feet dangling, and monsieur Dubois is gripping the armrests of his, tapping his foot nervously on the floor. With them, a rather worried member of the staff, young but tall, that looks ready to break any fight that could take place.

“Monsieur.” Dubois says as soon as he sees them, jumping up from his chair.

“Sit down.” Neuvillette orders, his tone suddenly assuming the same depth and clarity is has in court. He dismisses the staff with a wave of his hand, stepping closer to the table and the two sat at it. Wriothesley lurks by the door, blocking the entrance and exit and crossing his arms again, using the bulk of his shoulders to intimidate the presents.

Neuvillette stands straight, both hands on his cane in front of him. “This will be a first, informal proceeding to precede an eventual trial. My authority and that of the Duke is more than enough to warrant you of the severity and seriousness of this course of action. There shall be no lie from our part nor any favoritism. Do you understand?”

The two nod.

“Very well. I now shall proceed to ask the accuser his version of events. Afterwards, we will hear the accused.” He gestures to Dubois, and the man clears his throat and starts talking. His voice shakes ever so slightly with badly repressed rage; Wriothesley’s heard that tone one too many times in convicts.

“It’s very simple. I was just going downstairs for lunch and I saw her leaving my room with my grandfather’s watch in her pocket! I’ve heard others say to be careful of her because she is… weird. But I didn’t think they meant she was a thief!”

“Refrain from such conclusive and partial statements before it is their time, monsieur Dubois,” Neuvillette says. “Now, Sole. Please illustrate your version.”

It’s much, much more difficult for the panicked melusine to talk. It’s an immediate red flag for Wriothesley - who would steal so boldly in the place where she works and then not have the readiness to talk if questioned?

“I… I was not stealing. I was taking it back!” She manages to say after a few instants, between harsh sobs.

“Taking it back?” Neuvillette is confused.

But before she can open her mouth to add anything else, Dubois stands up again, pointing his finger. “She can’t even make up a good lie! Why are we still here instead of Meropide, where thieves like her deserve to rot?”

“Order!” Neuvillette says, without yelling, only punctuating the word with his cane; but it is as if he shouted. There’s something in the air, the scent of grass readying for the rain coming in from the open window.

Neuvillette looks outside, probably smelling that same scent; then he turns to Wriothesley. “Duke, call the staff. I need two of them, to keep both our suspects — each in a separate room until we are done researching this issue. We cannot proceed if monsieur Dubois keeps interrupting the course of legal action.”

Again, there it is. Disdain, now it’s surely that. Wriothesley is amazed, he’s never seen the Iudex so partial to a side during any trial.

“As you wish.” Wriothesley nods, opening the door and reaching for the staff member from before. It’s a quick exchange of words, and soon the two men are left alone again, the Iudex’s orders respected.

Wriothesley takes a moment to approach Neuvillette, sitting down where the melusine was just now. “So,” he starts out, “Thoughts?”

“I actually wanted to know yours, before I say mine.” Neuvillette takes the other chair and drags it a little closer, before sitting down himself. He closes his eyes for a long moment as he does so, and the thought of there’s blue shadows of makeup on his eyelids flashes in Wriothesley’s mind. Why is he noticing that? Dumb.

“Oh, well,” the Duke makes himself comfortable in his chair, and makes a humming noise as he thinks. “I think she wasn’t stealing anything.”

“I think so too,” the Iudex immediately says, “It is a relief knowing your judgement is not clouded by prejudice. Nor is mine stained with sympathy.”

“It would be very hypocritical of me to be prejudiced.” Wriothesley chuckles.

“Hypocrisy runs deep in humans.” Neuvillette says. It’s a sentence like one would hear in one of those fantasy Inazuman novels. It feels both out of place and correct to hear from his mouth. He pauses, looks out the window - the first raindrops have started to fall. “Not always, however,” he adds after a moment. He sounds sad.

Wriothesley doesn’t want to search in himself what he thinks of humanity, right now. There are some things one should never think about for too long.

“I guess you could say that. But back to the watch…” and he picks it up from the table, where it has been left. He examines it while Neuvillette looks at him, curious, eyes sharp.

The watch is a pretty thing, golden and burnished with age, the pointers inside ticking away steadily. What catches his eye is an engraving; “to Martha”.

“To Martha,” he repeats out loud, leaning forward just as Neuvillette does so too, and handing him the watch. “Sure a weird grandfather, one called Martha. He said so, right? That it was his grandfather’s?”

“Perhaps the grandmother?” Neuvillette turns the watch in his hands.

“I admire wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt.” Wriothesley smiles, “Hm. But perhaps he’s just a liar. Simple conclusions are often the right ones.”

“We should ask around the Hotel about it,” Neuvillette stands up, taking his cane.

“If anyone has ever seen him with this watch? I agree.” the Duke follows him, rushing to hold the door open.

Neuvillette still has that worried look, but now that there’s something to search for he seems less old and more just… ancient. “We should ask if anyone named Martha is lodging here.”

Wriothesley nods. “Let’s go downstairs, at the reception.”

It only takes a flight of stairs for them to make it down at the entrance, and they find at the front desk a capable looking, middle aged lady with a tight grey ponytail who looks at them with a very interested stare.

“Can I help you?” She asks.

“Indeed you can,” Wriothesley leans on the desk. “Is someone named Martha lodging here?”

She starts flipping through the pages of her register; “Martha? You only have the first name?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Neuvillette sighs. “But we have her watch, if it can help.” He shows it in his hand, and something like a lightbulb goes off in the receptionist’s head.

“Oh! That Martha!” She starts to flip the pages faster, her finger skimming across the list of names. “Yes, she’s been here last year! And lost a watch. It was her late husband’s gift - she was heartbroken to lose it.” She keeps glancing back at it, like she can’t believe it’s been found.

“Can you recall anything else that happened at the Hotel, while this lady was a guest here?” the Iudex asks, leaning with Wriothesley over the desk. They’re very close and Wriothesley has the weird feeling that he, too, like the plants outside, smells of that peculiar musk of the air right before a downpour.

“Was there any other guest, last year, that has come back and is lodged at the Hotel currently?” Wriothesley adds, looking at Neuvillette and raising his eyebrows when he looks back, “Someone named Dubois, for example?”

“Yes, monsieur Dubois, here it is.” the receptionist says, showing them the register. And sure enough there their names are - madame Martha, widow Álvar, and monsieur L.O. Dubois, signed by their own hand.

“It was a bad period of the Hotel, when they were here.” the lady says, looking away. Her voice is heavy. “You know the melusine? Sole?” They nod; “She had a sister, Dorade. They both worked here, but last year, exactly when these two were lodging here, she disappeared.”

“I remember that,” Neuvillette says, with the guilty tone of someone who just recalled an important thing that he should have not forgotten. “There were search parties for days. Sole was inconsolable. I—” he catches himself as his voice breaks in a bit of a crack. Both the receptionist and Wriothesley look at him, trying to hide how stunned they are. He does not often show this much emotion.

“And monsieur Dubois?” Wriothesley inquires, taking on the talking role to give the Iudex time to recuperate.

The lady closed the register, shaking her head; “He left some days later. He was in no way involved in any part of this ugly story. But if it helps… I can show you where his room was, back then?”

“That would be most helpful,” Neuvillette nods, “Please, make way.”

She does, closing and putting away the register first and then bringing them to the room in question with sure, quick step. The two follow, and soon find themselves in the upper wing of the Hotel. It’s much quieter here, much emptier. The lady opens the door with its key and leaves it with them, going back to her desk.

Wriothesley enters first in the room, looking around for anything amiss.

“Oh, weird,” Neuvillette muses, “I remember staying here once, many years ago, before they moved my reserved room downstairs. It used to be bigger.” His hands caress the wall, and he walks slowly inside.

“Did it?” Wriothesley goes to the opposite side of the room, where it ends with an abrupt, diagonal wall. The room has the unusual shape of a trapeze, not very common nor convenient for an Hotel.

“Yes… and it wasn’t so peculiarly shaped.” Neuvillette recalls again. He stops dead in his track, whipping his head towards the Duke, as if he heard something.

“Wriothesley,” he says, his tone growing more urgent, “Step away from the wall, please?” he approaches it himself when the Duke does step aside, hands roaming over it like he was doing before.

“The wooden panels of this wall do not intersecate perfectly” he explains.

“Wooden panels?” Wriothesley seems confused.

“Yes, do you hear?” Neuvillette knocks on the wall, and sure enough the sound is that of wood, even if covered by a light blue and cream wallpaper.

“Oh, no, I was asking because—” and the Duke goes back to the other side of the room, “—this is marble.” He knocks on the opposite wall, the straight one, the one that follows the typical shape of an Hotel room. The sound of stone reverberates in the room.

The Iudex’s eyes widen. He looks back to his hands, and the wood under them.

“This is not the room’s wall.” he whispers. His voice breaks a little. “Wriothesley,” he calls, need in his voice, and the Duke doesn’t find the time to stop and think that this is the second time he’s been called by name and not by his title. “Wriothesley, tear this down.”

“Are you feeling funny up there?” Wriothesley gestures to his head, only half joking, but gets closer nonetheless.

The Iudex looks back at him, one of his hands grabbing the wallpaper and shredding it like his nails are iron, even through his gloves.

“Iudex,” Wriothesley insists, “What do you mean tear this down?”

“I mean this is not the wall, and I-”

pleasee

They stop, silent. Perfectly still.

mn—sieur

please…ee!

Wriothesley is never going to forget this. There’s horror in Neuvillette’s eyes, pure shock. It’s the most genuine emotion he’s ever seen him express. Neuvillette’s self control leaves his body - he tears at the wallpaper wildly, his gloves tearing at the fingers.

“Dorade!” He yells, “Dorade!”

“Please!” The voice is clearer now, a melusine’s childlike voice, raspy from exhaustion. Wriothesley pulls Neuvillette back, braces himself, positions his feet and says: “Dorade! Get away from the wall!” There’s sound of shuffling and then Wriothesley twists his body, raises his leg and kicks, hard, against the wood of what is slowly starting to show to be a door, hidden under the wallpaper.

The wood creaks, and Neuvillette behind him makes a sound much like the splintering wood, and much like Dorade, behind the wall. He kicks again, harsher, and the wood now splinters, long shards of it twisting under the power of his boots. Another kick, fast and strong, trying to find where the door’s handle should be, and when he hits the spot the door crashes onto itself, the wood smelling of rot and glue and wallpaper. As soon as the biggest part of the door comes crashing down, Neuvillette is at his side and digging in to pull away as many shards of wood as he can, uncaring of the splinters digging into his fingers, of the sleeves of his robe tearing on the remains of the door. Wriothesley jumps to help, and soon enough light shines on a pale, big-eyed, small-framed melusine. Her skin probably is the same hue as Sole, but it’s much, much paler now, after a year spent behind this door. She is too skinny to be healthy, her whole body shaking.

“Monsieur,” she croaks, spreading her arms towards them. Neuvillette bends forward, picking her up, holding her like one does a child, pulling her out of the dark, rotting closet that was hidden under the wallpaper. He holds her tight, not too tight though, she looks fragile in his hands, and her eyes close softly as she leans her head on his shoulder.

“Archons…” Wriothesley spits, index and thumb rubbing on his temples, trying to think of the implications of this.

“Dorade. You were right here.” Neuvillette sounds relieved, he sounds heartbroken.

“I am going to arrest Dubois,” Wriothesley announces, taking the handcuffs off his belt. “Dorade. I am sorry, we must act quickly.”

She opens her grey eyes, looking at him with a seriousness he’s never seen a melusine have in her stare.

“Did he put you in there?”

She nods, and he needs nothing else. Wriothesley storms off, his coat swishing in his ears and the noise of the rain covering everything else. It’s begun to storm now, but it feels all muffled to the Duke’s ears. He’s just thinking of the small cries of the melusine behind the wall. How did she survive for so long? Dubois must have put the wallpaper up only recently. He must have fed her for at least some months, she would not have lasted otherwise.

But now, all of those thoughts are secondary. He strides into the room where Dubois has been taken, and he feels his fury rise when he sees him, sipping tea and eating a fucking cupcake, sat on a nice chair.

“Dubois,” he growls, “Hands in plain sight. You are under arrest.”

The man had looked at him happily when he entered, but his expression immediately changes as he hears his words. His face quickly assumes an offended expression, but before that Wriothesley sees the one human emotion he sees the most, everyday. Guilt.

“What are the charges—” Dubois tries to say, but Wriothesley steps forward and he just holds his wrists out, without adding anything else.

“You know,” the Duke says, looking down at him. “I don’t care for the full story. That’s for our Archon and the Iudex. What I care about is you in a fucking cell. Follow me. Right now.”

The Hotel’s staff member asks no questions, and just takes Dubois by the handcuffs, one hand behind his neck and one on the cuffs, and makes him walk behind the Duke. There’s clamoring in the Hotel, and people gathering in the main room. They all look up towards the stairs, and seem to have their attention torn between Wriothesley and the criminal behind him, and the other flight of stairs; there, Neuvillette slowly descends, his silver hair obscuring his face and cascading over the exhausted body of Dorade. She looks so small. From another other room comes a sound of yelling and Sole rushes out, running towards the Iudex, her eyes full of tears.

She stops when she’s close to Neuvillette, not wanting to trip him, and all of them together descend in a sorrowful procession from the stairs.

From the dining hall, more people are now rushing out to watch the happenings, having heard the noises and voices raise. Furina is with them too, and she looks up at them, first at Neuvillette, then at Wriothesley. The Duke looks back, pursing his lips in a serious expression. The Archon says nothing, just looks at them with a weird face. It’s unusual to see her so serious.

There’s a heavy silence in the room, the only noise the rain, and the soft crying of Sole.

The Iudex stops at the end of the flight of stairs, and looks at Wriothesley, behind him. He holds Dorade tighter when he sees Dubois behind him, and Wriothesley looks at him in the eyes. They share a moment, a long stare, then Neuvillette averts his gaze, and thunders start rolling outside.

The following hours and days are both slow and too quick to process. There’s the police storming the Hotel, and the proper interrogation for Dubois. There’s Neuvillette insisting on being present when Dorade’s medical examination is performed, holding Sole’s hand. When the melusine is deemed not in danger of life and sent to the hospital, Sole accompanies her and she ends up sending a letter to Neuvillette every day to update him on her sister’s wellbeing.

Wriothesley is present at the trial for Dubois, and the whole story comes out — the man was a thief and last year, he got caught by Sole, who was cleaning his room while taking madame Martha’s watch away. Indeed his favourite targets were the Hotel’s guests, for he had a perfect cover - the weird melusine, always looking around, entering each room to ‘clean’, she’s probably a thief, is she not? It’s much more probable she is, and not the good and fair and human monsieur Dubois.

He used Dorade as a hostage to keep her sister silent, and when he saw the melusine was growing braver and trying to rat him out, he walled Dorade up alive in his old room, paying some of the Hotel’s staff to keep quiet about it. Sole had finally managed to gather enough courage and was going to show the watch to explain how he was the thief, not her, but he caught her in the act.

Neuvillette sits impassible at the trial, just like always, but now that Wriothesley knows how he looks when he’s angry, he sees the rage barely held back behind his eyes.

The Duke approaches Neuvillette after the trial, with Dubois handcuffed on his way to the Fortress with Wriothesley’s most trusted guards.

“Chief Justice.” he says, greeting him.

Neuvillette looks at him, a deep stare that makes Wriothesley think of how he looked at him while he held Dorade in his arms.

“Your Grace.” he says, perfectly formal.

“I don’t know if I can ask you this, but… are you alright?” Wriothesley asks, cocking his head to the side. The Iudex seems taken aback by the question.

He fidgets with his cane, averting his eyes. “I am a bit shaken,” he confesses, “I do not do very well when melusines are involved.”

The Duke nods. Then he changes the topic, because he knows talking about it right now is not the good thing to do. “Do you want to go on a walk?”

Neuvillette looks at him, a half smile playing on his lips. “Thank you.” He simply says. “I do need some air.”

Wriothesley nods, and they walk in silence in the gardens of the Opera. They only talk about flowers they see, and mostly stay silent, enjoying the cool air and wind of late spring. It’s pleasant, and tranquil.

#4 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Last day of the third month

I keep going back in my mind to think of the whole ordeal at the Hotel. I do not like how… sensitive I showed myself to be, in front of the Duke.

He did say he does not think any less of me because of it, but I feel that this is too much of a personal thing to show to someone who works in the same department as me, even if in a different way.

I must be more detached. He was nice to work with, however; I shall not be too cold in matters of work.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR - The Icewind Ordeal

Furina, the Hydro Archon, is a creature of many hobbies. She indulges in cake-tasting, meadow-frolicking, newspaper-reading, show-performing. And tonight, it’s robot-sabotaging.

She looks at the Icewind Suite arena, arms crossed on her chest, set in a powerful stance with parted legs, the gentle wind coming from the sea blowing through her hair. Next to her, a very disgruntled Clorinde shivers at the cold of the night, hand on her sword’s hilt.

“Are you sure this is wise?” The Champion duelist asks for the umpteenth time.

“Of course!” Furina giggles, pointing at the two robots dancing on the ice, “All the people at the Hotel talked about how Wriothesley and Neuvillette were so in sync while investigating, right? Well, the path ahead seems clear as day! We must make them investigate more!”

That’s the latest of her brilliant matchmaking ideas; sabotaging the Icewind Suite so that the two men are called to investigate, and end up collaborating (and falling in love, Furina added as she exposed her plan). Clorinde is stuck as her accomplice at this point, as the Archon may or may not have threatened her to expose her collection of sapphic romance novels to Navia, if she did not help.

Clorinde curses herself daily for having left that book in plain sight.

So, they’re accomplices now. And trying to sabotage the latest technological advancement of Fontaine, masterpiece of meka and combat prowess. Clorinde knows well the sharp blades of Coppelia’s skirt, and the pointed sword of Coppelius, she knows of their staggering power and their inhuman speed; she’s trained multiple times with them, since no human fighter could hold their blade and their ground long enough for Clorinde to learn anything - she’s just become too good, too fast.

And now, this knowledge of the meka is going to help Furina in her matchmaking intent, as the duelist knows perfectly well where the vital controls are, on the meka. There are emergency measures for when the machine goes out of control, so that they can be switched off easily: it’s a small, round gear, locked in Coppelia’s back, that is vital to their joint movement. If taken out, the Suite doesn’t move until it is replaced.

That’s the plan - take away that vital component, hide it somewhere and call for help. And who, better than the latest investigation duo of Fontaine, to rush to the rescue? After all, the Suite is a symbol of the nation, by now, and surely the Chief Justice would want to indagate. And do matters of crime not pertain to the Warden? It just makes sense he shows up, too.

They approach the meka, and Furina opens her arms in a sweeping gesture.

“All yours, Clorinde!” She grins, and the Clorinde in question sighs, pulls out her blade and steps on the ice. Since she hasn’t used the proper sprotocol by talking to the man responsible for the training sessions, the meka won’t attack her as she approaches, but she still needs to be careful — taken in the swirls and steps of their passionate dance, the blades of Coppelia’s long dress still cut, and their mechanical frenzy they could still run Clorinde over. She barely grazes the ice herself, like the dancing lovers, as she approaches them, twirling with them, closer and closer until she sees it, a round, jagged piece in Coppelia’s back, lodged between her mechanical vertebrae. Her sword pierces the metal, swift as lightning, a burst of electro leaving her body, and when she retracts the sword, on its tip it carries away the gear. As soon as it leaves the body of the dancing lady, both meka fall still, immediately.

Clorinde looks at them for a moment, stuck for now in dance, hands intertwined, faces close to each other. It’s very poetic, she thinks, that the vital piece resides in Coppelia’s back. She’s the heart of them both. She skates away on the ice, piece in her hand, and looks back once to the now still dancers.

The folds of Coppelia’s skirt look almost real, in the moonlight. They look like Navia’s gowns. Navia, beautiful Navia, where surely the heart of them both resides. Clorinde sighs, and pushes her thoughts away from her.

“Did you do it?” Furina inquires as soon as she leaves the icy field.

“Yes.” She opens her hand to show the piece. Furina tries to take it but Clorinde closes her hand again, pulling it away.

“I’m keeping this.”

“You don’t trust your Archon to not lose it?”

“Exactly that.” Clorinde has no idea where, along the road that is matchmaking with Furina, she grew so bold, but it apparently is a good thing because Furina laughs, throwing her head back.

“Oh well! Tomorrow we’ll find a good place to hide it! I cannot wait, they’re going to love this little date we set up for them, aren’t they?”

Her eyes positively sparkle, and maybe for the first time in this whole ordeal, Clorinde actually feels that Furina is not doing this only for her entertainment.

“You really want them to like each other.” She says, more a statement than a question. Furina nods, and the night covers the blush that dusts her nose.

“I think they earned it. They work hard for me and Fontaine!” She joins her hands behind herself, swinging her body from left to right as she walks.

“But have you thought that maybe they don’t wish to be… that?” Clorinde pockets the piece of meka, keeping her hand in her pocket to feel it’s round shape. She runs her nails on its dents. “Maybe they’re perfectly content being like that. Two steps apart. Friendly. Sometimes unfriendly.”

“Now, now!” Furina turns around, hands on her hips, raising her eyebrows, “We’re not talking about you and Navia!”

Clorinde chokes on her spit; “I— What—” She fumbles with the hilt of her sword, her fingers in her pocket run faster on the jagged edges of the mechanical part.

“Well, never mind that!” Furina giggles, like she just didn’t expose what Clorinde thought was her best kept secret, “We go to sleep now! We have to arrive here before the Iudex, tomorrow, or he’ll call on others to deal with this matter! We have to tell him he’s the only one who can help!”

Clorinde does not say anything else, glad the Archon isn’t focusing on her anymore, and tightens her grip on the part she’s holding. She feels its dents dig into the flesh of her fingers and thinks that it’s right for her to be holding tight meka parts, and not her hand. Navia. She lets the thought slip away in the air of the night, not having the courage to follow it.

They walk around the Opera, and she’s just relaxing when the light of a torch shines in their faces and all three shriek — them both and the Guard holding the torch. In the dark there’s a stumble, and someone shoves past Clorinde.

“Archon!” The night Guard calls, and it’s not clear if she’s cussing or greeting her, stumbling back and pointing the torchlight away from their eyes, “What are you doing here?”

Furina looks panicked. Clorinde had closed her hand around the sword hilt in reflex, and she immediately leaves it to go to check on her pocket. A rush of warm and then icy realization runs down her back as she gropes around and finds nothing.

“Furina,” she tries to get her attention, “Furina. Someone else is here.”

“What happened?” The Guard tries again. She’s a young one, probably just graduated, and she confusedly holds with one hand her hat that got tilted to the side by the person shoving past earlier.

“What is going on?” Furina joins the chorus, and Clorinde just taps her pocket, showing it is empty.

“Oh, no…” Furina goes white as her hair. “We’re done for!”

Well, Clorinde thinks between the panic of having just been robbed of one of Fontaine’s most important artifacts, now we have to call Neuvillette, and it won’t be just for show.

***

The morning sun rises and Neuvillette with it, in tandem with the light and the flowers blooming upwards and sun-wards. He goes through his usual, perfect routine, but with a heavier heart than most days.

His thoughts keep slipping back to the last few weeks, to Dorade and Dubois and the Duke, and the meeting that never took place and probably never was supposed to. He’s not heard anything from Furina, so it means the meeting either went so smoothly that she did not need comforting afterwards, or it did not take place. Since there’s never been a meeting for which she did not require his presence, it must be the second option.

Why did she lie? It’s the first thing Neuvillette wonders. Why did I let myself be so emotional? It’s the second one. He finds that he does not quite care of the first question, but much of the second one.

He thinks, again and again like he’s done all evening and all night in his fitful sleep, about all the times he yelled. He can recall them, picture-perfect in his mind, and sees himself with the Duke’s eyes — what should one think of the Chief Justice, on his knees holding in his arms a melusine, like a daughter, nearly losing his temper in court, expressing his disdain for a convict?

The Chief Justice should be above it, he should be more than Neuvillette was in this ordeal.

He’s in the bathroom as he thinks, brushing his hair, and finds himself looking into the mirror. How do others see the Chief Justice, when they look at him? How much of his appearance makes the Iudex, and how much of his own, hard work does?

He pulls his hair on his pointed ears, closes up his shirt’s collar to hid the few scales peeking from his clothes. Should he look like this? Normal. Just Monsieur Neuvillette. No draconic hints.

What if, then? Would he get the respect he now has? Do they respect only because he looks inhuman? Is it fear?

Does the Duke only respect him because he is not human? Neuvillette fears that he might be placating him, when telling him he does not think differently of him. Perhaps he thinks that his inhuman fury would wreak havoc upon him, if he did not.

Too many questions, and the sun is just rising up in the sky. If there is one thing the Hydro Archon taught him, is that one does not think properly when the flowers have not had the time to warm up to the rays of the sun.

She does not put it that way, of course. She talks of eating breakfast before any big show. But it’s the same concept, after all. He buttons up his shirt and pulls on his gloves on his scaled, webbed hands before leaving for his living room, where a watery tea and light biscuits are at his table, set out for him by his butlers.

He leaves his house not much later, cane in hand, and takes the Aquabus to the Opera. It’s not a trial day today, but he still needs to inspect paperwork, do the routine check ups of the Oratrice. He notices a bigger crowd than usual, both on the bus and at its stop, once he descends. Unusual, for a day devoid of trials.

There’s that daring young reporter too, Charlotte, from the Steambird. She’s holding her camera in her hands, snapping a picture of the view of the Opera from afar.

“Oh! Monsieur Iudex!” She yelps when she sees him, rushing to his side. He lets her, knowing denying a reporter means just attracting more attention. A few heads turn towards him when she calls out his title, and he does his best to ignore the attention that feels like crawling ants on his body.

“Mademoiselle.” He greets, giving her a flourishing with his hand that is meant to be taken as a bow.

“Are you informed? About the Icewind Suite?” She stumbles over her own words as she digs in her bag, searching for something - a notebook and pen, and then pulling them out, scribbling quite desperately.

Neuvillette frowns. “The Suite? What of it?”

“It’s stopped moving.” Another voice, from his other side. The Duke. Neuvillette feels a most peculiar mix of relief and anguish flood him.

“Your Grace!” Charlotte’s voice reminds the Iudex of Furina when she sees her favourite cakes all together, set up on a tray - like she suddenly can’t choose which of the two tasty options to pursue. The Duke is not seen often on the surface, so an interview with him would be quite extraordinary, but Neuvillette is the Chief Justice, after all. Decisions, decisions, for poor Charlotte.

The Duke offers them both a big grin. “Charlotte! I’ve read your piece on the Fortress’ safety. You are quite wrong! We do not keep a sea monster to urge the convicts to behave.” Wriothesley grins, and shrugs. “I do not guarantee we do not keep a land monster, though.”

“Land—” Charlotte, already lost in the art of jotting down scoops, stops writing for a moment; “Wait, who cares about that now!” She looks at him, then back at Neuvillette, then again at the Duke; “Did you hear about the Suite, then?”

“Better yet, dear reporter,” he puts a hand on her shoulder, patting away, and leans in close, lowering his voice in a secretive tone, “I’ve been personally called to deal with it.”

“Personally called!” Charlotte repeats again, scribbling. She’s got that ‘kid that has just been given candy’ voice again.

“You are like the cat in that one kids’ tale*” the Duke lets out a genuine laugh, “Repeating every last word of mine. Yes, personally called. You might want to put a capital d on Duke.” He adds, leaning in further to peek at her notes, which she quickly brings against chest to hide.

“I was not aware of your convocation.” Neuvillette says, and immediately the Duke’s attention shifts from Charlotte to him. His eyes are too icy to bear; Neuvillette looks away. He feels bare under that inquisitive stare.

“It just happened. If you’ll excuse us, Charlotte,” he adds, and steps between her and the Iudex. The leather of his jacket brushes against Neuvillette’s own silks, and he instinctively steps back to avoid further contact, but the Duke leans in to talk to him in a hushed tone. His breath smells of fruit and warmth. Hibiscus tea.

Wriothesley speaks fast, hushed, ignoring Charlotte’s stare: “I had a meeting with our Archon today, but she apparently forgot because there was no one to receive me at the Palais Mermonia. A most kind melusine working there told me that Furina left at the crack of dawn, mumbling of the Suite. Now, I hear Charlotte talking about the Suite not working. One plus one equals two: the Suite has broken down and Furina is worried about it. So, I now consider myself summoned by the Archon to deal with this.”

“So you haven’t truly been summoned,” Neuvillette answers in the same low tone, and quickens his step. The Duke keeps up, but Charlotte is distracted by her own notes and her camera and they end up leaving her behind.

“I thought it would placate the reporter if I said I was.” Wriothesley shrugs.

“Smart.” Neuvillette replies, and looks away, to the Opera that is now much closer with every step they take.

Another grin, and a surprised tone; “Why, thank you, Monsieur.”

Wriothesley has a peculiar way to pronounce that word. He drawls it like a sleepy creature, it reverberates deep in his throat. It feels more like purring than talking. Neuvillette doesn’t add anything else, but points with his cane at the Icewind Suite arena, where quite the crowd has already gathered.

“We better hurry,” Wriothesley says, rolling his shoulders like he’s readying himself to fight. “Behind me, Monsieur, I’ll open the way for you.”

“There’ll be no need.” Neuvillette snaps, harsher than he meant. He sees the Duke open his mouth to say something, then decide against it, and it takes it all of his self restrain not to apologize. No more emotion; he’s shown enough. He does not need a friend, but he can accept his help in whatever is coming next.

He ends up leading the way, Wriothesley behind him, and the crowd just parts like water at their sides.

Wriothesley looks at Neuvillette walking proudly before him, and at how the people rush to put themselves at the sides of the road, pressed like a fence is holding them back. He almost wants to whistle, impressed - it’s always something to see firsthand the effects of the power and respect that the Iudex holds.

He finds his place in this superhuman’s shadow, like he always does. It would almost be pleasant, to be helping such a man, if he didn’t feel so much like a dog. That’s all you are, he reminds himself. A dog for people above. Shut it and do your job, cerberus. He thinks of how offended the Iudex looked before, when he joked around, and decides to stay in his place for today. A flood of memories threatens to spill past the doors Wriothesley has erected in his mind, so he shuts them down, focusing himself on the scene at hand.

They reach the flight of marble steps that leads down to the arena, and finally the crowd ends, held back by a few Guards and Gardameks and a very busy melusine, who is looking around and taking inventory of the people there, it seems, given the list of names in her hands. She holds, with much difficulty, a pen in her stout hands.

“Aeife,” Neuvillette greets, and the melusine looks up.

“Oh, Monsieur Iudex!” She yaps, instantly happier, “You’re here! Lady Furina was asking of you just now.” And she points downstairs.

There, in the middle of the arena, the Icewind Suite is frozen still in its dance, and even thought it means trouble, it sure makes for a beautiful sculpture - the dance floor is full of people; policemen, melusines, authorities; the ice has been melted away like it always is for emergencies, and they all walk freely around. And nearby, Furina is throwing a tantrum.

“The most important achievement of modern Fontaine!” She yells, so loud they both can hear her all the way from the top of the stairs, “Oh, just how will we find the culprit! The vital mechanism has been removed from the meka, this surely is a coup d’État!”

“She always sounds like she’s acting out a role,” Wriothesley chuckles, and the Iudex makes a weird expression between agreeing and disapproving, it makes his face scrunch in a way that makes him look very human. Wriothesley likes that.

“She’s probably roping us in with that sentence,” the Iudex points his cane at her, “Wait.”

There’s a pause and then he says, “Now.” And points towards the Archon.

And as if on cue, Furina turns, gasps and points at them. “The Iudex of Fontaine! And the Duke of Meropide!”

“We sound like detectives in an Inazuman novel…” Wriothesley mumbles, before descending the steps. Neuvillette follows him, and they approach the Archon running towards them as she yells. Her breath control and lung capacity is incredible, truly.

“We are saved! These two have just saved a poor, kidnapped melusine, as I’m sure all of you have read on the Steambird!” Furina puts her hands on her heart, assuming a sad expression. The people murmur in approval.

She holds her arms out to greet their arrival; “They will find the culprit this time as well! I am certain!”

The murmur turns into a roar, the crowd clapping and yelling. Wriothesley looks at the Iudex, and takes note of how… uneasy he looks. He looks around to see anyone else spotting it, but from everyone’s happy, relieved expressions he realizes he must be the only one - and he wonders if perhaps he’s learnt to decipher his expressions better in these last few encounters they’ve had.

“My dears,” Furina purrs at them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders, bringing them close, “I am so sorry to steal you away from your duties, but this matter is of the utmost importance.”

“No matter, my lady,” Wriothesley puts a hand on his chest and bows, “My brawl is at your service.”

“And more than our brawl, our brains are ready,” Neuvillette specifies, imitating his greeting, bowing less deeply, “We shall see this ordeal to its end, and bring the culprit to justice.”

“You really do speak like an Inazuman detective novel, if you don’t mind me saying.” Wriothesley comments, amused.

The Iudex looks at him, blinking slowly like he’s trying to understand. “Do you mean to tell me these sentences are not often said by detectives?”

Furina giggles in the background, and Wriothesley tries his best not to imitate her, but he only smiles. “They… do not speak like this. It’s more crass and vulgar, and I shall not repeat it in front of you.” He shrugs, “I do appreciate your elegance.” Neuvillette says nothing, but keeps looking at him, as if stuck on the absolutely shocking information that detectives do not speak like highbrows.

He turns to look at the Archon, who is now inspecting him with interested eyes. She’s got her head tilted like a curious cat, and her hands joined in thought in front of herself. When he stares back she averts her eyes, the ghost of a smile in her voice, and starts babbling about something else she has to do and disappears in a flourish of silks and taps of heels, leaving the two alone with the Icewind Suite. Of course, the crowd is still there too, but the policemen slowly start pushing it back and - much to their dismay - start to cordon off the area.

It takes a little more than an hour, but then finally the noise subsides and the curious eyes disappear, and Wriothesley feels his shoulders relax, knowing he’s not under the scrutiny of a multitude of gossip-hungry Fontainians anymore.

He feels the morning, fresh spring air turn warmer and opens his coat, looking at the Iudex at the corner of his eyes - he’s already approaching the two meka, his cane making a nice, musical noise on the flooring of the arena. Wriothesley wonders what noise it would make if it was still iced all over, then hurries over.

When he’s within earshot, Neuvillette starts talking; “Like lady Furina said, it seems the core part of Coppelia has been removed.” He points at the hole in the lady’s back with his cane.

“So it’s her that carries the key to their dance, huh.” Wriothesley gets closer, inspecting with his hand the back of the meka. He traces the border of the hole with his fingers, feeling for any signs of abrasion or something that could give him anything to work on.

The Iudex takes a step back, and goes silent. There’s a tense atmosphere in the air but Wriothesley tries to not think about it, especially since he has no right to ask hey, I know I’m just Wriothesley and you’re the Chief Justice, but could you tell me what’s going on? He really wants to, though.

“I don’t feel any abrasion, or sign that someone forced the piece out. This was not a random thief,” he makes a little circle with his finger where the piece should be, in Coppelia’s back. “It was a feat by a very expert and precise thief. They had time, and skill.”

“The most important part is figuring out why it was taken,” finally the Iudex speaks again, his sentence hanging open in the air as he thinks.

“Why tells us who.” Wriothesley agrees.

“And who tells us how.”

Wriothesley could learn to enjoy this banter; “But we could also start with how. Because we do not have nor the why, and neither the who.”

“So, let’s work on this how.” The Iudex takes another two steps back, taking in the whole scene. “Firstly, the Suite was working and the ice was not melted when the job was done. They’re stuck in a dancing position, and they do not dance when without ice, correct?”

“From my knowledge, yes.” Wriothesley frowns, then puts his hand back in the meka’s body. He chats up the robot as he does to: “Sorry to be touching like this, but— aha!” He pushes his fingers deep, and closes his eyes to feel better. Just now, when he inspected it, he felt the internal clockwork mechanism of Coppelia exactly as they should be under his fingers, except for a small part, at the very center.

“Come feel this!” He calls over to the Iudex.

Neuvillette approaches slowly, quietly, and when Wriothesley takes his hand away he puts his in, gloves and all.

“There are some incisions. At the very back,” he immediately perceives. “Quite a weird pattern.”

“Indeed,” Wriothesley says, voice muffled as he speaks with a hand over his mouth, an idiosyncrasy he adopts when he’s thinking. “Extremely irregular, but also fractal.”

He looks over, wanting to add something, but finds himself staying silent when he sees Neuvillette feel around the opening, his eyes closed to help his brain better receive what his hands feel. He looks very regal, like this - Wriothesley always thought that if one should see the Archon and the Iudex side by side, one would not think him only a judge. His lids have a weird shine in the sunlight, and as he keeps them closed, deep in thought, Wriothesley can examine them again. Since that other time, at the Hotel, where he saw him close his eyes, he’s got the sneaking suspicion the Iudex wears makeup. Not that he disapproves - it’s just very human of him and… curious. And also, Wriothesley became Duke for many merits, and the least of them was not his curiosity.

And indeed, under the sun it’s clearer, there is a sheen of light blue on Neuvillette’s eyelids. It’s very beautiful. Wriothesley shouldn’t stare, but no one is here to see him and judge him for it, so he does.

Finally, the Iudex opens his eyes again.

“It’s in the shape of thunderbolts.” He says matter of factly, pulling out his hand and checking his glove for stains.

“A vision user.” Wriothesley completes his thought.

“Probably. This helps us notably, we can narrow the suspects to not even a third of the populace,” Neuvillette looks at him, “Good idea, feeling around for indents.”

“Oh, you’re the one that actually found the clue.” He says, shrugging off the praise.

“I would not have found it without your help. Accept my thanks, Duke” Neuvillette’s praise almost feels like an order, and Wriothesley chuckles a little.

“Alright then. You’re welcome.”

There are a million thoughts racing Neuvillette’s mind at the moment, and the most pressing of all is the uneasy way the Duke speaks today. He seems to be thinking twice every sentence, and speak only in the most polite way. He also keeps staring, and every time Neuvillette turns to look at him, he meets grey eyes already staring into his. He feels examined, under pressure, and it makes him give Wriothesley a colder shoulder than he means to.

Even just now, when he was closing his eyes to feel better with his hand inside of the meka, he felt his stare. He does not know why he kept going, not opening his eyes and putting an end to that inspection — perhaps because he’s noticed that as soon as he looks back, the Duke looks away. But the thing is, he did, and now he feels as if the Duke’s eyes are engraved in his brain.

Guilt really makes people feel terrible things. Neuvillette hates being so focused on something or someone that he forgets his surroundings, but it’s happening more times than he cares to admit, today. He keeps being distracted by the Duke, by the way he speaks, by the fact he wants to talk to him about the melusine affair and to explain why he feels so uncomfortable now.

The Duke is an hard working, good man, and he deserves to know, but Neuvillette can’t speak. He’s probably ruining his reputation in the other man’s eyes, and he still can’t find the words in his throat to say what he means - I am sorry, I think Fontaine will not respect me and my judgement if I let my emotions through. And my judgement must not fail, because I am keeping the waters at bay. It’s quite too much to put on a human’s shoulders, is it not. So  the words keep molding in his mouth, unsaid.

“—lette? Neuvillette—”

The Duke’s voice cuts through the seafoam of his thoughts, and Neuvillette has a jerk, as if suddenly waking up.

“Apologies.” he mumbles, a hand to his forehead. Again, here there are those eyes. Wriothesley stares at him, with a bit of worry in his gaze.

“Forgive me, you must have been lost in thought and I broke you out of them.” The Duke gives him an apologetic smile.

“No, I was… it was some personal matters.” He shakes his head.

Wriothesley wears a more bitter smile now; “Won’t inquire, don’t worry.”

It’s quite too much. Neuvillette grips his cane and turns towards him, looking him truly in the eyes for the first time this day. “I do not hate you. You must know this.”

It seems to take them both by surprise, the fact he spoke. Wriothesley’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth, but Neuvillette precedes him and rushes to explain.

“I truly apologize. I have been very distant since the whole affair at the Hotel, I recognize it. In truth, I was not distant but rude to you,” he raises a hand to stop the Duke when he starts to speak and say it is not so, “Please, I know how I acted and I do not need flattery. I was… a little embarrassed, if you will.” He pulls at his neckerchief as he says this, swallowing hard.

“I lost control of my emotions when we found Dorade behind that wall. I do not like to lose my temper and I have been damning myself over those moments ever since. I wonder if I was even fair, at Dubois’ trial,” his voice takes on a more soft tone as he remembers, and he starts to speak more slowly. “I am the Iudex, and I pride myself in my fairness. And you were witness of my unfairness. This makes me ashamed.”

There, out in the sun, out in the open, his fear for the Duke to examine. He can put his icy eyes to that now, instead of Neuvillette himself. 

“Unfairness?” The eyes are not interested in the bundle of shame he’s put forward it seems, because even if Neuvillette is staring down at their feet, he can feel that gaze again on him. He looks up, and Wriothesley’s face softens.

“I know what I saw, and it was no display of unfairness. I only got confirmation of your famed love for the melusine. That is all I thought of you, back then.”

Neuvillette blinks rapidly, trying to take it in. He’s still truly respected? He looks away, thumb pressing on his own temple, hiding his confused expression.

“I know how you feel. I mean, not quite, because I’m not you, but…” Wriothesley chuckles, brushing his hair away from his face with a hand, fidgeting with them; “I mean that I also worry about when and how I show my emotions, most of the time. It’s a difficult thing to control, so don’t feel too bad for having let them through this once.”

Neuvillette sighs, and the frown he’s worn on his face until now turns into a more neutral expression. The lightness in his brows could make this a smile, but the corners of his mouth won’t turn up enough.

“I appreciate your words,” he simply says, then places his hands on his cane. “I feel better now.”

“Me too.”

Wriothesley’s voice is now the one Neuvillette finds that he was longing to hear - tranquil, pleasant, at ease. “I won’t go into the details of what I was thinking about your more distant behavior, but let’s just say I am truly glad it’s all alright.”

They stay like that for a couple of moments, eyes waltzing around, not knowing where to land, hands fidgeting. This feels too intimate to be a moment with a… temporary coworker? Neuvillette is not quite sure what they are, professionally.

He doesn’t know the first thing about Wriothesley, outside of his title and job and his trial, but he just confessed his deepest anxiety to him. What does that make them? Work friends? The notion is laughable. There are some words that simply don’t apply to the Iudex. He can’t have friends, they’re not for him - not that he thinks himself above them. They’re just not something he can have, and he’s decided that and made his peace with it a while ago. And he does not work, for work is something for humans, and he has no right to claim the word’s lovely mundanity.

Many things to say, but he just said one and two would be too many. He keeps silent, and Wriothesley is the one that, in the end, breaks the silence.

“Is that Clorinde?”

Neuvillette turns towards where he’s pointing at, and sure enough on the stairs of the arena is Clorinde. She has a weird, almost guilty expression, and hurries to their side.

“Greetings,” she says, “I’m sorry to interrupt. The Archon is looking for you both.”

“No need for apologies,” Neuvillette dismisses her concern, and with a wave of his hand beckons Wriothesley to come with them. The Duke seems to like being addressed and considered, and smiles at him, and the corners of Neuvillette’s own mouth twitch upwards - it would be too lenient to call it a proper smile.

“What is it? Another broken meka?” Wriothesley laughs.

“No, but… the piece has apparently been seen by a patrolling Marachusee Phantom agent last night, around the Opera. She said some figures bumped into her at around two in the morning, and she was quite sure she saw one of them drop the piece on the ground, then another picked it up and ran.”

She looks so uncomfortable while she says it, and it’s quite peculiar… Clorinde is not known for being easy to put on the spot. It’s interesting to see.

Wriothesley frowns. “And she did not speak up until now?”

“Apparently so.”

Clorinde seems to swallow very hard when she says so, which is another weird clue that Neuvillette puts aside for later.

The agent is waiting for them in the Opera’s foyer - she’s a young lady, her uniform perfectly done up and clean, long black hair in a bun under her hat. She stands, back straight, and when she sees them smiles. Neuvillette recognizes her, her name is Badeaux, she just joined the forces - a very free spirit but a hard worker nonetheless.

“Chief Justice, Duke.” She steps forward with a salute.

“Mademoiselle,” Neuvillette shakes her hand, “Tell us everything.”

She repeats Clorinde’s tale, confirming every detail, and even accurately describes the mechanical part she supposedly saw. The only thing that she adds is that the figure who stole the gear seemingly ran towards the Opera instead of away from it, but when she inspected the theatre itself, she found no one hiding in there. It all makes sense and when she leaves, called back to her duties with Clorinde, the two men are left with a more complicated situation than before.

“More clues, but this tale just keeps getting worse.”

Neuvillette stares as the Duke throws himself on one of the foyer’s couches, digging his fingers in his hair and scratching his head.

“Let’s go through the supposed story of what happened.” He proposes, walking back and forth in front of the couch.

“First, before two in the morning, the mechanical core of Coppelia was stolen. A group of culprits, who met Badeaux during her patrol of the Opera. Maybe two opposing gangs, seeing as one dropped the gear and someone else stole it from their grasp. After that, they disappear into the night.”

Neuvillette takes his chin in his hand, rubbing it in thought. He pictures the scenes in his mind, but all of his hypothesis fall flat and go no further than what he just displayed.

He sits down at Wriothesley’s side, and they fall into a silence full of thoughts.

Outside, the noise of the running water of the fountain is pleasant in the background, and the sunlight fills the room from its high, long windows. It’s very peaceful, and Neuvillette relaxes a little in his seat, leaning back. He’s even starting to close his eyes.

So, he’s really quite startled when the Duke’s voice pierces the silence.

“Do you wanna talk about Dorade?”

Neuvillette opens his eyes again, staring straight ahead. He thinks, for a long second, then nods.

“I am quite fond of all melusine,” he starts, wringing his hands in his lap, “They make me think of… something we share. And so I am very touched when something happens to them.”

“You’re not one of them, are you?”

Neuvillette finally looks at him, and can’t help a short wheezing laugh that just escapes him. He puts a hand over his mouth to try and cover it, but he sees the Duke just smile back and chuckle with him, so he doesn’t feel too bad about it.

“Apologies.” He manages as he calms down.

Wriothesley keeps his smile. “So I take it the answer is no?”

“The answer is no,” Neuvillette repeats, tilting his head to the side. “I am not melusine. But I care for them.”

“Just so you know… I asked because there’s rumors that you are. I’ve met some people down in Meropide who are absolutely sure you were one of them, and who even have bets going on about it.” Wriothesley sounds and looks very pleased.

“Bets.” the Iudex muses.

“Indeed, and I am about to win all their credits.”

“You made a bold financial decision, getting into those bets on the assumption I was not a melusine. It paid off this time, but careful in the future.” Neuvillette is growing to enjoy this banter they have going on sometimes. It’s the right amount of sarcastic that he still can get behind, it doesn’t get too difficult to understand; the Duke just does it so perfectly.

Wriothesley takes a deep breath in that way people do before saying something they thought a lot about; “In a way, I am also fond of melusines. But I only know well a specific one. Sigewinne?” He says it in a questioning tone, turning to look at Neuvillette.

He nods, “Of course I know of her. She’s that sweet hybrid, working as a nurse in Meropide. I sure hope she’s treated well.”

“She had a rough start,” Wriothesley confesses, “A lot of the convicts didn’t want her to touch them because they thought she wouldn’t be able to do her work properly.”

“I know — in her first years she used to write me a lot of letters, most filled with complaints of how she was treated. One inmate apparently once thought she’d infect him with ‘melusine illnesses’ - whatever those are, just by touching him.”

“Now luckily that is not the case anymore” Wriothesley reassures him, “she’s well loved and her reputation is just that of a very skilled nurse.”

The notion makes Neuvillette’s face soften. “I am glad.” He says in a gentler tone than he wanted.

The silence falls again, but this time it’s even more tender than before. It feels like it’s filled with thoughts of Sigewinne, and something tugs at Neuvillette’s chest at the thought of having someone understand his care for the melusines. The Duke is really full of surprises.

“We should try to make some progress” Wriothesley breaks the silence once more, after a comfortable while. “Badeaux said the two people ran towards the Opera, right? Maybe we can find some clues in here.”

“A good proposition,” the Iudex rises from the couch with grace, and points at the stairs. “From the top to the bottom?”

“Let’s go.” Wriothesley agrees.

They take their time, inspecting the carpets and the walls and rooms. It’s quite weird to see the Opera so empty - it’s always bustling with life, whether it be because of a trial or because of a show. Now, by order of the Archon and to aid the investigation, everyone has been moved out. The noises come only muffled from outside, almost as if they’re in a dream and they’re listening to them through the curtain of sleep. It adds to the dreamy atmosphere the dust, gently falling from the air, showing its dance to them only when set against the beams of light that pour down from the windows.

They make it up the last staircase and just at the last step, there’s a rustling noise and Neuvillette’s robe catches in the heel of his boot, and before he knows it he’s free falling towards the floor - his fall interrupted only by the Duke.

Wriothesley is quick to grab him by the elbow, not letting his nose crack against the marble of the staircase, and pulling him back up. “Neuvillette,” he says, worried, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I—” Neuvillette feels weird. The Duke’s hand is still on his elbow, and they’re close and he speaks in that hushed voice that makes his breath puff towards him; it still smells of fruit and tea.

They stumble to get up, and when Wriothesley finally releases him, Neuvillette unconsciously checks if his robe has some kind of handprint where he was touched, because it feels as if his elbow tingling, like the flow of blood was suddenly interrupted and then it picked back up again. And again, the feel of his eyes on him, examining him.

Unseen by Neuvillette, when Wriothesley’s hand leaves the Iudex’s elbow, it twitches, almost as if touching him gave the Duke a shock, like a jolt of electricity jumping across his hand, its path following the phantom pressure of Neuvillette’s elbow. He opens and closes the hand slowly, feeling it. So weird. But Neuvillette doesn’t notice.

“Thank you for catching me, your Grace.” he says, stumbling a little over his words.

“No problem, at all, just— hey, what…?” Wriothesley’s worried tone turns into confusion, and Neuvillette looks back at him, follows where his gaze is now pointed and on the ground, on the very last step, lies a mechanical, round, jagged and indented part. Coppelia’s core. Or it would be, if it wasn’t a wooden replica of it.

Underneath it, a piece of paper. Wriothesley steps away from the Iudex’s side to pick both up objects.

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” He reads. “What?”

“It seems like a quote,” Neuvillette muses, looking over his shoulder at the note. “Peraphs the thieves left us a clue?”

“Maybe they're telling us that we did not see them steal, so we cannot fix the spot or hour of the theft? And therefore… they’re telling us they have all the power?”

“It would be a very bold move indeed. We have to figure out where the quotes comes from.”

Neuvillette digs in his memory, but no lead comes up. He sees with the corner of his eye the Duke do the same, then shake his head.

“Nothing. I’ll look it up. For now, let’s just put guards standing in sight of the arena, it should deter the thieves from coming back.”

Wriothesley nods and puts the piece of paper in his pocket, gesturing towards it; “I think it’s best if I keep this, and we don’t say anything about it to Furina. She would make some overdramatic statement and the Steambird would sow panic using her words.”

“A most sensible suggestion, Duke.” Neuvillette hums.

They descend the staircases back down, Wriothesley on the external side of the stairwell, which Neuvillette recognizes as a measure to avoid harm coming his way if he were to trip again. He should feel quite insulted that the Duke doesn’t think he can stand on his own two feet, but for some reason he doesn’t. It actually feels nice.

“You seem to call me Duke quite a lot.” Wriothesley speaks after a while.

Neuvillette’s eyes widen and he lets out a surprised noise. “Forgive me, I often meet those that cling onto their titles, and so I assumed…” he lets the sentence float, without an ending, in the air.

“Yeah, well, no need,” Wriothesley’s tone is not irritated, he’s calm, “You can forgo the title when we speak.”

“And how should I address you, then?” Neuvillette wonders, looking at him.

The other man turns to look at him, and they stop halfway through the staircase.

He smiles, then shrugs. “Wriothesley?”

Neuvillette looks away, feeling the stare coming back. He nods, stammering a bit. “Alright, Wriothesley.” It feels weird, slippery and new on his tongue. “Then.. you may forgo the Monsieur.”

“I am honored, Neuvillette” The name doesn’t seem to be so foreign in Wriothesley’s mouth like his is in the Iudex’s. It fits quite well.

“Well then,” it’s Wriothesley, like always, to break the silence that falls between them every now and then, “Let’s tell the people their drama is growing more complicated!”

It’s very relaxing to be with the Duke - no, Wriothesley - Neuvillette realizes. He knows when to take something seriously, but also knows when he is supposed to lighten up and cut the tension when things should be more relaxed. Neuvillette knows he himself struggles with this, he can feel it in the tightness of his shoulders and the pain in his jaw when he lies in bed at night; he feels then how he relaxes always only partially. It’s very nice to be reminded of taking things more easy, sometimes.

Outside, Furina has set up camp.

The camp consists in a huge, baby blue tent to shelter her from the spring wind, and an array of butler mekas, each carrying a tray of sweets. She waltzes around, a chalice in hand, and sips some water to clear her mouth between slices of cake, to better taste their individual flavour. At her heel, a bored Clorinde carries an ever-growing pile of dirty porcelain dishes, now empty of their respective cakes; their residence now is in Furina's stomach.

Even if they’re just waiting around, the Archon seems happier than ever, which is incredible news for whoever knows her well: Furina hates waiting. But today, she’s waiting because the Duke and Iudex haven’t finished yet their joint investigation, which means they’re together, currently, huddled up somewhere in the Opera, getting to know each other… and so, Furina is happy.

“Just imagine the possibilities,” she giggles to Clorinde, taking another bite of cake, “The cold Iudex opening up his heart! Maybe one of them slips on the stairs… and the other catches him and they gaze in each other’s eyes, in each other’s soul! Oh, we did a good thing by sending them in the Opera to investigate!” She ends with a squeal, turning around to shake Clorinde by the shoulders, as if she can’t contain the excitement.

Clorinde clutches the dishes harder so they don’t fall. “Those things happen only in inazuman novels. What do you even think they’re talking about? Probably just how worried they are about the theft.”

“Oh, you’re still worried about that! My silly champion,” Furina gives her a flick on the cheek, “They will never trace it back to us!”

Clorinde makes a noise that means ‘not sure about that’, and Furina sighs.

“They’re probably being two lovebirds right now, not a thought for the culprit! Imagine them…” Furina’s eyes get downright dreamy, “The Iudex shyly looking away from the rough Duke’s eyes… calling him Duke and the other being like,” She clears her throat and makes a deep funny voice, imitating the drag in Wriothesley’s speaking habits, “You don’t have to use my title… ah, the love in the air…”

Clorinde looks at her, not very impressed. “I don’t think so.”

“Use your heart! Stop thinking with your head!”

Before the duelist can reply that that’s the only way to think, there’s some commotion and their attention is brought to the doors of the Opera opening, and Wriothesley and the Iudex are coming out. Wriothesley is talking about something, and Neuvillette looks at him quite interested. A smile tugs on his face.

And for a moment, Clorinde almost thinks that maybe, just maybe, Furina was right. Because, whether he knows it or not, the Iudex is smiling at Wriothesley. Furina notices, of course.

“Celestia…” She squeals, barely repressing another giggle, “I am so going to be right this time.”

INTERLUDE - The Duke

Wriothesley is back underground for supper, which he shares at the usual booth with some convicts. They seem very intimidated at first, but as he starts to chat with them they open up. The lot gathered here today was not dangerous back outside; one is a researcher who took too long in her research and got sued by the Institute, one a tailor who lied about the source of his wool. Wriothesley knows by memory each one of his current convicts, and remembers most of the noteworthy ones that leave. He does so for security, so that if he happens to run into one of them alone at night, he knows whether they may be attempting escape, murder or if they are just lost and can’t find their way back to the dormitories.

But he also does so because he thinks they deserve it. Eating with them is also for this purpose - they deserve his firsthand attention when he can spare it, and to have their words listened to by him. Plus, some convicts are truly smart, and it’s not rare that he takes their advice on how to run the place. Some leaders think taking underlings’ advice and showing themselves to be too friendly leads to poor decision making and not having any respect, but Wriothesley has always found the truth to be the opposite. Show people you listen, show them you care and retain your authority while not putting yourself morally above them, and they will care for you too. They’re just people, after all, with a mistake on their shoulders. Archons know, he has his own mistakes to carry.

He stays with them all evening, participating in a couple of card games, calling one of them out for cheating and punishing them by seizing the coupons they gained today (“That’ll teach you not to cheat! We win fair here, and our profit is fair too, got it?”), and when his body starts to ask for sleep he says goodbye and drags himself to his office.

As he climbs the staircase, he smells a faint whiff of sweetness and milk, and groans. Sigewinne.

“Wriothesley!”

Sure enough, there she is. She sits on his couch, feet dangling, a milkshake in her hands and another one placed on his desk.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“A chat between friends and delicious milkshake!” Sigewinne looks so happy, so proud. “I made it with tea this time! So you’d like it”

“With… tea?” Wriothesley approaches the cup on the table and picks it up. He braces himself and takes a sip of it.

It’s absolutely disgusting. All of the self control he’s learned during the years culminates in this moment: trying not to show Sigewinne his absolutely, out-of-this-world nauseated expression. She just looks too proud of herself! He can’t possibly tell her the concoction she made tastes both of tea and hyper-sweetened milkshake, and he can feel on his tongue every singular chocolate sprinkle. To add to the mixture, he can feel something spicy that absolutely should not be in milkshakes. The most disgusting thing is the fact that he can feel on his tongue both the frothy milk and the slick tea - the two flavours and textures haven’t mixed at all. It’s horrendous.

“So novel!” He chokes, coughing down a retch, and smiling at the little melusine. “You’re really, uh, an innovator.”

“So glad to hear you say that! I’ll make you another one for tomorrow morning!” She beams.

The very notion makes Wriothesley want to run away and never look back. Instead, he smiles back. “I hope to see you at breakfast tomorrow then!” - he makes a mental note to not be around for breakfast at all, the following day.

Sigewinne looks very pleased, and takes a long, happy sip of her milkshake. The froth of the milk lands on her nose and upper lip like a tiny pinkish mustache, which is quite adorable. She kicks her feet around a bit. These moments with Wriothesley are the only ones in which she allows herself to be a little childish, and he treasures them. He treasures her, his tiny, unofficial adoptee.

“I’ve had such a day,” He groans, sitting beside her, conveniently forgetting his own milkshake at the desk. “Did you hear anything about it, down here?”

Sigewinne shakes her head.

“Well, I got stuck investigating with monsieur Neuvillette again.” He remembers just a little too late of how he asked him to just call him Neuvillette; “Those big robots I showed you that one time, Coppelius and Coppelia — well, their heart got stolen, so we had to chase it back. But in the end, we found a wooden copy of it and a mysterious note.”

“What a tale,” Sigewinne muses, between sips. “You seem to be working with Monsieur much more than you used to!”

“I guess so,” Wriothesley crosses his arms, staring at the wall as he thinks. It’s true, he’s been seeing him a lot more lately. “Just a bunch of coincidences.”

“Well, if you enjoy working with him, I’m glad you’re seeing him more.”

Wriothesley scoffs, “I wouldn’t say I enjoy it. It just happens, and he is not unpleasant.”

“But every time you tell me tales of your adventures with him you have that light tone of voice humans have when they’re happy but not smiling.”

Wriothesley turns to look at the little melusine. She looks back at him, her eyes twinkling in the low light of his office. She drinks again, not breaking eye contact.

“Okay. Yeah, alright,” Wriothesley finds himself stammering, “I do—I think I do enjoy his company. I wouldn’t mind gettin’ to know him better.” He rushes over the end of the sentence, not wanting to hear the sound of his admission linger for too long in the air.

He really does, though. And his hand still feels like it’s burning ever since he touched Neuvillette’s arm. Maybe he was wearing a weird silk, something that causes allergic reactions? He subtly looks at his hand, but it’s perfectly fine - no redness, or swelling or anything. Still, that feel continues - of weird ant-like crawling and burning.

Sigewinne follows his eyes, and sees him open and close his hand. She puts her tiny one in his, and squeezes. “You can always talk to me, my friend.”

Wriothesley feels his heart tighten at her gentleness. He squeezes back, then takes his hand away and pets her head. She leans into his side, closes her eyes, and in two minutes’ time she’s snoozing away. He sighs, happy, and takes her milkshake out of her hand, putting in on a small cabinet.

“Bedtime, little creature.” He softly says, picking her up like a child, and walking into his bedroom. He lets her down on the bed, pulling up the covers on her, and goes back with only a blanket in his office, laying down on the couch and falling asleep there, slowly, with the noise of Sigewinne’s watery breaths in the background of his mind.

He dreams very confused dreams of Neuvillette, meka dancing, meka breaking in a hundred little parts and then joining together in the shape of Neuvillette’s hand, and then Sigewinne offering her milkshake to the Iudex and the Iudex smiling, very kind, and all through the night his hand twitches, remembering how it felt to touch him.

#5 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Second day of the fourth month

A long day again. All of them have the same amount of hours, so why do some feel like  they are much longer? I’ve heard some humans often say this, but I haven’t truly understood it until now. I now also understand when they say that some moments seem to last forever, and some fly away in the blink of an eye. Every time I chat with the Duke (the title is promptly struck out, with three harsh lines) Wriothesley our conversations feel very short, and very light. Perhaps they feel so short because of their lightness - they fly away like feathers…

I am getting poetic. I am learning from some novels that this is weird. It’s not seen as good and normal to say things like your eyes pierce me, for example. I picked up a book from the library the other day because I wanted some leisure, it was called Queen + Lionheart (I do not know why the mathematical symbol was used. Perchance a dialect?), and the library card said the Champion duelist, Clorinde, has read it many times. She sure has taste, because I quite liked to read of the friendship between the queen and her guard, a lady who really admires her and respects her, to the point of sleeping in her bed to keep her safe from any harm! Truly a paragon, and I am happy Clorinde wants to follow such example.

But anyway, I digress. What I meant to talk about was how in the novel, the guard says to the queen “your eyes pierce me” and the queen seems very upset, running away and being red and flustered, and thinking a lot about the guard afterwards. Today, I felt that same piercing quality in Wriothesley’s eyes, but I did not say anything because in the book the queen seemed very sad when the guard said it. I am going to read the last chapter today, and I hope the queen understands that the guard was just trying to state a fact, and not insult her.

It is a while later, I did not finish the book yet because I got distracted by urgent paperwork.

Midnight. Still up. Emergency paperwork about a theft trial.

Still doing work. I am not very pleased with this outcome.

Two in the morning. A bird just started singing outside my window, and while I am glad he woke up early, I still have to go to bed at all, so I would be most pleased if he didn’t sing anymore.

(Blot of ink. Covers a sentence, of which only the end can be read) —esley sure is a name that sounds nice.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE - Some of Monsieur Justice’s “Diary Entries”

#6 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Thirteenth day of the fourth month

It’s been a while since the Icewind Suite ordeal, and there is still no sure clue towards the culprits. It’s striking me as quite strange, because at least one Marachussee agent saw them, but she seems to have forgotten their face completely. Since the agents are trained in facial recognition, that makes her a liar or an underperforming agent, but… I do not have heart nor want to fire her. She takes everything else very seriously, and always excelled in training classes, so perhaps she was just confused, that night. It’s understandable. Wriothesley interrogated her again, apparently, in the following weeks, but to no avail - no further progress.

He writes to me quite often now.

Well, not to me personally, but to the Palais Mermonia. But he always makes sure to address his letters to my attention only, and in one of them he specified he does so on purpose because he wants to keep things confidential about these issues. Very reasonable.

#7 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Last day of the fourth month

Today it rained quite heavily. I saw a melusine run under the rain, her little umbrella all torn from the wind, and I was very unhappy about it. I do feel some weird things in my head, but I can’t place it.

I’ve never given too much attention to the legend the people of Fontaine have of the tears of the hydro dragon, but I am thinking more and more about it, these days. Who left them that shard of truth? Maybe Egeria.

As always, I am very sorry if someone planted new seeds today. My confused mind and bad mood will surely drown them with rain.

#8 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Fifth day of the fourth month

I finally got a new letter from Wriothesley. It had been a few weeks since the last one, and I am not used anymore to go for so long without hearing news of the Fortress, so I was very worried something had happened.

Turns out, something did indeed happen, but it was not a negative thing: Wriothesley was busy setting up one of his boxing tournaments. He told me, a few letters ago, that they organize them often in the Meropide, to keep convicts busy and working towards personal goals, body health and self realization outside of crime. Every thing I learn about Wriothesley amazes me, he truly is the best fit for this position. Not that I doubted it before, and not that I did not know anything of the place, but I feel like I am truly learning it firsthand now. It’s very charming to see how he’s changed that place around, and I truly respect and admire him for his hard work.

I have also grown quite fond of this exchange of letters we have going on; he provides me with such a novel perspective on things, one that I have needed for much time now.

#9 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Seventh day of the fourth month

Wriothesley’s letter today included a photo of Sigewinne. I was very happy to receive it. He told me one of the convicts used to work with Kameras, and with her hard work she managed to buy herself one to use in Meropide, and she took this snap of Sigewinne some days ago. She looks quite happy, and the drink she holds in her hands looks delectable! I hope she’ll make one for me, next time she gets her holiday leave and comes to visit, as she’s wont to do.

I got some more details on the boxing tournament, too - apparently the prize was some coupons (I have learned that they’re a sort of currency used in the fortress to make inmates behave and work towards becoming better people) and ‘the chance of a dinner with the Duke’ — he told me this chance is very coveted not because of his fame, but because the inmates had permission, during said dinner, to try and convince him of being deserving of a promotion.

But Wriothesley himself was the final one to beat in the tournament, and no one managed to best him. After they all had tried and failed, he stepped onto the ring and said that the fairness of the competition and their commitment had impressed him, and therefore they should all dine together like the equals they are in bravery, and fairness.

Wriothesley really is a peculiar human.

#10 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Tenth day of the fourth month

I tried to write to Wriothesley about something that was not my job, for the first time. He said I always only write things that have to do with my work and my title, but he wishes to know me better as a person. I’ve never been asked this before, so I had to go and ask lady Furina about this question. She looked very shocked but also pleased at my tale of how I am in touch, via letter, with Wriothesley, and told me I should talk about the three things I think of the most, to start.

So I wrote about melusine, water-tasting, and then lost myself in my words because I did not know what to put as third. I rambled a bit in the letter, then struck out everything, trashed the letter and when I looked out, the beautiful day had turned into a spring storm.

I am disappointed with myself.

I wrote the letter again but it had none of the spontaneity that the first draft had, so I sat there thinking and ended up just talking again about how melusines are dear to me. I did not put anything new, and I reread the letter over and over before sending it, so I would know.

I hope he is not too disappointed with my answer

(Another entry, on the same day but later)

I keep thinking of that damned letter. I should not have sent it like that! It was a pathetic attempt at mimicking human empathy and emotions. The truth is I cannot still fully grasp them and it pains me, it pains me horribly.

(Some more lines, struck out with blots of ink as if, in an afterthought, the Iudex found them too childish to reread and keep in his diary)

#10 CENSORIAE TABULAE

Twentieth day of the fourth month

Wriothesley replied to my last letter, and he did not seem too disappointed. But he did not ask of anything personal again. I am afraid I did something wrong and gave again the impression that I am not open to talking and sharing genuine feelings. Which is, of course, not the case at all.

So, today, I am taking my heart in my hands (this is an expression from another book I am reading, called Lovers, but it’s not about lovers at all, it’s just an anthology of poetry. It’s so weird, but I probably just have to read it more carefully. Poetry is so human that it escapes me) and writing it to him. I’ll use this diary as the rough draft.

To the attention of Duke Wriothesley,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. As always, my greetings are to be extended to Sigewinne.

I won’t start by talking about what you wrote to me, even if I am very interested in exploring the peculiarities of that particular trial you mentioned. I wanted to start by apologizing. I feel like I did not answer too nicely to your question of a few letters ago: you asked me to talk about myself and I just told you, once more, about my affection for the melusine.

Since this is a fact well known to you, you must have thought I did not want to share anything more, but this is not the case. The truth is… I am not used to this ‘sharing things of myself’. I started another letter when I was writing to you back then, and scrapped the whole thing because I did not know three things I liked.

I’ll explain - I asked lady Furina how one should proceed when being asked about their tastes and such, and she told me one should write about three things one loves. I could not find the third, so I scrapped the whole letter.

I hope you forgive me for being so open about this thing.

Now, I’ll talk to you about that trial, and also about a passion of mine: I am somewhat of a water sommelier (…)

(The letter doesn’t continue here - the Iudex found his inspiration and wrote the whole thing directly on the paper meant to be sent to the Duke. He talked about his passion for water, and how one should always be careful of what one orders at restaurants, because some give you tap water when you order just water, and in some places it’s such a foul tap water that it ruins your whole lunch. He sang the praises of Sumeru water, and turned up his nose at Liyue’s, and then wrote a whole bunch about what Wriothesley was asking - details of a long since ended trial, and a precedent of someone asking to withdraw their trial’s documents from the archives of Palais Mermonia. As he rereads it, he finds that in it he managed to express a shard of humanity. He sends it, and the sky clears.)

Chapter Text

UPDATE (TLDR; don't worry i'm still writing this)

Hello! I have not disappeared - I know it's been two weeks since my last update, but it being december means a TON of work at uni and the rush of organizing xmas dinners, buying presents... I've been busy!

I have two and a half chapters written already but I don't have the time to reread and check for mistakes in this month. I'll do so after the xmas break, in which I will also take my time to write more chapters and correct them as I go so that i can post them without issues in january!

I hope this small hiatus doesn't make you too sad! I need it to be in the best writing shape I can be, and to offer you the best story I can!

Until then, happy holidays! :D see you in 2024 with a new chapter... that i probably will have to break in 2 parts because it's so damn long (20 pages)

oscar <3

Chapter Text

Halfway through the fifth month, in which flowers start to swollen into fruit, comes the time for the yearly inspection of the Fortress of Meropide. This year, unlike other years, it’s not preceded by a couple of strained, awkward letters between the Iudex and the Duke, but by a flow of them, talking about the most various topics. And finally, in one of them Neuvillette writes of the upcoming inspection. He reminds the Duke of it, almost as an afterthought in between their chatter of everything and anything. The Duke says he does indeed remember, and then it happens.

It’s all much more relaxed than usual, when Neuvillette makes his way from the Opera to the Fortress’ entrance, cane in hand, taking his time. The air is heavy with the smell of the nascent fruits and the upcoming summer.

Wriothesley is waiting for him at the top of the descending platform. He’s not wearing his coat, holding it folded over his arm, as the heat must have finally got to the fortress too, at least in its higher levels, and the metal buckles and clasps on his clothes shine under the sun. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and in doing so exposed his heavily scarred forearms. Neuvillette has very vague memories of his trial, as a kid, but he remembers those scars are quite certainly tied to it.

“Neuvillette.” He greets as the Iudex approaches.

“Wriothesley.” He replies, extending his hand. Wriothesley takes it in a firm handshake.

“Please, follow me. I have prepared a path through the fortress to better show to you our critical issues.”

Neuvillette follows his lead, descending via elevator. Once they’re inside it, it starts to move with a jerk, and Neuvillette wobbles on his feet, taken by surprise.

“Sorry,” Wriothesley gives him a tight smile, “These bad boys sometimes do that.”

“You don’t need to apologize. It’s not this elevator that constitutes the misure of your success.”

“Success,” Wriothesley repeats, rolling the word on his tongue as if trying it out, “Well now, no one has ever defined my takeover of the fortress like that.”

“Then let me be the first.” Neuvillette turns towards him, and stares into his eyes, as if trying to project his sincerity. “I do not say it out of wish for flattery or to keep good relations. I have grown to know much of the Fortress and of you, Wriothesley, thanks to our letters. And I can say with utmost sincerity that you have turned this place around for the better.”

Wriothesley stares at him. Thinking his argument not enough, Neuvillette piles it on.

“From what you’ve told me, you have made this place into a dwelling where people who have done wrong can learn that they can, indeed, do better. This is no easy feat.” He brings his own hand to his heart, “I myself have always struggled with this paradox. What is the good of justice and the meaning of punishment, if one’s sentence condemns to be forever a part of the worst? Such a thing only makes for more bitter humans, and more crimes as soon as one’s time to serve is over. You make it be not so. And for this, I thank you, Wriothesley.”

A deep silence falls between them. Neuvillette’s eyes search for the reply in Wriothesley’s, but fail to find it; as if the Duke has erected a wall behind them to only let him see the surface. But he smiles, after a while.

“I was not expecting to hear you talk like this of Meropide,” He confesses, “I don’t know what I expected. But not that.”

“Well.” Neuvillette looks away, fidgeting with the grip of his cane. He means to add something, but doesn’t.

The silence continues until they reach the end of their elevator ride, and the doors open with a soft hiss of machinery.

Wriothesley makes a sweeping gesture to invite the Iudex to descend before him, and then shows him the way. They board a small boat that brings them deeper into the innards of Meropide, and still Wriothesley says nothing. Neuvillette feels a weird anxious feeling he’s never quite felt before, the feeling of having said too much. He keeps quiet, and they both stare forward as the helmsman - one of the Fortress’ convicts - lands them safely at the end of the waterway.

The small clearing in which they arrive is the last place where convicts see the outside world, before entering to suffer their sentences; a round, small square with thick glass walls on almost all of its sides, windows on the sea outside. A small otter floats by, playing with a conch. Far away, some underwater meka burrow into the ground to search for parts, and a school of fish swims past, synchronized like dancers. The glass of the huge windows is dirty on the outside, giving the water a murky look; the light coming in through the windows and the waves dances around, creating slow shadows and silhouettes that last for a second only.

Neuvillette for a moment distracts himself from his anxiety, staring out there, imagining to be breathing in the water. His hidden gills, at the sides of his torso, flutter ever so slightly agains the confinements of his clothes. The call of the water always awakens him so…

“Forgive me, I did not mean to shut up like that back there” Wriothesley’s voice drags him out of his musings.

“Oh.” Neuvillette blinks a couple of times, readjusting to where he is, and who he is right now - no swimming dragon, but a human in society.

“I was taken aback. But not in a bad way. Just very surprised.” Wriothesley offers him a small smile.

“Do you not often hear praise of your hard work?” Neuvillette tilts his head, confused.

“I do not,” Wriothesley confirms, crossing his arms and rolling his shoulders like he’s taking something off his chest and his body just needs to explicate that with his body language. Fascinating, the human body language. But that is a thought Neuvillette must keep for later, now it’s not the time to be researching.

“People often stop at the surface. And I… I believed you to be the same. I am sorry, but I did.”

Wriothesley looks back at him, biting his whole lower lip hard enough that it turns white. He’s tense, Neuvillette realizes.

“I understand why you must have thought so,” Neuvillette is quick to empathize, “Many people think of the ones like me, outside, and the ones like you, down here, as two different categories of people. For me, being down here just means having committed a crime. It indeed is a different category, but not a worse one.” He pauses, looks at Wriothesley; “I hope you understand what I am trying to say.”

“I do,” Wriothesley’s answer is quick as lightning. “Thank you.”

They stand by the windows for a bit, looking out at the sea.

“The last place where one sees the outside from down here, unless you’re put to work on the boats.” Wriothesley says.

“Do many apply to work here just to look outside?”

Wriothesley considers Neuvillette’s question carefully, tilting his head and thinking. “Hm. Not that many, to be fair? I guess I really did create a nice place to be, since not that many want to be out that fast.”

Neuvillette is quite surprised at that. “People truly enjoy staying here beyond their time? I thought that was just a tale told on the surface as a curiosity.”

“They do! At first I thought those people had completely gone crazy. But now I think I understand,” Wriothesley starts walking towards the viscera of Meropide, the Iudex at his heel. “Down here, there is a chance to become someone new. What is it that waits for them up there, after all? Just a life lived fearing that their time here will cast a shadow on their future, and the desperate need to survive. Here, you can be reborn.”

His voice takes on a dreamy, fond quality, like he’s not talking about something he assumes anymore, but about something he knows. He looks up, and Neuvillette follows his gaze. They’re right below a tunnel that goes upwards and probably ends in an air vent, but all they can see is a visual cacophony of wires and pipes and drainage pipes and fluids and machinery, endlessly twisting upon each other, each of a different tone of yellow and burnished green and brown. Beyond and between them a dark background, the shadows of the fortress’ walls mixing up with the shine of the copper. It looks like a forest, a metal forest with a dark undergrowth of meka parts. There is something terribly beautiful about it, even if Neuvillette’s nature shrieks at the idea of being confined here, out of touch with anything that belongs to nature.

“You are a new person when you enter through these doors a criminal. You are a person who is given the chance to stay as you are or turn your life around.” Wriothesley is still talking in that dreamy tone, and Neuvillette takes his eyes away from the fortress to stare at its Duke. He also has that same, terrible beauty, he recognizes. The metal of his buckles and the leather of his trousers both shine like the pipes of Meropide, and his hair is dark like its walls; and he makes you quite fearful but not too much so that you want to run away.

“I managed to become the Duke down here, so really there is no limit to my inmates ambition. Of course, some will always think that I am the exception and they’re damned to a life of hardships. Some try to take the title of Duke for themselves, because they think there is nothing else to gain here. They’re all wrong.”

Wriothesley finally comes back to earth, or so it seems, he blinks and turns to look at Neuvillette, catching him already staring. He tilts his head.

“I have many words for my fortress. Forgive me, Monsieur.”

“I already told you, it is Neuvillette.” The Iudex feels his expression soften.

“Yeah. Sorry, it’s just very new.”

There is a lot of apologizing in Wriothesley, it seems. Neuvillette can understand that, and it is very refreshing to understand a human so well - it has not happened much before, for him.

They chat a bit about some more boring, administrative matters, and make it to the central area, where a small booth sits. A round meka rolls about, a steady flow of steam pouring out from it.

“The Welfare meals booth!” Wriothesley proudly presents, spreading his arms. “I haven’t told them you were coming because I wanted to see how they’d manage with an unexpected inspection, and from the Iudex nonetheless.”

“Oh, I hope I won’t cause them too many problems.” Neuvillette looks around himself, and already sees convicts falling over themselves to get further from them; some are just staring in disbelief, and pointing to show their friends what is happening.

Of course, the yearly visit of the Iudex is always around the same time, every year, but never a fixed date. And anyway, time is quite fluid in the fortress. The sight of the Duke and the Iudex must be quite the surprise.

“Duke Wriothesley!” From the booth, a panicked man emerges. His eyes can’t decide whether to settle on Wriothesley or on Neuvillette, and he wrings his hat in his hands, almost tearing the poor thing apart.

“I was not informed— I did not know of your visit— and of the Iudex, too, I had no clue—”

“Easy, easy, Wolsey!” Wriothesley lets out a short laugh, “Just show us what you have for us today! We will be eating lunch here, today.”

Wolsey goes fully white on the face and for a moment looks like he is going to faint, but then swallows once, twice, and nods. He forgets to reply as he sprints and disappears in the kitchen.

“I am sorry to make him so agitated.” Neuvillette says under his breath.

“Nah, don’t be. A bit of fear, of the right kind of fear, keeps one in check and alive. He’s afraid because he wants to prove himself, and this makes his fear positive. If his fear was because his food is poor, that’d put him in check. But I know him, and I know his food.” Wriothesley pulls out a chair from one of the tables, and Neuvillette sits on it. The table is small but clean, a simple slab of metal with metal chairs all around it. Then, the Duke also sits, and leans on the table as they wait.

Neuvillette turns around to look at his surroundings once more, taking in the smell of food and the small booth; it looks very well used, like all things in Meropide are, but it’s not dirty. A steady flow of prisoners passes by the small robot, and each receives a metal box in which is kept their lunch.

“Welfare meals,” Wriothesley explains, noticing his gaze, “Each prisoner gets one, every day. It’s free, no coupons needed. And water is freely provided throughout the day, too - the previous administration had them use permits and food was given only once a day, at a set time, and if you missed that timeframe you went without food for the entire day. The problem was that some had work in that timeframe, at least once or twice a week, and so they’d always lose their meal on those days. Fights ensued, and… yeah. It was not a great idea.”

Neuvillette turns back to look at him, and sees him stroking the scar under his right eye. He realizes he knows nothing of this man, not even how he got those scars. He can assume some from his past, but where does each come from?

He imagines the Duke fighting for his life, for a lunch, down here. How does one find the courage and presence of mind and spirit to rise above such desperate means, to become Duke Wriothesley?

He just stares on, taking his eyes off him only when he stares back, and pretending to be paying attention to the incoming Wolsey, who is holding in his hands two meals, in similar metal pans to the ones prisoners are eating from, but newer. He puts them on their table, one for each, and Neuvillette stares at the soupy stew it contains. The smell is not foul, but not delicious either.

“Thank you, you were most quick.” He says, nodding to the man.

“It-it is my pleasure, Monsieur Chief Justice, sir!” Wolsey is shaking a little, and a bead of sweat descends upon his temple slowly. He tries to brush it off, casually wiping his brow as if for the fatigue of cooking, but his hand shakes a little too much for it to be casual.

Neuvillette doesn’t know what he’s expecting until he turns towards Wriothesley - the man is staring at him, and motions to pick up his spoon and eat. Then he gets it, they want to see his reaction to the food.

He picks up said spoon, gathers a bit of soup and a piece of stew, blows on it gently to cool it down and eats it. It’s… normal. Not particularly excellent, but not disgusting. It’s just stew.

“Delicious.” He lies, and by the way Wolsey breathes in relief and excuses himself, happily going to his booth - where another prisoner is ready to comfort him with a hearty hug - he probably did the right thing.

Wriothesley hums, raising his eyebrows, but he says nothing. He just starts eating, and only at the end of the meal speaks of the thing. “I was curious as to what you’d say,” He confesses, shrugging, “If the truth or something to make him feel more at ease.”

“I thought it best to let him breathe. It’s not delicious but not disgusting either,” He lowers his voice as he says this, “But I felt like if I said that, he’d faint.”

“Good call.” Wriothesley smiles, quite genuine. He stands up once he sees Neuvillette finish, and brings both their plates to Wolsey. Neuvillette looks from afar as the two exchange some words, then Wolsey takes the Duke’s hand in his own and shakes it like he’s thanking him of something. Wriothesley seems to want to take his hand away, but he doesn’t. His expression tightens however, and Neuvillette sees his Adam’s apple go up and down as he swallows hard - and he immediately relaxes once the prisoner lets his hand go.

He then hurries over to their table, and Neuvillette rises to his feet to meet him.

“Let’s go, still much to see!” Wriothesley says once he’s come back, clapping his hands. He wipes them down on his trousers once too many times, and Neuvillette again finds himself curious about that quirk of his. Maybe he doesn’t like to have his hand touched - he makes a note of it, to avoid handshakes.

Wriothesley makes more small chat with him as they descend one level deeper into the fortress, and walk into the production zone. The central area of this part of the fortress glows golden, mimicking the sun, and prisoners walk in its light back and forth, carrying boxes and working at various machineries. Most seem to be in good spirit, and greet the Duke excitedly as they pass by. Neuvillette takes in everything, from the well positioned guards - against all the doors - to the Gardameks patrolling. There is an eternal underlying mechanical buzz, with peaks here and there, that acts as a white noise for the place. You can tune it out if you put yourself to it, but it’s quite easy also to attune yourself instead, and listen to it’s rhythm. It ebbs and flows, sometimes it stops here and there, like a cog getting stuck between other gears.

“So here is where the Gardameks outside Palais Mermonia are made?” Neuvillette wonders.

“Not all of them, of course. We also put back to work those that the surface mechanics deem too far gone to repair. Usually they’re wrong and it just takes some more commitment, but since up there people can choose their commissions, they usually get scrapped and trashed. No one wants to repair a meka that could probably, maybe go back in the market when they could make easy money fixing something that surely will pay their work off.” Wriothesley says it without any judgement in his voice. ‘I’d do it too’ is what one senses from his tone instead.

There is not much more to do there, and when they come back around to where they started, on the elevator that brings them down once more, the tranquil aura that surrounded the meeting up until now vanishes.

Every year, there is one more thing that must be examined in the fortress, and it is a room neither Neuvillette nor Wriothesley wish it ever existed. It hides under the Duke’s office, behind a triple armored door.

Wriothesley was the first in all those four hundred years that managed to find the use of that room and its danger - no other warden of Meropide ever managed such a feat. Therefore, when he came to Neuvillette angry and demanding explanations, the Iudex was quick to give them; he deserved them, having figured it out.

Neuvillette still recalls their conversation - it was winter and Wriothesley, not yet Duke by then, stormed into his office, a melusine at his heel desperately trying to stop him by yelling that ‘Monsieur was booked for the day’.

“What is the meaning of this?” Wriothesley had yelled. He carried a rather worn book and a set of Kamera pictures of the room. Neuvillette had looked at him, dismissed the worried melusine, then stood up and got near to him, and to Wriothesley’s surprise, had explained everything that needed to be known. How under the fortress laid the primordial sea, or what rather remained of it, and how it was absolutely vital to Fontaine that those three armored doors remained closed, unless it was time for the Iudex’s special annual examination.

“So, the whole thing is a ruse to have you examine the Primordial sea. That’s all you care about, not Meropide itself” Wriothesley had spat back then. And Neuvillette had not agreed but neither had disagreed.

“I think that the Primordial sea is vital to Meropide, too, do you not think so?”

Wriothesley had also not replied, but asked another question; “And how come my predecessors never knew about this, if every year you go down there and examine it?”

The Iudex had sighed. “Would you believe me if I told you no one ever wanted to follow me down there? I have always offered to the first wardens to tell them what laid beneath their fortress, but they always turned me down. They said the less they knew, the better. Some just didn’t care. Truth be told, Wriothesley, you’re the first warden to take the job so seriously.”

Remembering what one was their relationship truly puts into prospective how much better they know each other now, Neuvillette thinks, as the memory fades back into his mind and they enter the office.

Wriothesley goes down first, in a step by step procedure they’ve established back when the Duke called him for the first one of such visits. Neuvillette, up until then, had not really believed Wriothesley when he had told him he wanted to come down to check on the Primordial sea with him — but then, Wriothesley proved him wrong.

The procedure is as follows: Wriothesley descends first and Neuvillette locks the office door as he does, and then follows. If Wriothesley spots anything wrong down there, he is to climb back up before Neuvillette comes in. But if nothing happens, the Iudex follows downstairs, they open the three doors and check the stability of the seal.

So it goes today as well, and they find themselves down there, only a thick layer of metal to separate them from pure primordial water. The area around there glows lightly, especially next to the seal, and an unnatural silence pervades the room. There are many unspoken things, in that place.

Neuvillette looks at Wriothesley, who donned his mechanical boxing gloves like always, when they descend down there. He is trying them out, their pistons huffing and puffing as he moves his arms and shakes them around a bit.

“Alright.” He says, and does a little jump on the spot to psych himself up, approaching the seal. Neuvillette stays back, hand on his cane. He can feel his antennae glowing between his hair, on his back, answering the call of the water, and is grateful the Duke can’t see them from where he is. He would surely ask questions, if he did.

A loud clanging noise fills the silent room all of a sudden, and Neuvillette’s attention is brought back to Wriothesley - he is hitting very lightly on the pipes, hearing their noise and answer. Much can be told of water pressure from the noise of the pipes and drainage system, and if they always sing the same note, they will always be in the same state as last year.

This year too, they sing in tune. Neuvillette feels the slightest twang in their music, however. So high and acute the human ear can’t perceive it, but it’s still there.

Wriothesley turns back to him with the same, unfazed expression however, and it’s then that Neuvillette decides not to talk. After all, he could just be hearing things and does he really need to put something else on the warden’s shoulders?

“All good, this year too.” Wriothesley shakes up his gauntlets once more, and they hiss like they’re pets answering his call.

“Seems so, yes.” Neuvillette agrees, turning as Wriothesley approaches so he doesn’t show his glowing antennae too much. They make it back up in the office, and Neuvillette takes a seat at the tea table as he waits for Wriothesley to bring over the paperwork - this is how the visits always end, with them both signing a stack of documents that prove that Meropide and the Maison Gestion are still in good terms, that the examination happened and that nothing was amiss.

“How was your time here today?” Wriothesley asks, pushing towards him another sheet of paper he just signed himself. Neuvillette flicks his pen and signs in his flowing calligraphy, then pushes it back to him so that Wriothesley can collect them in a folder with the year of the examination. Every single document of the folder is in double copy, one to be kept in Meropide, one at the Palais, for maximum security.

“Pleasant. You are a good host.” Neuvillette concedes between signatures.

“Glad to hear. Do you want to stay for a cup of tea?”

“Oh, I really must not impose.” Neuvillette answers before thinking, just going off the standard, usual script for this social interaction. He pauses, lifting his pen, and looks at the warden. After all, why shouldn’t he stay? They’ve talked more lately, and the other man’s letters were friendly enough. Why not?

“Actually, I’d like a cup.” He adds, a bit awkwardly.

“And a cup we shall have!” Wriothesley seems genuinely happy about it, which brings a softer expression to the Iudex’s face.

Wriothesley quickly signs all the remaining papers and scoots them over to him, then stands up and disappears to go find tea and teacups to drink it in.

He leaves his coat on the couch, and when Neuvillette is alone in the room he takes his time signing them and then his plan would be to put all of the documents in two neat stacks. He gets distracted, halfway through, by the coat left on the couch.

Wriothesley’s coat always looks very warm, and the fur on its top very soft. Before thinking about it, he plunges his hand inside it, grabbing a handful of the fur, and rubbing his fingers together to feel its softness. It’s indeed more than soft, and slightly warm where it rested on the warden’s body. He brushes with his fingers further down, on the leather and the lighter fabric lining its inside. He follows the path left by the fading warmth of Wriothesley’s body, imagining where each body part must rest in the jacket. He is so lost in it he does not notice Wriothesley coming back with their tray of teacups and sugar cubes and honey.

Wriothesley did not expect to walk into the Iudex of Fontaine petting his coat, but it’s such a peculiar sight he does not interrupt it just yet. It’s innocent enough, yet Wriothesley finds himself following the motions of Neuvillette’s long, pale fingers, and notices him trace the exact outlines of his body, on the coat.

He feels that phantom feeling in his hand again, the weight of Neuvillette’s body against his when he caught him on the steps of the Opera. The burning ants crawl back on his hand and his arm and he almost drops the tray. It’s truly weird, how that feeling keeps coming back to his body. It almost feels like when he feels when others touch him, those small physical touches like handshakes, fist bumps, that make his skin crawl just so, not for the people touching him but for the memory touches evoke.

But this is a little different, because he wants to lean into it instead of pushing away.

Neuvillette has his eyes half closed, and his fingers slow down, to savor every fold of the coat, they go back to the fur and stroke it gently, and his face is relaxed like Wriothesley has never seen and the Iudex is very striking, like this, he realizes. He is terrible when he is in court, but he is so like a storm falling down on the sea, with that component of awe that kind of makes you want to stand right there and let it take you, wash over you and wash you away with its might. Right now, he just looks very beautiful, more like gentle rain.

“Duke! I mean, oh, Wriothesley, I was—”

Sadly, it seems Neuvillette has taken notice of him. He snaps out of his reverie and jerks his hand away, tucking it between his legs as if to hide it.

“Forgive me.” He mutters, “Your coat is very, oh, soft.”

“No problem.” Wriothesley grins, putting down the tea on the table. His hand itches to go touch the coat where Neuvillette just did, but he ignores it, even if it does take all of his strength. He does not even know why he wants to touch it, to be fair. So he busies his burning hands with pouring tea, putting honey in his and giving Neuvillette his plain, knowing the man is not one for strong flavors.

They take a sip at the same time without meaning too, which looks very funny and makes Wriothesley smile in his cup even more. He leans into the couch and therefore into the coat laying on it and can almost feel the warmth from where it was touched. He doesn’t know if its just an impression or the warmth is truly there, but he basks in it nonetheless. He sees Neuvillette shoot a glance to it too, and wonders what he was thinking just now.

He mostly always wonders what Neuvillette thinks, to be fair. The man has minimal expressions on his face at all time, and is very good at managing his responses, especially so in court. If he sounds stern it’s because he wants to sound stern instead of being it, which is a whole another level of self control.

“Very good water,” Neuvillette compliments, “And tea too. But I can taste the water it was made with, and I am now also sure of the fortress’ pipes cleanliness.”

Wriothesley doesn’t get if it’s supposed to be a joke or not, therefore he just smiles - so that if it is, he’s shown it was funny, and if it wasn’t he’s not just laughing out loud like a madman. “I do keep in high regard the water filters,” and it’s true; “Water is vital down here, after all. The one we drink, the one around and the one below.”

Neuvillette looks back at him at that, eyebrows furrowed just so.

“I hope those pipes will always keep sounding the same.” Wriothesley confesses, feeling very vulnerable. Why is he even talking about this right now? Whatever, he’s done it now. Time to face the consequences.

“I hope so too.” The Iudex’s voice is deep when he speaks, like he’s thinking and remembering and his voice has to climb all the way up from the back of his mind to be spoken out loud.

“Do you think,” Wriothesley takes a deep breath, “That there is a chance we’ll ever stop being safe down here?”

Neuvillette pauses, takes a sip then puts down the cup. He breathes in too, wiping his upper lip in a nervous motion. “We shall never know before it happens. I suggest you do not spend your time examining this possibility, because you’d just live in uncertainty.”

“You sound like someone who does just that.”

From the way the Iudex immediately looks back at him, he’s hit the nail right on the head. He doesn’t stare and just takes another sip of tea, waiting for him to speak.

“I do indeed think a great deal about the sea below the fortress.” Neuvillette says after a while, “And it brings me nothing but uncertainty, because even with all the knowledge I have gained at the service of our Archon, I still don’t know exactly if it will ever do anything but lay dormant there.”

The room feels electric with the buzz of the future, and of secrets being spilled. Wriothesley says nothing, hanging on the Iudex’s every word.

“There are too many variables. It’s just… a bit too much of a thought, every now and then. So I suggest you do not start my same train of thoughts; if nothing, to keep you focused on the good work you’re doing in Meropide already.”

Wriothesley hums, and can feel Neuvillette knows he’s not convinced.

“I promise I won’t obsess over it.” He ends up saying. He leaves unspoken that he will think of it, but he thinks that the Iudex knows what he just omitted from the way the other man breathes out, heavy through his noise, like someone thinking deeply.

The tea is drank in the end, in between talk of seas and future, and they rise from their seats and take the elevator back out. Or at least, they try to. Once they approach it, the see the elevator is blacked out, and a guard is standing guard outside of it.

“Monsieur Iudex!” He calls, saluting them both. “I bring an urgent message.”

“Do tell.” Neuvillette steps forward.

“I bring a message from the surface,” He clears his throat, “We are having a storm out there. A very heavy one - the first of the summer storms, probably. Lady Furina declared it an emergency and that the Iudex should not, by any means, be put in harm’s way. Therefore, she has asked us to make sure you stay in the fortress for tonight.”

Neuvillette makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “This is illogical. Lady Furina knows perfectly well I’m capable of handling myself in a storm and make it back to the Opera quickly and in a safe manner.”

Wriothesley has never quite heard the Iudex’s tone so tense, outside of a trial.

“I am sorry, Monsieur, but it’s not you that we do not trust. It’s the elevators.” The guard points at the clocked out elevator behind them. “The waves at the top could disrupt the mechanisms and make it fall, or get stuck halfway.”

Wriothesley looks up. “As long as I’ve been warden here, they’ve broken down just once.”

“Once too many,” The guard replies. Wriothesley frowns at his audacity, and the man is quick to add, “Lady Furina’s own words.” He bows, too, not wanting to upset the Duke.

“Well,” The warden finds it useless to argue further, “I suppose I’ll have to ready my room for you.” and he turns to look at the Iudex.

Neuvillette looks distraught, and brings a hand to his head, wiping invisible sweat from his temples before making a humming noise and muttering something as he takes a few steps away from the elevators and the guard. Wriothesley gives him a bit of space before approaching him again.

“Are you quite alright?”

Neuvillette shakes his head but then answers, “Yes, forgive me. It is not that I don’t deem your place fit, but just… I am at unease at the thought of being down here with Palais Mermonia and Furina up there without my protection.”

“Hey, I’m sure she’s already called Clorinde. They probably shared a whole banquet of cakes and Clorinde hated it because it makes her teeth hurt. Now they’ll be playing cards or Celestia knows what. The only one who needs protection right now is our champion duelist: protection from the Archon’s chit-chat.” Wriothesley puts on his best carefree tone for the Iudex, and it seems to alleviate a bit of his evident anxiety.

“Alright. I have to talk to the guard again before leaving.” Neuvillette says, and Wriothesley steps aside, letting him pass. He stays behind to give him privacy and only hears muttering of inform lady….will be back at sunrise…kept updated on the storm…as soon as it ceases. He imagines being in the Iudex’s position, and it’s not too difficult to understand just how anxious he’d be too, if he was kept away from his headquarters for the night.

The guard salutes once more and steps away, surely ready to send the Iudex’s message back outside, to the Palais.

Neuvillette approaches him, looking still tense, his brows furrowed and the fine lines around his eyes and mouth more evident. Wriothesley looks at him, and thinks of how he looked the same when they were searching for the melusine in the Hotel Debord. He loses that peculiar, other-human ‘glow’ that he possesses otherwise, when he’s anxious. Usually the best way Wriothesley has of describing the Chief Justice’s face is a very statuary, beautiful face that has a slight sheen and cloudy quality, that makes the precise physiognomy of his face hard to decipher. It’s like it trembles at the edges, and if you stare for too long you get almost an uncanny valley feeling.

But when he is anxious or worried or angry, that trembling quality disappears and the clouds that obfuscate his face part, and one can clearly see his wrinkles and the signs that the years have left on his face. Small dots of darker skin, the drooping of his lower lip. Chicken legs around his eyes.

“I will arrange for your meal to be brought up in my rooms, if you don’t wish to mingle for tonight. I usually dine at the Welfare meals booth.” Wriothesley breaks the silence after a while, not wanting the Iudex to keep following his thoughts in silence in his head.

Neuvillette makes a thinking noise. “Hm. I shall take you up on your offer. I have… much in my mind tonight.” He brings his hand up to his forehead and says nothing else.

Wriothesley brings him to his office, and makes sure to surreptitiously leave out of the bookshelves a couple of books he thinks Neuvillette will like to peruse, to help him pass the time.

He goes back down, to the food booth, and tells Wolsey about the situation. The poor man is still shaken from before, but he nods and sets himself to work on the Iudex’s food.

“It’s gonna be ready in an half an hour!” He shouts over the pots, and Wriothesley nods and sets off for his second visit of the evening - Sigewinne.

The infirmary is silent today, only a single prisoner on the beds, sleeping between fits of cough. Sigewinne is sat beside him, ready with honey water and medicine tablets, and makes him sip on the sweet drink every time he wakes, cooling his forehead down with a damp towel. She’s wearing a cloth mask to keep her safe from the man’s illness.

“Hey.” Wriothesley enters quietly and keeps himself away from the patient. He doesn’t want to catch anything and pass it onto the Iudex.

“Oh, Wriothesley!” Sigewinne whispers under her breath. She leaves the towel prettily folded on the man’s forehead to keep his temperature down, and jumps down from the stool she was sitting on, approaching the sink to wash her hands and take off her face mask accurately before stepping closer to the Duke. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m not here for your help.” He smiles, “I just wanted to check on you, and then ask you a favour.”

“Well, I am doing very well, thank you for asking.” She smiles. “I’ve only had someone with a sprained ankle come in today, and poor Joseph here is getting better.” She nods to the man coughing in his sleep, “He just got a very bad cold. But he’s recovering! So I am happy.”

“I’m glad.” Wriothesley says sincerely. He likes to see her so happy. “I, on the contrary, have had a big day.”

“I’ve heard of the Chief Justice’s visit.” She chirps, “I was hoping you’d come by to say hi! I do miss him, he’s so fun to talk to! He always appreciates my collection of Kamera pictures from Natlan. And we like to taste test water together.”

“Yeah, he also talked to me about you.” Wriothesley feels like he can’t bring his smile down - Sigewinne just makes him too soft. He has no problem admitting he is sincerely fond of her; the rumors that he considers her almost a daughter are not completely unfounded.

“Well, why didn’t you come by then?” She puts her hands on her hips, and is about to scold him again but Joseph coughs again, stronger than before and she rushes to put her mask back on again and to give him honey water.

“There, there.” She whispers, caressing his hair away from his face. “All better.”

As Joseph falls back into his fitful slumber, she cleans up again and comes back to Wriothesley. “So?”

“We were busy.” Wriothesley says, and it’s kind of the truth, but they could have found time to visit her, to be honest. He has no idea why he didn’t bring Neuvillette over - and made him drink tea with him, alone in his office, instead. He kind of wanted a one on one conversation. He feels a little selfish about it, now that he sees how much Sigewinne wanted to say hi to the Iudex.

Then, he has a thought. “Well, tell you what.” He winks to her, “The Iudex is stuck down here for tonight, and I was thinking of leaving him alone to dine because, you know, maybe he’d appreciate the time on his own. But we could keep him company.”

“And leave Joseph alone?” She sounds baffled.

“Don’t act like I don’t give you helpers. Where are they? You usually have two convicts to help you in the infirmary.” He raises one eyebrow at her.

She huffs, puffing her cheeks. Wriothesley wants to poke her so bad when she does that. “They’re eating dinner. Of course. I sent them to eat because they didn’t want to leave me alone otherwise and with everything on my shoulders.”

“Well then, I am going to tell them to speed up because you, too, have to eat dinner, Sigewinne.” He wiggles a finger in front of her and she motions to bite it; an inside joke they have going on.

“Deal…” She says, with the tone of a recalcitrant child.

“Good!” Wriothesley claps and she shushes him, giving him a slap on the leg.

“The sick!” She yells under her breath, pointing to Joseph. “Be quiet!”

He smiles; “Forgive me, doctor Sigewinne.”

“Enough with you!” She gives him a little push, “Go find my assistants and bugger off!”

“What a rude doctor!” He laughs under his breath, letting the small melusine push him out of the infirmary. “See you in half an hour!”

She slams the door on his face, looking at him with furrowed brows, trying to be intimidating. She never really manages to be that, but sometimes Wriothesley likes to indulge her and pretend to be alarmed just so that she feels proud of herself.

Once he’s told Sigewinne’s assistants to run back to her aid, he wanders around for the remaining time, taking the chance he has to relax - or at least he tries to. Walking around makes him feel like he’s working, still, because everywhere he turns he sees things to fix, people he has to talk to. There is a couple of convicts that have been acting weird recently, and he has to talk to them both privately to find out what is going on. He saw a water pipe leak in the production zone yesterday, and has yet to find the time to send someone to fix it. He’s running low on volunteers for the outside maintenance, since of the latest batch of prisoners only three knew how to swim, and his best swimmer just cleared her sentence a week ago.

He sees hints of all these issues left pending in everything he looks at, and by the end of his thirty minutes of wandering he’s tired as if he just worked, instead of relaxing around. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to stop his mind from racing from problem to problem, but even with his eyes closed on the back of his eyelids he sees flashing images of today and of the issues he’s yet to resolve. He also sees flashes of his day with the Iudex, though, and that is more pleasant than work.

He thinks, once more, of how much he’s learned about the man in the last weeks. He’s spent quite a lot of time thinking that Neuvillette was your very bland, run of the mill judge, fixated with laws and order and keeping criminals in check and where they belonged. He knew the man was passionate about his job, but he thought it meant he was passionate about making sure criminals stayed criminals and never found their place back in society. He also, for a short period, thought he indulged Focalors out of his own stupidity.

After all, could anyone blame him? He barely knew the guy. All he recalled was the Iudex at his own trial, sat so far away on his throne, banging his cane on the ground when the crowd got too rowdy, and feeding the case’s verbal to the Oratrice with impassible, stone-cold attitude.

It had taken years for Wriothesley to change his mind - and it had happened exactly when he was nominated warden of Meropide. The procedure wanted the newly nominated warden to bring his first paperwork to the Maison Gestion himself, and to receive a formal acknowledgement from the Iudex himself. Even if Meropide is formally independent, everyone knows that for the most important issues, it defers to the Archon and the Chief Justice. And the new warden’s first job falls under this category. So Wriothesley had made his way up, to the surface, for the first time in quite a while, wincing under the sun as his eyes used to the dark readjusted to the light outside, and had made his way via Aquabus to the main city.

He had been so tense, but Neuvillette had been very accommodating. He never once mentioned his past, his trial, his crime. He just had said: “So, you have found something you wish to do, at last.” And had seemed so… happy about it.

Wriothesley, that very day, had felt his vision swell and infuse with cryo for the first time.

And since then, his opinion of the Iudex had turned more positive with each day. Neuvillette was no heartless, law-abiding monster, he was just stern because that was his job. During his visits in Meropide, he did not shun those who wished to talk. He did not hold his coat up as to not dirty it with the grease of the prison, but he left it drag on the floor.

His contemplation ends when the half hour strikes on the prison’s clock. He pushes himself off the wall he was leaning against, and makes his way to the food stall. Wolsey better have cooked something delicious for the Iudex, he jokingly thinks.

Back in Wriothesley’s office, Neuvillette finds it hard to relax. He’s browsing through the Duke’s books - he’s left some out on his desk and Neuvillette is quite sure he won’t mind him looking at them. They’re mostly political, and works on economics. One must be well acquainted with these matters, after all, if one wishes to be warden here. There are some books on public speaking, too, and a collection of ‘great speeches of the past’.

Neuvillette is looking through that last one now, flipping back to the very end of the book. The structure is so that the last speech is the most ancient one, and the first the most recent. He sighs as he sees that the oldest speech the manual records is one of the Geo Archon, from a mere two hundred years ago. His own mind recalls many things of older times, even if not all.

He recalls there were speeches much more beautiful than those of the Archons, back then. They were spoken in roar and thunder but speeches nonetheless, and he feels something deep in himself being stir at the memory of those times. He technically did not live through them, but some ancestral part of him did. His soul, if one believes in such things. And so he awakens when he thinks of it, of those ages lost beyond time, before Celestia’s censure.

He wonders how those times would talk, in the language of today’s Teyvat. Would the draconic speech sound as compelling as it does in his ancestral memories, if they were spoken in words instead of rumble and roaring?

What a silly question. He closes the book with a thud, and places it back down on the desk. The answer will never come to light in this Teyvat anyway.

He sits back down on the couch, and loses himself in thoughtless musings, not fixating on any matter, just letting his mind wander and jump between memories. It’s in this state that Wriothesley finds him, when he comes back.

But he’s not alone - a small face peeks behind the Duke, pink antennae and a nurse cap. She’s carrying a tray with their three dinners, it seems, and Neuvillette’s heart swells at the sight of the melusine.

“Sigewinne, dear!” He calls, allowing himself a small smile. She smiles back, setting down the tray and rushing to his side, shaking hands with him like she likes to do - it makes her feel adult and important.

“I am so glad to see you, Chief Justice!” She chirps, smiling even wider. Her antennae glow and Neuvillette can’t help his own glow to answer. After all, animals greet each other with their bodies and not with words, and the glow that makes them similar is no shame, but a beautiful display of nature.

“It’s Neuvillette for you, dear Sigewinne.” He reminds her, sitting down and patting the couch so that she follows. “Tell me all about your day, do tell, please.” He encourages her. He steals a glance to the Duke and sees him getting their lunches ready. A delicious smell floats in the air of the office, and Neuvillette finds himself quite famished as he listens to the hybrid melusine talk about her job. She seems to be in good spirits, which makes the Iudex very happy, and she seems to be hard at work too, and ever learning about humans, their tastes and their ailments.

“And today I only have one patient in the infirmary. I’ve left my assistants with him… to Wriothesley’s insistence.” She shoots the man a glance, then looks back at Neuvillette. “He’s insufferable, sometimes.”

“I can hear you.” the Duke says, without turning around. He’s still clattering away with dishes and whatnots.

“Well then, you are most insufferable sometimes!” She tells him straight up, crossing her small arms and turning up her nose.

“Ah, just because I asked you to come have dinner with me and the Iudex! If it bothers you so, I won’t ask next time.” He turns around with the dishes in his hands - it’s not too clear what their dinner is yet, but it smells good, so it must also taste the same.

“No!” Sigewinne says, then sees his smile and turns adorably frowny again, realizing it was a joke.

Wriothesley laughs and puts the dishes down on the tea table, pulling up a chair for himself to leave the couch to he and Sigewinne. Now that the plates are closer, Neuvillette sees that it is a soup, and he wonders if Wriothesley had it made specifically because he’s known to like watery foods.

“Bon appétit.” Wriothesley says, picking up a spoon. Neuvillette takes a first sip - it’s delicious and perfectly runny, low in flavor and high in water. Sigewinne appreciates it too, from her humming noises.

“So, when is your next holiday?” Neuvillette asks the melusine after a while.

“Oh, I think I still have a month to go!” She sighs, “I wish it was sooner… I have collected some samples of water for you, Monsieur!”

Her eyes sparkle as she looks at him with expectation.

“I’ll be ready to taste them with you.” Neuvillette assures. He’s genuine in his words - he truly cherishes those moments with her, those she can spare in her holidays.

“So you two have the same… watery hobby?” Wriothesley intrudes, coughing as if he’s feeling awkward about it. Neuvillette blinks - they have quite excluded him from the conversation, without even realizing.

“Yes, we do,” He turns towards him, trying to look at him but feeling once more that gaze on him, that feeling of being bare under his intelligent eyes. He just settles for staring in the Duke’s general direction.

“You see why some people have this fully fledged theory that you’re a melusine?” Wriothesley shrugs, “You’re similar.”

Neuvillette thinks about it; “Well, I suppose now I see it.” He says genuinely, “It had never occurred to me that people might think similar people related just because of their interests.”

“It’s not that. It’s just that it’s a… peculiar interest.”

“You can just say weird, you know?” Sigewinne pipes in.

It’s the first time that Neuvillette sees the Duke genuinely just react to something. He’s always somehow ready for every possible comeback, in every conversation, even between the two of them. But Sigewinne manages to catch him off guard, and he looks… peculiar — his eyes widen and he opens his mouth, trying to find something to say, but then closes it and widens his hands as if in defeat. He blushes a little, just a dusting of red on his nose.

“Nothing to say in my defense. I am guilty.” He chuckles. He steals a glance to Neuvillette, and they lock eyes for a moment. It seems the Duke’s smile widens, as they look at each other.

It’s just a fleeting moment - then Wriothesley is back to his usual self, in control. “I mean, I am a weird one myself, am I not? The eternal convict.”

“Some call you that?” Neuvillette asks.

Wriothesley nods; “They do. Many don’t understand why I wanted this job after being a convict here. I don’t mind being thought strange, though. It makes my reputation just a little more unsettling, and somehow people always prefer to obey unsettling people, as long as they’re not cruel.”

“I don’t find you unsettling.” Neuvillette answers to that, taking another spoonful of soup, “I find you a peculiar man. But not unsettling.”

Wriothesley tilts his head, as if he’s trying to understand if there is any hidden motive to his words. But he finds none, apparently - it is because there is none.

“I’m glad you’re not a convict here, then. It’s hard to rule over those that see you as human.”

Neuvillette’s answer comes promptly: “I don’t think it would be that hard for you, even without the modicum of fear you inspire. You are a man who knows how to make himself be respected.”

Wriothesley doesn’t reply to that, but he hums in assent, not quite convinced but seemingly not rejecting his words altogether.

Between talk of Sigewinne’s job, of her milkshakes (Wriothesley seems to have a terrified expression when she brings them up in the conversation), and of Neuvillette’s obligations and many more pleasant topics, the evening comes to a close. The melusine leaves, saying she’s left her assistants without her too long already, and when the door closes behind her, it’s just him and Wriothesley alone again.

“I hope it was alright - the impromptu evening with Sigewinne,” The Duke inquires, “I stopped by to greet her before picking up our supper, and she chastised me for not having brought you over to her. Said she’d missed you.”

Neuvillette feels his heart swell at the thought - it’s a most human feeling to delight in being missed by someone dear to him. “I’m glad you organized this dinner for the three of us. Thank you, Wriothesley.”

The Duke smiles and sets off for the wardrobe, pulling out fresh sheets for the bed where he’s promised to make Neuvillette sleep. He categorically refuses his help, saying he’s a guest there and as such he must not bother himself with these things, so the Iudex ends up sitting awkwardly on the couch, flipping through books to feel less weird about letting the other man do all the work.

Wriothesley brings some covers to the couch as well, and Neuvillette realizes this is where he’ll be sleeping; the bed cannot possibly accomodate the both of them - he’s stolen a glance at it before being sent back to the office room, and it’s a single bed. It makes him feel a bit selfish, though, to imagine Wriothesley sleep on the small couch while he hogs the bed to himself. He makes it known to the Duke, but the man shakes his head.

“You’re not gonna talk me out of this decision,” He jokes, but his words are meant to be taken seriously even if his tone is light, “I would be an awful host and citizen of Fontaine if I let the Chief Justice sleep on a couch while I snooze in my bed.”

“But you have no obligations to forfeit your room to me,” Neuvillette insists.

Wriothesley puts his hands on his hips. “I have given myself the obligation. There, good enough?”

Neuvillette can’t think of any comeback to that - if the Duke wants to be such a good and selfless host, at this point going against him is more rude than accepting his bed. So he does, thanks the Duke and enters his room to change.

“Come out in a few minutes, if you’d like,” Wriothesley says, “I’ll get a pot of water boiling to drink something warm before sleeping.”

He nods, thanks the Duke and enters his room to change; Wriothesley has also left him some clothes for the night, a brown shirt and trousers that seem very comfortable to sleep in, oversized and soft.

He finally takes off his outer coat, leaving it on the clothing hanger by the door. His shoulders feel light and he breathes out, rolling his arms around to feel the freedom being in his shirtsleeves allows. The elegant garb of the Iudex sure makes for an imposing sight, but it’s not too optimal for moving around. Indeed, he usually only needs to sit on his seat at the Opera, and only in days like these, where he is required to move quite a lot, its weight and complexity of design become an hindrance.

He lifts his arms and crosses his fingers behind his nape, rolling his neck on his joined hands, eyes closed. His shoulders yell at him and his feet too, stuck in his elegant but severe shoes all day long. He discards them, now only in his trousers, some slippers Wriothesley left him and his shirtsleeves, and comes out of the room.

The smell of a herbal tea, soothing and sweet, fills his nostrils. He takes his time, letting his eyes focus in the low light of the room - the Duke has turned off all lights except a small reading lamp next to the couch, and a candle on the desk to offer some additional light, if only a small pool of it.

“I’ve made us an infusion of Sumeru rose petals. It’s very soft on the nerves, good for the evenings.” Wriothesley stirs his own cup with a spoon, and gestures to come forward, showing the empty seat on the couch beside him.

He has discarded his outer clothes too, now only in his waistcoat and trousers, and he’s barefoot. It feels so intimate to see him without his boots, which almost belong to his image as Duke and Warden of Meropide. He’s sat so calm and relaxed in his couch, sinking into it, his shirt wrinkling everywhere with the sleeves all rolled up, and his hair swept back a little to free his vision, like one does when about to sleep, not caring about how one looks but only chasing the comfort that sleepiness requires. Neuvillette wishes he could stop time for a while and look at him — a weird thought that comes to him from the fact he’s never seen the Duke look this… unofficial. It makes him want to study him, like a bacteria under the microscope of an Institute researcher.

Wriothesley looks at him a little weird - probably it’s the fact that Neuvillette is, for the first time ever in his presence, not wearing his ceremonial robes.

He feels a little uneasy about it himself, as if the robes are some kind of armor he usually dons. And they are, most of the time — they help the Iudex and not ‘Neuvillette’ come forward to speak to his everyday interlocutors, and keep every interaction distant, as not divert his judgement from being perfectly just. One could say his garb is part of his title as much as the man wearing them is.

He rubs his shirt, trying to cover himself with the gesture, but ends up just attracting more attention to his clothes - he sees Wriothesley stare even more intensely, again with that gaze that makes him feel very much seen.

“Thank you.” He says while sitting down on the couch and taking the cup Wriothesley is offering, silently thanking the semi-darkness of the room for allowing him to sink into it a bit, mix himself up with the shadows so he doesn’t have to endure Wriothesley’s stare as much as he would have to if the room was well lit.

The smell is divine, and the taste of the herbal tea even more so - Neuvillette can almost taste the water that the roses in the infusion drank with their sinewy roots in Sumeru before being picked.

It’s a gentle flavor, not intense at all, and the hot drink pools pleasantly in his stomach, warming him up. The warmth is welcome — the fortress can indeed turn cold at night, he’s already started to feel it.

“I’ll wake up early tomorrow, to check on the state of the elevators and the storm,” Wriothesley informs him, “So you can go back to the Palais as soon as you get dressed and eat something for breakfast.”

“You are very considerate.” Neuvillette appreciates, taking another sip of infusion. He feels once more the other’s eyes on him, so he focuses on his actions, not wanting to look back and be faced with that gaze.

He’s not… uncomfortable about it. He just finds it a very hard feat, and he can’t explain why it is so, even to himself. He has this tingling feeling in his face when it happens, and it travels up to his ears and down his neck, and his face feels suddenly quite weird, his expressions not making sense anymore. There is also the fact that he does not know what the Duke means to express, staring like that every now and then — it feels like an intrusion, sometimes, and others like he’s reading his thoughts without Neuvillette having to say them out loud.

He’s quite lost in his musings and the swirls of tea in his cup when Wriothesley speaks anew, his voice much lower than before: “Do you know why Sigewinne is like that?”

“Like ‘that’ in which way?” Neuvillette now turns, and Wriothesley is not staring at him anymore. He has what he’s learned humans call a thousand yards stare.

“Not quite melusine like the others. A hybrid.” Wriothesley explains. He seems to force himself to take a sip, as if the action is hard to him. He must be quite focused on his train of thought.

“I have no idea,” Neuvillette answers in earnest, shaking his head. they’re talking in this hushed tone now, as if the darkness around them makes for a more secretive conversation, “I may be fond of melusine and share a bond with them — albeit not a bond of species, but I do not know the happenings in between them. I don’t think her family merged with a human one via… normal means of reproduction, though.”

“No, I was not suggesting that.” Wriothesley makes a disgusted face. “I thought maybe some mutation, some genetic issue. We have no idea where the melusine come from, after all. Maybe they’re just genetically different humans?”

“I seriously doubt it,” Neuvillette shakes his head firmly, “They’re much too similar to sea slugs and other sea creatures. They only share with humans parts of a shape and the ability to walk on two legs, but nothing more.”

“Well, I shall continue looking into it then.” Wriothesley takes a long, satisfactory sip of herbal tea.

Neuvillette looks at him for a moment. “You’re very interested in the melusines, Wriothesley.” He simply says, a fact, stated plainly.

The other man takes a moment to consider, shrugging. “I suppose I am. I am just curious, really. They’re fascinating, and living with Sigewinne so close just makes me think. That’s all.”

“You downplay yourself,” Neuvillette scolds, taking a sip from his own cup, “Your interest in another species is most commendable.”

Wriothesley gives him a long, inquisitive stare. The Iudex forces himself to keep drinking the tea, acting as if it doesn’t bother him when really every nerve in his body is telling him to turn and face him, and look back into the other’s eyes.

“If you think it’s commendable, I am only happy. Praise from the Iudex is high praise indeed.”

Even if he says it formally, Neuvillette gathers that there’s honesty in Wriothesley’s words, and just nods his head once to show appreciation. They drink the rest of their teas, silently enjoying the quiet and the muffled noises that come from the rest of the fortress, people talking and meka walking and the shuffling and puffing and thudding of machinery.

They say their goodnights after a while, when the Sumeru rose tea has run dry and so has their energy to talk. Neuvillette sleeps without dreams in the Duke’s bed, but also without nightmares.

The morning after, Wriothesley takes the liberty to wake him as soon as the elevator is officially deemed safe for transit, and the storm outside subsides.

“Have you found, after that whole deal, the quote left with the piece of Coppelia?” Wriothesley inquires out of nowhere, just when they’re about to leave the office.

Neuvillette blinks. He’d forgot. “I have not. It—I must regretfully say it slipped my mind, between so many responsibilities I have to take care of.”

“Oh, well, never mind. I also didn’t find anything.” Wriothesley huffs. “I still think about that whole thing, sometimes. They went to the length of stealing such a precious part and then leave a message for us to find? And the part is still lost.”

“Playing cat and mouse. You have roused my worry for this matter,” Neuvillette holds a hand up when he sees Wriothesley is about to apologize, “But I must thank you for it; for if I forgot, perchance it would turn into a bigger issue. I’ll look into it back at the Palais’ library and send you my findings in a letter.”

He sinks in his thoughts, hand on his mouth as he walks with Wriothesley to the elevator.

“Do tell me anything you find. Even if you don’t think it’s conclusive evidence — maybe I can gather more information down here with your additional clues.” Wriothesley says, and Neuvillette nods, thanking him.

“I will keep you updated, I do not intend to face this alone. I am not a detective myself, and I could use your experience with convicts and criminals.”

Wriothesley offers him his hand, and Neuvillette shakes it firmly, trying to keep the contact to a minimum - he recalls how the Duke reacted to Wolsey touching him for too long. The Duke’s own hands are warm and rough on the palm, and Neuvillette can feel it even through his gloves.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” Neuvillette adds.

Wriothesley puts his hands in his pockets and bows ever so slightly. “It was an honor.”

So Neuvillette leaves, and on the elevator he can’t shake the feeling of the Duke’s hand from his own. He takes off his gloves even, as if easing the pressure of fabric would free him of the memory of Wriothesley’s hand enveloping his. Why on Teyvat is he even so bothered by it? Maybe the Duke uses some… hand cream that causes allergic reactions? That’s the only logical thing that comes to Neuvillette’s mind.

He abandons the trains of thoughts soon enough, though, because as soon as he’s outside, the burden of his responsibilities is dumped back on his shoulders.

He had not even realized how light, how free he felt down in Meropide. No one to contact him, no one to ask him of favors. He’s assailed by Marachussee agents and lawyers and petitioners as soon as he’s seen in the Opera — everyone asks for a favor, a kindness, everyone has an urgent matter. He redirects everyone with kind but firm words to take an appointment, and rushes to the Aquabus. Here, all the eyes are on him. He sits primly, legs crossed, cane in front of himself, and stares into the distance, trying to ignore everyone ogling at him. He purses his lips and loses himself in thoughts of yesterday.

The though that keeps coming back most of all is the Duke’s face when he saw him touch his jacket. He looked very soft, like he’s never seen him look before. Wriothesley always has his eyebrows knit together in worry or thought, and when they lift he looks almost unlike himself — a different version, a variant of himself.

Down in Meropide, as soon as Neuvillette leaves, Wriothesley feels the his burden of responsibilities back on his shoulders. He notices he’s walking more sluggishly, more bent than before. Countless petitioners, convicts, guards, problems, issues, adjournments fill his day up to the brim, up until it’s bedtime. He lies down on the bed that still bears the sheets that Neuvillette used, and falls asleep with his clothes on, and the light scent of watery cologne in his nostrils. His dreams are underwater, and the dream that comes the most is Neuvillette’s face when he saw him touch his jacket — he looked so guilty but in a comical way; the Iudex’s face is always serious, he’s always slightly frowning, and when Wriothesley saw him, his eyebrows shot up in surprise and he looked almost unlike himself — almost the same but lighter, softer, like an unburdened variant of himself.

#11 CENSORIAE TABULAE

I have lately been spending my late afternoons, after my work is over, in the Palais’ library. I am searching for the quote, but it’s quite hard to do it just by myself. I should invite Wriothesley up here one day to help me, since I can’t ask the help of anyone — we do not know who is the thief yet, and by asking informations I could offer the thief clues that we are on their trail. And I have especially decided not to ask anything of Furina, nor inform her of the note at all. She is far too excitable, and too chatty.

On other news, Wriothesley writes to me still almost daily. It’s my new routine to enter my office, peruse my daily mail and find first of all his letter. I read it, bear it in my mind, and in the afternoon I reply, just in time to have my answer delivered the day after to the Fortress. In doing so, I have a new letter every two days. They keep me company quite nicely.

He’s also sending me more pictures of Sigewinne, which I am always ecstatic to receive. She is growing into a smart and very independent melusine… Ha! I feel like a father saying that. Bizarre.

(The words on the last page are smudged because the Iudex closed the diary before the ink had time to dry — almost like he was embarrassed of his sentimentality and slammed the book closed so he did not have to reread what he just wrote)

INTERLUDE - Furina and Clorinde

The usual knock on Clorinde’s door does not take her by surprise anymore. She opens the door to the Archon, and it’s become such an usual occurrence that she forgets to bow, and apparently Furina forgets she’s supposed to be bowed at, because she does not complain. She just strides in, proudly, hands on her hips and head held high.

“My dear associate!” She greets, opening her arms at Clorinde. The duelist closes the door and follows the Archon in her own living room, where they’ve taken to have these meetings concerning the match they’re orchestrating.

Clorinde really would prefer not to have to include herself in all of this, but she’s in for the ride at this point. She has participated in stealing a piece from one of Fontaine’s most beloved creations, for crying out loud. Which is still lost, by the way.

So, she just sits down on the couch opposite to where Furina is sprawled, and just listens.

“We have done well up until now,” Furina says, preening, twirling her hair in her fingers, “But there is still a long way to go!”

Furina makes a pause like that’s where Clorinde’s line is supposed to go Clorinde sighs. “Indeed.”

“Well then,” Furina speaks again, delighted, “I have a most intelligent plan for the future of our task.” And she pulls out of her pocket a page, folded many times over, and unfurls it over the table between them.

It’s a map, and while looking carefully Clorinde recognizes the gardens to the east of Court of Fontaine — they’re up against the eastern walls of the city, right below where the Navia Line goes through the walls and out towards the Opera and Poisson. They’re an usual spot for festivities, and from the map that Furina has drafted, it seems she wants to turn them into the setting for one of such events.

There’s a large square in the middle that she’s named “Dancing plaza”, surrounded by gazebos (it’s very hard to make out what everything is supposed to be, because the mighty Archon of Fontaine has a terrible handwriting and so the legend next to the map becomes nearly useless), and small booths for refreshments. She seems to have planned to have a spot for a live orchestra, which she marked with a bunch of stickmen playing instruments.

Clorinde looks up, not understanding, and finds Furina staring at her proud of herself, smiling, chest puffed out. When she sees the woman’s lost stare, she sighs and shakes her head like Clorinde is the slowest kid of the class.

“My dear accomplice!” She complains, stressing the ‘dear’ like Clorinde is testing her right now, “How can our plan ever work if you’re not on my same wavelength?”

Clorinde looks again at the map, then she ventures an hypothesis: “You want to organize a party?”

“Better yet,” Furina jumps to her side, spreading her arms as if to show her the greatness of her idea, “I want to organize an all-night-long, live-music, dining and dancing masquerade!”

“So it’s a party.” Clorinde’s remark goes lost in the whirlwind of Furina’s happiness.

The Archon stands up and twirls, excited. “Just think about it! The Duke and the Iudex, their selves clothed in fantastical vetements, faces concealed with masks, dancing under everyone’s eyes, then running away in the gardens for some privacy…”

Clorinde admits to herself that she’s read many books with that exact plot. She does not, however, admit it out loud. “But what would the excuse be?”

“Excuse?” Furina looks at her with a weird look, “I need no excuse! I am the Archon, am I not? I am allowed to throw parties if I feel like it, am I not?” She raises both her eyebrows at the champion duelist, who raises her hands in defeat.

“Alright,” she sighs, “What do I need to do?”

Furina’s eyes twinkle. She is going to make this party the most romantic event in Fontaine in a long, long while.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX - Preparations for Dancing

The Court of Fontaine is taken by storm, the morning of the third day of the sixth month, by a rather exciting news.

It all starts in the morning, when the newspaper boys gather in front of the Steambird’s head office to get their daily stack of papers to sell to Fontanians for a couple Mora or so. They all line up, sleepy faces and dirty trousers, as the sun starts to rise from behind the walls of the Court. Euphrasie is the one responsible for the distribution of the morning newspapers to the boys. It’s so early but she’s not, as usual, barely standing on her feet before them. No — she seems full of energy, like when a big scoop has been reported and she’s ready to release the news to the public. The boys start to murmur in their queue, because with big news it’s far easier to sell newspapers, and therefore easier to get enough money to eat more than a scrappy lunch down in Fleuve Cendre.

She clears her throat, demanding attention. “Boys!” She yaps, “Listen!”

They all fall silent after a while, and she looks at them with lively eyes. “We have a big scoop today! You must all advertise today’s newspaper as such! Ahem—” She coughs again, pulls one of the papers in front of her and reads out loud to them all: “The Mighty Hydro Archon, Lady Furina, Mademoiselle Justice, declares a week of celebrations for the Midsummer’s Night festival! The renewal of the eastern gardens is underway as of today, and there this year’s festival will be held!”

The boys start to get why the excitement, why the air felt different today, more alive and full of electricity, and why madame Euphrasie is not falling asleep on her feet. The Midsummer Night’s festival is a huge deal, but it’s never been celebrated for a week straight before! And moreover, the Archon ordered a complete renewal of the gardens, which means things will be done magnificently.

“Shoo, go on now!” Euphrasie waves them away, “Make every Fontanian aware of our Archon’s exciting plan for the summer! Oh, and don’t forget to mention,” She yells as they already are running off, “It’s a dancing masquerade!”

At noon, every Fontanian who passed through the Court or the Opera knows of the festival. There’s chatter everywhere, even more than usual. Every bistrot is filled to the brim with people eating and talking about the bulldozers already tearing up the old gardens. Every restaurant’s servers huddle up in the kitchen between orders to gossip about what costumes will everyone wear. Every worker at the Maison Gestion, in their short coffee-fueled breaks, groans about the amount of paperwork that a whole week of festivities will entail (“Do you know that every food booth needs three permits to sell dried fruits and other allergenes?”). Every melusine anticipates the entertainment of seeing humans dressed up, as some kids often dress as the melusine themselves during such masquerades.

In short, the whole of Fontaine is abuzz with happiness and anticipation, even a whole month before the event. The news even spread down in Meropide, where some cry about not being able to go, and some leaving before the new month rejoyce. The Duke doesn’t think much of it himself, as he’s not usually required to attend such events.

The only place where no word of this comes through is Neuvillette’s seat, up in the Opera Epiclesse. He’s been holed up in there since early morning, for a trial that has been going on since yesterday. Both he and the victim’s family wish to close it as soon as possible to avoid the perpetrator get external help or flee, so they scheduled it for the earliest hour of the day. The law says that trials are only legal when the sun is up in the sky, so they waited for the very tip of it to make the sky pink and yellow and then they started. The defense is tireless, and only well after lunchtime is the whole thing closed. The criminal is sent to Meropide, the family thanks Neuvillette for his unwavering focus and help, and then the Opera is empty for an hour or so.

An hour that the Iudex uses to eat something that a hurried melusine brings him — it could be meat or fish and he would not know; he does not register what he’s eating, just folds himself in his seat, sitting messily like he would never if there were other people watching him, and gulps down his food. After his quick lunch he’s back to work: before the next trial even starts he has much to do, and mostly he has to review the documents, make the events fresh in his mind as to question the accused at the best of his abilities. No one comes to bother him, or check on him, or tell him anything, and he surely has not got the time to read newspapers.

So, when the day is over and the late evening sun of summer rolls over the sky, he leaves the Opera not knowing anything of the masquerade. He takes the Aquabus, and sees people excited and chatty but thinks nothing of it. He reaches his apartments in the Palais Mermonia, still unaware. He sits at his desk to put away his folder of papers, and only then he spots the daily paper.

Big, in bold letters on the first page, sits the title “A Week of Celebration!”. His interest is piqued, and he scans the rest of the page. The article reads as such:

The Steambird

Issue of the Third day of the Sixt Month

A Week of Celebration!

Our reporters outdid themselves, this time! Listen closely, people of Fontaine, for soon your ears will go deaf with the thunder of fireworks!

That’s right. Early this morning, a whole herd of bulldozers stamped with the sigils of Palais Mermonia were seen enter the Eastern Gardens. Our brave reporter, Charlotte, followed them inside, and saw a most incredible scene!

The whole garden, turned upside down! Trees uprooted, the pre-existing old fashioned gazebos destroyed! She gasped in horror, and tears started to flow on her face… but just then, a voice called from behind.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” The Regina of All Waters, Furina, the Archon Focalors, was right behind her!

Charlotte knelt, cowering before the Archon, but Furina was not there to send her to Meropide.

“Rise, my Charlotte!” She instead said, and Charlotte did thus rise, still scared. But even through fear and tears, her bravery and journalistic spirit prevailed.

“Why are you doing this?” She asked.

“My dear Charlotte!” Furina laughed, but it was not an evil laugh, “I am preparing the most incredible new festival for all of my dear citizens! At Midsummer, we start a week long celebration with fireworks, cakes, games and dances! A week-long celebration! But to make it happen, I have to work on these abandoned Gardens… do you know, dear Charlotte, that almost no one ever comes here? The gazebos are falling apart, the plants dying. I am going to plant new life, erect new buildings, and make this into a most lovely garden indeed! And after the festival, all will be welcome freely here to pass their time, chat, talk and mingle!”

Our dear reporter jotted all of this down on her pocketbook, for a journalist as charming and skilled as Charlotte is always ready to write down what she sees and hears. She wiped away her tears, and smiled at the Archon. The Regina laid her hands on her head, and Charlotte was finally happy again!

And so must all of us be, for a festival is being prepared right as we speak! Every day that passes is a day we’re closer to the glorious Midsummer, so rejoice, shout with glee, people of Fontaine! Your Archon is gifting you pure happiness, distilled for you with her capable hands!

The style is… much unlike Charlotte’s usual writing. Neuvillette frowns, then rereads the last line and realizes Furina probably had a hand in this.

As if wanting to confirm, the Archon in that very moment slams his office door open, ceremonial sword in hand, marching to a beat only she can hear.

“Lady Furina, what an unexpected visit.” He lies. She was probably the one who left the newspaper on his desk in the first place.

“Oh, my dear Monsieur!” She giggles, spinning in the middle of the room before rushing to his desk. “So? How did you like it?” She nods to the article.

“Very much your style.” He hums, smiling a little. So he was right, she’s the one behind this.

“Oh, well, ahem—” She coughs, understanding what he really means, “Charlotte just wanted to sing my praises so much! I couldn’t stop her, really… what an awful Archon I’d make if I didn’t let my people do what they love?”

She bats her eyelashes, the picture of innocence. Neuvillette looks at her, deadpan, but says nothing.

“Besides,” She adds, sitting on the desk, “How else can I spread news of my plans for the people if not with the papers they themselves write?”

“Very clever, indeed.” Neuvillette looks at her and she’s staring back with that sparkle of wit in her eye that she gets when she’s pleased with her tricks and machinations.

But after all, a festival is always a good idea, even if it means planning, paperwork, possible complications. Neuvillette thinks of the small beach he used to visit a mere two years ago, flooded now. Fontaine deserves a break.

“So, will you attend?” Furina asks, dangling her feet.

“If my Archon so requires.”

“She indeed does so require!” Furina laughs, opening her arms wide, “It will be a beautiful festival! You know how to dance, right?”

Neuvillette looks at her, suddenly frowning.

“I know the basics,” He admits carefully, “I’ve never danced for pleasure in a human ballroom.”

“Never?” Furina seems aghast, “Well, that just won’t do! You have to take lessons!”

Neuvillette frowns further. “That surely won’t be necessary.”

It turns out, that surely is necessary.

It becomes necessary, rather, when Neuvillette finds that he cannot go one single day anymore without Furina nagging him about dancing.

She finds him during lunch breaks, when he takes walks in the gardens behind the Palais Mermonia, between trials, on his daily morning Aquabus ride to the Opera. She looks innocent enough the first times she approaches him, but soon he starts to dread seeing her when he’s out and about, because all she talks about with him is dancing. Whether he’s good at it, whether he’s skilled at it enough to not make her cringe, and if he really is good as he says and many more variations on the theme.

Enough that one day, after the latest ambush from the Archon, on the Aquabus, he finally gives in.

“Fine,” he sighs, “I’ll join a dance class for the upcoming month.”

Furina giggles and puts in his hand a dandy baby blue flyer, before finally leaving him be. On the flyer there is advertised the “Extraordinary Waltzer Course of Madame Relevé”, apparently a special course she’s holding after work hours. It seems to be specifically meant for those who “wish to refine their dancing skills considering the upcoming Midsummer festival”. And Neuvillette apparently now is one of such people.

The course is held every evening, in the great salon of Madame’s mansion, in the Quartier Lyonnais. She a well known middle aged ballet teacher, who trains the dancers that perform almost every evening at the Opera.

Neuvillette goes to his first class on the tenth day of the month, exactly a month before the start of the festival. It’s pretty uneventful — Madame Relevé greets each student at the door with a serious expression, but she’s not a cruel teacher to them. She counts the beat and steps for them all night long, moving around elegant in her long black dress and her equally long and flowing grey hair. Her skin is tight on her cheekbones, but her eyes sparkle when she hears the music.

There’s quite the crowd, but Madame’s salon can host everyone quite comfortably.

For the first night, Neuvillette is paired to dance with a blonde lady that seems to be constantly about to fall to her feet, tripping in her gowns. She has her hair gathered behind her head in a big blue hairpin, and a face that reminds him of someone, but he can’t quite place it in the moment. At the end of the night, they part with a bow and a curtsy, but she looks at him weirdly, angrily almost, and it’s in that fierce stare that Neuvillette recognizes her as Navia. He hadn’t seen her since she was a child, and she’s grown quite a bit. The strong jaw and her bright eyes are just like those of her late father.

They do not speak, however, and do not have the chance to do so the following evening, for when Neuvillette arrives — a little early like he likes to be — Duke Wriothesley is there too.

Furina had sent his Grace more letters in those four days than she had in all the years he’d been warden combined. Wriothesley opens his daily mail, and together with Neuvillette’s usual correspondence (“I have met with Sole and Dorade, you’ll be pleased to know they’re doing much better. We went to eat together, and they talked most positively of you”) there sits the Archon’s letter, in blue paper and golden ink. A combination that hurts the eyes, but Furina no doubt chose it because of its beauty and not for the legibility. He’s been opening these letters every day for multiple times a day, and they’re all variations on the same topic: please Your Grace come to take dancing lessons, Monsieur Neuvillette has been going but no one wants to be his practice partner because they’re scared of him. At first, Wriothesley laughed as he instantly understood that that was just Furina trying to make up some tale for her usual machinations.

The second letter arrived the same evening as the first one. In this one, Furina elaborated on Neuvillette’s heartbreak at the fact he had to practice all alone.

The third one, the morning after, said that the dancing class was fundamental for the Festival! Even if he did not care about Neuvillette all sad and lonely, he should come!

And slowly, even if Wriothesley is sure this is all Furina’s ruse, he starts to let himself be affected by the words he read. Furina has a way with words, he has to admit it. The image of Neuvillette dancing alone in a room full of people was particularly… sad. It makes Wriothesley want to think of something else, to distract himself.

Not that he believes, even for a second, that what Furina is describing is the case, but after he had a chat with some informants from the outside, and they confirmed to him that Neuvillette was indeed going to dance classes, he starts to feel a pull towards the idea. A very dangerous pull to feel, for he’s felt it some other times in the past, and followed it because it did not lead to the Iudex of Fontaine.

Wriothesley opens the letter on his desk; your Grace, tonight Neuvillette danced alone, so sad please do something and such other things. He sighs, laying back in his chair. He does not think that Neuvillette is really sitting crying in his office like Furina’s words would have him believe, but… he probably was getting weird looks. Not mean ones — but too admiring ones.

Neuvillette has always had Wriothesley’s opposite problem; whereas the second is feared and kept away from others for his associations to criminals, the first one is feared for his association to justice. Even with these differences in the middle, the result is the same; Neuvillette is always seen as other.

Wriothesley purses his lips. He stands up after a moment of thought, going to his wardrobe. He opens it, looks inside for some elegant but breathable clothes — things that can pass as dancing clothes. Fine. If the Archon wants him to go dance with Neuvillette, maybe there’s a reason. He has no idea what it could ever be, but there must be one, right?

And so he finds himself outside of Madame Relevé’s mansion, purposefully early because he knows the Iudex by now, and he knows he would, too, be early. And sure enough, he sees him approach the mansion before anyone else. Wriothesley is leaning on the wall, his informal dance clothing covered by a loose jacket, but Neuvillette is walking prim and proper, cane in hand, a shawl folded on his arm as the summer air is too warm to wear it; and he’s only clad in his own informal dance clothes. It doesn’t even matter that it’s blue trousers, a shirt, dance shoes, it just strikes him that it’s informal clothing. This is not the Iudex, this is Neuvillette out and about. His hair is tied differently, too, a low braid tighter than his usual relaxed hairstyle. Wriothesley feels a tingle in his hands, like that one time they touched in the Opera as he helped Neuvillette back to his feet.

“Monsieur!” He grins, trying to push away that weird feeling. He steps forward.

“Oh.” Neuvillette stops, holding with both hands his cane, grip tightening in surprise. “Wriothesley, good evening.”

“Here for a dance lesson?” Wriothesley waves towards the entrance.

Neuvillette nods in greeting. “Has there been any trouble?” He asks, frowning. Wriothesley is quick to shake his head, to calm his doubts.

“Not at all. I’ve been also invited to attend these lessons.”

Neuvillette looks at him with a curious gaze, tilting his head. His braid moves with his head, and Wriothesley finds himself following its movements with his eyes.

The other attendees start to arrive, slowly, in pairs or alone, or in small groups, and each of them mutters something or exchanges glances with the others as they approach the two men standing in front of the entrance.

Wriothesley almost wants to shake himself like a wet dog to get the feeling of those stares off his back. “Let’s go inside, shall we?” He asks, trying to mask his uneasiness.

Neuvillette nods, saying nothing but gesturing to him to follow, and they enter Madame Relevé’s mansion, the Duke letting himself be guided to the proper salon.

“I have only attended a lesson, for now,” Neuvillette tells him when they’re inside, as the Duke takes off his coat and hangs in the hallway, “I hope you won’t judge my steps too harshly.”

“I won’t lie, I was very surprised you needed to attend such lessons.” Wriothesley answers casually.

“Do I seem like someone who knows how to dance?” There’s a small hint of humor in Neuvillette’s voice.

But Wriothesley answers seriously: “Yes.” And he looks at Iudex to see his reaction. The man looks away, thinking, then looks back and with a softer expression, almost a smile.

“I’m flattered you think so. However, I am not quite as skilled as you think me. I will not step on your feet, but I am not sure I can hold a rhythm too well.”

“So, you will dance with me?” Wriothesley speaks before he can realize he’s done so. He usually would banter like this with Clorinde or people he knows more, but with the Iudex?

“I’m sorry, I meant no offense.” He says, rubbing his neck with a hand.

“None taken, monsieur,” Neuvillette’s voice is soft. “Well, I know you better than I know anyone else, here. So I thought we ought to practice together.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that there seems to be nothing else to add. Wriothesley follows along through the dimly lit corridors of the mansion.

They’re all lit up with candles and small lamps only, no doubt to keep the atmosphere intimate and relaxed. In the main salon, the illumination is slightly brighter, but not by that much. It’s a big room, the sparse furniture pushed to the sides to make space for a big dancing space, one brass phonograph in one of the corners, a chair beside it, on which sits Madame Relevé. The scent of the old wood of the floor floats to the nostrils, filling the head softly, and the big windows’ curtains are drawn closed to allow for even more privacy. The light is soft around the edge of each and every thing in there, and around the face of the people too.

They all pair off, and as Wriothesley approaches Neuvillette he sees a young lady coming closer. She stops midway, eyes darting from him to the Iudex and back to him again.

“Oh, sorry, I thought we would have been dance partners again.” She mutters. She has bright eyes, a fierce stare.

“Forgive me, mademoiselle Navia,” Neuvillette puts his hand to his heart and bows, “I should have warned you. I do hope you have someone to practice with, if not, I think we can take turns.”

“No, it’s fine, I saw some new people coming in. I’ll find someone.” She talks slowly, Wriothesley notices, and her arms are tense at her sides, like one approaching a dangerous animal. “Have a nice evening, Monsieur.”

She curtsies and walks off towards the newcomers, striking up a soft spoken conversation to choose a partner.

“We danced together yesterday,” Neuvillette turns towards him and explains, “She is Navia, future heir of the Spina di Rosula.”

“Future? I thought her father passed already.”

Neuvillette’s eyes turn melancholic. “He has. Trial by combat. But she is to take the reins of the association only when she finishes her studies. It was one of her late father’s wishes.”

“I wonder…” Neuvillette starts, looking at the young lady with eyes full of memory, but then he jerks like he’s just recalled where he is, and looks at Wriothesley, and says nothing else.

“I wonder why people commit crimes when they have children,” Wriothesley can’t help himself, crossing his arms without evening meaning to, defensive, “It’s egoistical. It’s… wrong. Now she has to grow alone. All because of her father’s poor choices.”

Neuvillette makes a sound from his throat that could be agreeing but could be disagreeing aswell. He looks down to the floor. “It was a messy matter. Some details have always been quite complicated to understand. He was not… Ah. Nevermind.”

Wriothesley almost wants to urge him on, to tell him to keep talking, but Madame Relevé stands up from her chair and claps her hands twice. Everyone turns towards her silently, in respect, and the lesson starts.

“Welcome, dears,” She bows, walking slowly, “To our second lesson. I see you’ve all paired off perfectly, good. I ask each of the couples to take up a space in the room — you must have enough space to freely and completely open your arms without touching the others. Distribute yourselves in such a manner.”

There’s the rustling noise of feet and shoes on polished wood as they all step forwards to comply, but merely a couple of seconds in Madame claps her hands again.

“Please!” She giggles, “So uncouth! You have to act as if we are at the ball itself — proposition your partner to dance and then, your hand over or under theirs, step forward together.”

Everyone shuffles back, it’s actually quite funny to see. Some people find the humor in it and giggle, and Wriothesley is one of them. Neuvillette, instead, seems like a student about to take a test, and the fact he did not get it right the first time seems to sting. He’s looking away, not at Wriothesley nor Navia nor anything or anyone in the room.

Wriothesley knows that stare, the embarrassment in his body language, so he distracts him. “Monsieur Neuvillette,” he offers his hand with a flourish, “Do me the honor of a dance?”

Neuvillette’s mouth quivers like he’s suppressing a smile. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.” And he gives his hand. He’s still wearing his gloves.

Wriothesley takes his hand and puts it over his, curling his fingers around the fabric of his gloves. There it is, the tingle, the sparkle of touch. He ignores it, pulling Neuvillette forward, placing them in a corner, so that they don’t have the full attention they’d have if they were in the middle.

“Could you lead?” Neuvillette asks, still holding his hand, “I trust my feet more in the following role.”

“Of course. I hope I won’t let you down.” Wriothesley jokes.

“As long as you don’t make me fall down, you won’t.” Neuvillette places his other hand on his shoulder, adjusting his grip as he looks around to see how others are doing. His touch is light but not weak, just very considerate. His thumb is placed exactly over Wriothesley’s collarbone and he can feel it every time he swallows or moves his chest.

Wriothesley moves to the proper starting form too, his own hand on Neuvillette’s back, at the height where the ribs end, and presses them closer only a little so that they’re one single step apart. The tingling feeling has spread to all of his arms now, from where he’s holding Neuvillette and from where Neuvillette is touching him, like a thousand sparks of electro.

“You good?” He mumbles to Neuvillette, moving his shoulders a bit to try and get rid of the weird sensation.

“Yes. This seems to be the correct pose.” Neuvillette looks carefully at their hands, where each lands, and then seemingly satisfied looks back at Wriothesley’s face. “Let’s see what Madame has to say.”

Madame is indeed going to each couple to check on their position before starting with the music. She gets to them soon enough, approves but puts her hand on Neuvillette’s back and gives him a little push. “A bit closer. Are you afraid the Duke will step on your feet, Monsieur Iudex?” She says jokingly, narrowing her eyes at Wriothesley.

Wriothesley pulls Neuvillette even closer, and now every time they both take a breath in their chests touch ever so slightly, just for a fraction of a moment, but it’s enough to start the spreading of the tingle there too.

“Better!” Madame says, then proceeds further.

Wriothesley finds himself suddenly without anything to say. Neuvillette is so close, it feels almost wrong. If he were to bend his head, he could touch with his lips his hair. From this short distance, he can only smell their light scent. His scent, he realizes — all of Neuvillette emanates the perfume of water. It evokes in his brain the image of a flowery, clean pond, in the middle of some garden. He suddenly wonders if he smells good himself. He hopes so.

Finally, the music starts, and they start to follow the rhythm and indications of Madame Relevé. Her voice carries over easily, even over the music, even if she does not shout. “Lighter steps!” and “The rhythm, the rhythm, please!” and again, “The music accompanies you, don’t ostacolate it!” but also “Elbows up! Keep them up!”

Neuvillette dances beautifully. His elbows are always up, his steps are almost silent because they line up so perfectly with the melody that Wriothesley’s brain can’t hear them beyond the music. He keeps his back straight, and when they turn his chest brushes against Wriothesley and that pull he felt in his office in Meropide worsens. Neuvillette is so worthy of admiration, and Wriothesley would like to talk, he would like to tell him really any thing as they dance, he would like to propose him to take a walk afterwards, he feels the pull from the center of his chest and his hand on Neuvillette’s back presses harder. And when, sometimes, Neuvillette closes his eyes to the music, trusting Wriothesley to lead well, the warden can’t tear his eyes off his painted eyelids, glittering just so under the dim lights, and Wriothesley can barely see the weak hue of blue he uses but he still can’t look away. From his eyes, and from his face.

The pull is dangerous. Wriothesley tries to not heed it, forcefully closes his eyes too and for a short while they waltz blind, but it’s somehow even worse because this way, the feelings of touch and smell both intensify, and Wriothesley’s nose is full of that fresh perfume and his hands tingle and burn.

The music ends, and the pull feels lighter now that the chatter of people fills the room.

“You are a great lead,” Neuvillette tells him, letting him go and taking half a step back.

“Thank you. You’re way too good at this to be taking lessons.” Wriothesley really thinks it. He can feel his phantom touch everywhere, and he breathes deeply to calm himself a bit.

Neuvillette gives a dismissive gesture, but his eyes are soft and grateful.

“I am not a beginner, that is true. And I am also mostly doing this to… appease our Archon.”

Wriothesley grins. “She’s been pestering me, too.”

“Ah, I thought as much.” He’s about to add something when a girl approaches. With the dim lighting, it’s at first hard to see who it is, but soon enough Wriothesley has to try and not sigh, because it is Charlotte. She is too here to take lessons, it seems from her clothes, but her notepad pokes out of a pocket in her trousers, and Wriothesley knows that a reporter is never truly off duty.

“Why, hello there!” She smiles, bowing, “I did not expect to see both the Iudex and the Duke to Madame Relevé’s dance lessons!”

Neuvillette’s face loses that tranquility it has had up until now. “Reporter,” he addresses sternly, “This is a rather private moment.”

Wriothesley almost says No! out loud, because Charlotte’s eyes sparkle at the word choice. There’s three words one should never let a reporter hear — new, tragedy, and private.

“Oh?” She says, stepping closer, her monocle twinkling, “I had not realized you two were so close.”

“And we aren’t,” Wriothesley tries to step in to save the situation. People next to them are starting to notice, and to listen. “We met by chance, and since we had some… work issues to resolve, we decided to pair off so we could talk while we dance.”

That’s the lamest excuse he’s ever made up. A man next to him raises both his eyebrows when he says work issues.

“Well, I would never want to interfere with the Court’s affairs!” She steps back, hands held up, “Forgive me.”

She looks at them both once more, and Wriothesley can basically see her writing her article in her mind as she does. The music timidly starts anew, a faster waltz now.

Neuvillette sighs deeply, and turns towards Wriothesley. He gets closer, almost speaking in his ear, his hand gripping his arm.

“We should stop talking. Dance with me, Wriothesley.” He murmurs, and if Wriothesley didn’t know he was only doing this out of annoyance, he would feel the pull even stronger than he already does.

He nods, suddenly speechless, grabbing Neuvillette’s hand and back, pulling him closer and one, two, three, they’re back in the music. In the distance, Madame is telling Charlotte to go back to her dance partner.

But the second dance is not like the first; Wriothesley is far too aware of the eyes on them and it makes him stiff. It seems to be affecting Neuvillette too, for he doesn’t close his eyes like before, but he stares down to their feet or to the wooden flooring at their sides. He doesn’t lose himself in the music like before.

The dance seems to drag on forever, and Wriothesley greets its end with relief and bitterness, letting go of Neuvillette and stepping back to where he left his belongings, on a chest by the door, as everyone else says their goodbyes too or thanks Madame for the lesson.

Outside, in the night, a couple of deep thunders roll by, and soon there’s the noise of rain on the windows of the mansion. Neuvillette approaches him, taking up his own coat and his cane. He says nothing, but gets closer to a window and gently moves the curtain to the side to look outside. The rain washes over Fontaine, and another thunder crashes in the air.

Wriothesley looks at him, and when the man turns towards him he gives a small smile.

“I did not know of the reporter’s presence.” Neuvillette says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry if this causes you any trouble. She’s sure to write something about it, and I don’t fault her. It’s just her job.”

“Her job could be less invasive.” Wriothesley answers before he can stop himself. He crosses his arms, hands still tingling with the aftershocks of having touched the Iudex for so long.

Neuvillette looks around, seeing people approach them as they’re standing by the exit. “Do you wish to talk outside a little more?” He proposes, taking a step towards the outside.

“In the rain?” Wriothesley smiles.

Neuvillette opens his mouth then closes it. “Oh. I forgot about that. I just wanted to talk in a more private setting.”

“We can meet tomorrow, if you wish.” Wriothesley seizes the opportunity, “I have a slow day at the fortress and I can spare a couple of hours.”

“I thought we were going to meet again at the lessons?” Neuvillette seems genuinely surprised the Duke does not mean to follow through.

“Well… Charlotte.” He just says. It’s reason enough.

Neuvillette seems to think for a moment. “Would you be amenable to continue our lessons in the privacy of my apartments at the Palais?”

Wriothesley feels his face open in the most genuine expression of surprise.

“I do not mean any pressure,” Neuvillette is quick to add, apologetic, “Only if you wish to continue. I find you are a great dancer, and if lady Furina wishes me to practice, this could also give us the opportunity to talk about anything we need to.”

“I don’t feel pressured,” Wriothesley reassures, “Just very surprised. But yes. I can spare some hours in the evening. Not every night, though.”

“No, of course not.” Neuvillette takes his cane and steps again towards the door.

“Well then, I shall be off. Tomorrow?”

Wriothesley should say no. He should really say it, and not entertain the pull towards the Iudex. Wriothesley knows what is best, he’s smart and cunning and he’s the warden of Fontaine.

“Tomorrow.” Wriothesley is also just a man.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7 - Preparations for Dancing (Private)

**

The day after the dance lesson, Wriothesley wakes up at the crack of dawn. He usually wakes up at this time anyway, but he’s usually groggy and his mind is fogged by sleep as it should be, naturally. He only wakes up like this, eyes wide awake the very moment he gains consciousness, when he’s worried about something.

The first moments after he awakens he’s still blissfully unaware of his worry, just enjoying the moment, but then his thoughts catch up to his brain — the lesson, the dance, Neuvillette.

He sits on the bed, willing a groan away as a slideshow of last night plays in his head. Neuvillette looking so clean in his informal clothes, the whispering of the people, Neuvillette’s hand and his touch that spreads warmth and fire and uneasiness on his body.

At first, his reaction is to think that this whole ordeal came out of nowhere, but of course, it never is the case. As he wanders through the chambers of his memories, trying to find head and tails of all of this, he’s greeted by the innumerable times he thought of the Iudex, the times he felt a peculiar kind of elation in seeing him that just isn’t what he normally feels.

He’s always chalked it up to admiration, awe, terror, intimidation. They all make one’s limbs a little loose, and one’s body a little warm. And he does feel, anyway, like those are present in his thoughts of Neuvillette — but they're mixed together, intertwined and indissoluble. His head feels heavy, and he’s not keen on starting the day, but he must.

He gets dressed and leaves the room to enter his office, where his morning mail has been delivered. No letters from Neuvillette today, as it was to be expected since they talked not too many hours ago and the Iudex invited him to his apartments to talk again, tonight. It still feels weird, bad, and he wishes he could read one of his elegantly penned letters right now. I’ve been rather taken with admiring the flora around the Palais. And Aeife, the unswerving melusine who stands guard outside the Opera, recounted of the last light novel she’s been reading, and I really ought to pick it up. His most mundane thoughts, in blue ink and cream paper.

Neuvillette has some issues talking like he writes — face to face seems to disconcert him, as if the protection of the sheet of paper is necessary for him to bare his real thoughts. He always speaks, when they meet, like a printed book. He writes like a man, however. But even if he wrote like a book and spoke like a sermon, Wriothesley finds that he would still miss his words.

He looks at the pile of his mail with a displeased eye. You, stack of documents, do not contain Monsieur’s letter. He’s feeling disdain for it.

Still, he has to sit down and read through it like he does any other day. So he does, feeling the weight of each document he goes through. Comes lunch, comes afternoon, comes Sigewinne to his office to offer him a milkshake (this time, it’s a strawberry and coffee milkshake. Disgusting as always, but he doesn’t let it show), comes the tiredness of the evening. He finally can put aside his work and get ready to visit Neuvillette — and the thought both relaxed and vexes him.

He has not felt the pull in a while, that traitorous and unsettling feeling in his body and mind. He feels its name push through his mind but he kicks it back; not now, and not the Monsieur Iudex. He’s always believed the less a person sees of him, the better, and this rule applies also to his higher-ups. The fortress is not an easy thing to bear, it leaves its traces and indents on Wriothesley, and he will not sully the Iudex with his situation.

He tries to bury deep inside the happiness he feels at the thought of seeing the Iudex again, but finds it too much to hide completely, and as he walks out of his office and towards the prison’s exit, he feels as if he is a candle covered with a hand — hidden away but leaking light. Having this much feeling in his body leaves him exposed, and Wriothesley doesn’t like being exposed.

Still, he makes his way upwards and outwards, breathing in the free air of Fontaine, taking in the smell of salt and the way the brackish air curls in his hair, salt sticking to his eyebrows as he walks from the exit to the Opera, and again the smell of seawater flooding his nostrils on the Aquabus. The blue water is pitch black at night, and he stares at it as the Aquabus sprints on its rails; the stairs reflect themselves shyly; the moon is bolder, but still its picture wavers on the waves.

“Thank you for traveling with us!” Says the bus’ guide, a pink melusine. She waves with her soft paws and Wriothesley steps down onto the sidewalk with a soft smile.

The Court of Fontaine is different at night, even if much of it is the same as it is during the day. People still roam the streets, there’s music and laughter and noise from all around, the theatres and cinemas are open and people walk to and from them, leisurely. Some shops are open, it’s barely even seven in the evening after all, and many restaurants are filled with customers still.

All of these are sights one could also take in during the day, but the shape of things is more blurred and yet more stark at night, the soft sunlight replaced by artificial lamps and by the faint glow of the moon. The flavour of things during the night is not the same; a corner turns into a mystery and the road you know well suddenly is an impenetrable forest if you miss the right turn.

Neuvillette lives in the headquarters of the government of Fontaine, which means the area is patrolled and lit up almost as if it was day, Marachussee Phantoms and melusine alike walking back and forth. Two Meka are posted at the entrance, one holding a rifle and the other a shield, and asking the password to each person entering. After dark, more measures must be taken to protect the place where both the Archon and the Iudex live.

“Two places” Wriothesley says to the Meka — the words Neuvillette told him to say to enter work, and they let him through.

After the huge lobby, empty save for two more guards and the faint noise of classical music, there is the secretariat where many men and women are bent over their desks, scribbling away as fast as they can. He takes the elevator up to the top of the buildings, to where both Neuvillette’s and Furina’s rooms are.

The elevator is operated by another melusine, who nods at him with a serious face as he enters.

“I’ve been informed.” She says. She’s trying to deepen her voice to be imposing, puffing her chest out and tilting her hat up. Her uniform’s buttons shine — she must take her job very seriously.

“Very good.” Wriothesley honors her seriousness by being serious to her, too, and not letting her childlike appearance make him laugh. She seems to like the fact, her mouth twitching as she tries to suppress a pleased smile. It reminds him of Sigewinne’s early days, trying to prove herself.

They part as he arrives at the floor on which Neuvillette’s rooms are situated, and every other thought suddenly disappears as he realizes he’s about to see him.

Never before the thought of being so close to seeing the Iudex has made him so anxious, so overwhelmed and jittery. He’s seen him just the other day, but now this is different.

He still refuses to name his pull, the small, rapidly expansing warmth in his lungs, but he can’t deny the way it cuts his breath when he knocks and the door’s handle shakes and shivers and turns and then Neuvillette opens the door, an elegant smile on his face.

“Wriothesley, how timely.” His voice is like the salt he felt just now, all around him, in his eyebrows and in the fine hair of his shaved sideburns.

“It would have been most impolite to make you wait, after you invited me.”

Wriothesley steps in and Neuvillette makes a perfect gesture to the coat hanger.

“Make yourself comfortable.” He says, and steps deeper into his apartments after having closed the door behind the Duke.

Wriothesley nods, shedding the jacket and loosening one button of his vest. He needs to be comfortable, for the dance.

The Iudex is back to him quite quickly and with another elegant movement invites him further into his home, a perfectly secret place that few ever see in their lifetime.

Wriothesley takes everything in — paintings of Fontaine’s sea and its depths, a cabinet of bones from sea creatures (in front of each specimen a little note, written carefully in pretty cursive, says “ethically harvested”). The colors are blue and white and gold, much like the Iudex’s usual clothes.

Neuvillette leads him in a larger room, where a table has been evidently pushed to the side to make space. A phonograph in the corner, already playing a soft tune. It almost sounds like waves.

Neuvillette looks at him and seems awkward for a moment, not knowing what to say. Wriothesley smiles, and claps his hands softly. The room is so quiet, the music so soft and Neuvillette is wavering around the edges and any strong noise seems like it would break this illusion.

“We can start whenever you like. Your home is beautiful and this room is perfect for dancing.”

The pull comes back, dangerous, when Neuvillette smiles back at him with soft eyes, but he banishes it to the corners of his consciousness.

“Do you have any preference for the music?” The Iudex asks, approaching the phonograph and looking through the records piled up on the table.

“Anything slow.”

Neuvillette nods and seems to easily find such a tune, putting it on and approaching Wriothesley as it starts. It is indeed slow, very beautiful — it seems to be listening to the song of the mist, covering everything up, making noises softer, colors and lights dimmer, secrets safer.

Neuvillette raises his hands in the position as he awaits for Wriothesley to approach and so he does, putting his hands in the spots he knows now — and the idea that he knows those spots makes his hands twitch. He pushes his hand on Neuvillette’s ribs, feeling how his ribcage expands and comes back in as he breathes, and the one holding the Iudex’s hand basks in how fresh that hand is, like when one has freshly washed his hand in the morning.

“You have a peculiar collection of music. I’ve never heard this tune.” Wriothesley says as they move slowly to its tune, hands held tight.

“I buy them from a shop behind the Steambird. It has very old music, and I like it best.” Neuvillette talks as he focuses down on his feet, evidently very caught up in the dance.

But the pull makes Wriothesley foolish, and he stops mid-step, one hand going to barely graze Neuvillette’s chin and bringing his dance partner’s gaze back up to his own. “Madame would tell us to keep the eye contact.” He quickly makes up, as an excuse. His hand burns as if Neuvillette’s skin is made of nettle.

Neuvillette stares at him, confused at first, then with a shade of something else in his eyes. He stares on, however, almost as if in challenge, and starts dancing again.

Wriothesley senses a change in him, like some part of Neuvillette has been prodded awake. It feels like dancing with some kind of animal that has been tamed but not for long. He stares and sees, for the first time really, that Neuvillette has slit, reptile-like pupils, and his irises are of a light purple. It grows redder on the edges, and it shines. His gaze is very old, when he looks into his pupils directly; in those small black spaces he reads something but they are too far, still, for him to understand what exactly.

“Better, now.” Neuvillette seems to be teasing, if he even can do such a thing. He has been always kind of bad with indirect communication, with teasing and jokes. So, Wriothesley doesn’t know what to say — is this teasing, is he serious?

It was teasing it seems, because the Iudex smiles gently afterwards, when he sees Wriothesley’s confusion.

“You’re learning from our Archon,” Wriothesley jests, “Soon I’ll find you asking me for impossible things.”

“I would never.” And here it comes, Neuvillette’s inability to understand jokes.

It’s Wriothesley’s turn to smile and Neuvillette closes his eyes in mock defeat.

“Still a long way to go!” Wriothesley picks the dance up a bit, as the misty music picks up its rhythm. Still slow, but less like mist and more like steam now, rolling and rising with heat.

Neuvillette keeps up, flying on his heels, and the pull inside of Wriothesley breaks into acceptance. Slit-eyed Neuvillette is too true to resist, his gaze is even more aggravating than the burning feeling he gets on his hands when he touches him. He is very beautiful, and Wriothesley has to face it.

Not right now. Now he dances with him, following the wave of his hair and stealing glances at his royal profile when he’s not looking. They dance through three more records, and Wriothesley does not remember the music when they finish but he’s sure that, if he did hear them again, all he’d think of would be how Neuvillette’s shoulders rise and fall as he dances.

They take a short break inbetween records, and during them Wriothesley is faced with the arduous task of keeping a straight face while Neuvillette stretches and takes off his waistcoat to let his shoulders rest. His shirt is slightly damp with sweat on the back, and the small spots where it clings to his skin are almost see through, letting him spy on Neuvillette’s skin. He feels like a voyeur, looking away when Neuvillette stretches one last time and his shirt untucks itself from his belt, baring one hip. Wriothesley feels his hands tingle at the sight, and the pull urges him to touch but he sits instead, hiding his hands under his leg as if to stop them from acting against his own will.

Neuvillette relaxes, blissfully unaware, and puts on another record.

The evening flies by, and sooner than they thought it turns to night. The noises of outside dining and the chattering of people dies down ever so slowly, and rises up the noise of patrolling and the quick steps of those who were too caught up in partying and didn’t realize how late it was. And now they hurry home, huddled under a coat and giggling together.

Neuvillette looks down from the window to the receding shadow of Wriothesley. He did ask him if he wanted to stay the night, but the Duke seemed almost scared at the suggestion. After all, given his past - Neuvillette thinks - it was to be expected that he did not want to stay in the Palais for such a long time.

The Iudex rests with his side leaned against the window frame, looking at Wriothesley, that with quick, long steps disappears into the night. He watches until he can barely make out his coat, and then opens the window and tries to listen to his steps, ever receding, more and more shrouded in the distance.

He stays with his window open long after he’s gone, breathing in the night. There isn’t a single place in Fontaine where the smell of the sea doesn’t come through the walls and windows and permeates the skin and clothes of its citizens, and the Palais is no exception. Even here, in the heart of the Court, he can still faintly smell the salt. He inhales slowly, and then scoffs, rips his neckcloth away and opens the first buttons of his shirt. He shrugs it off, and as his upper torso is finally bare in the light of the moon, his gills flutter open and he inhales again, this time with his full body, the smell of the sea. The soft blue skin around his gills glows brighter as they open and close like speaking mouths.

“I’m sorry, my dears,” He says to his own body, rubbing gently his fingers across his chest, feeling the small bumps of his scales, “I let you breathe so few times.”

Wriothesley pushed right against his gills, as he held him to dance. It did not hurt, but it did make him a little sore. Yet, it’s a soreness he welcomes, somehow. It means human contact - it reminds him of the time he just spent with someone else.

Not that Neuvillette is ecstatic at the thought of spending time with others, or touching them. As a personal rule, the more he stays to himself, the more he’s satisfied with his role as the Iudex and with the way he’s seen by others.

But dancing, today, felt light and not like it hindered Iudex Neuvillette. Truly, he didn’t feel much of a judge today — and any other day, the thought would have only made him feel uneasy and uncertain on his feet, but as he stares outside and his gills breathe in for the first time in quite a while, he does not feel any anguish.

**

#12 CENSORIAE TABULAE

I danced all night long. It was quite weird. Then I let my gills breathe in the salt, and I watched the Duke walk into the night.

The celebrations are approaching, and I am very … Oh, I do not know. Goodnight.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE - The Boiling Frog (Only Notices When It’s Too Late)

Every great event has three stages.

First, announcement. The emotions run high, the date is set, people look to each other and say “it is still so far away!” But run to buy clothes and tickets and arrange reservations to hotels and restaurants. The announcement is not the effective birth of an event, but in the public eye it is — announcing an event is making everyone certain of it happening.

Then, follows the middle stage of wait: the worst one. The organizers have to keep the spirits up while the months pass by, reminding every now and then that the event is indeed happening, giving hints here and there but never enough that it spoils the fun and the surprises. In this stage, the ones organizing face new problems every day but the public must never know.

The final stage of an event is peculiar. It is not, as one might think, the day of the event itself: it’s the evening before. The day of the event everything is already happening, things and people and conversations roll over each other, people get dressed and get out of their homes and walk without clearly looking at their surroundings, everyone runs to the location with no reason, and only once they’re there they finally there they can breathe.

But the evening before? There is the real anticipation. Ladies will pull out their Chioriya Boutique dresses for tomorrow and press them with warm irons to get rid of wrinkles. Butlers will serve light dinners, because food at events is always heavy and deep fried and children will want to eat plenty of them. Groups of giggling youngsters gather in the eldest daughter’s bedroom and talk about what fun it will be. Will there be fireworks? I hope so! I heard there is a parade in the evening. Mother never lets us stay until evening, I’m so sad now! Don’t worry, we’ll convince her!

And it goes on, deep into the night, even if everyone keeps telling each other that they should go to bed, they should get some rest. Everyone will wake up groggy tomorrow, but the event is there, and it will diminish some of the grogginess.

And, always during the evening before, the organizers patrol the place one last time, while everyone quivers in anticipation, looking towards the southern gardens of Fontaine, imagining what it will be like, tomorrow, walking to the festival.

The Marachussee standing guard bow and let her through, and Furina walks in with her back straight and a big grin on her face. Usually, the final inspection is made by people appointed by the Archon, rather than the Archon herself, but this time it’s special. She wants to be here, making sure that everything is sparkly clean and shining, new and enticing, and — most importantly — romantic.

Of course, a festival is a perfect people-pleaser, it’s politically smart to hold one, but that thought occurred to her only after the thought of “This Will Make Monsieur And The Duke Kiss Kiss Fall In Love”. Romantic, rosebud-adorned gazebos; a full orchestra, dim lights. Heart shaped cotton candy; a labyrinth of perfumed hedges, tall and in bloom with yellow-pink flowers, perfect for lovers to lose themselves in, laughing at each other’s inability to come out and kissing to pass the time while someone comes to save them.

She passes everything by, smiling proudly of her efforts. The floor plan of the gardens was drafted by herself, and it’s perfect. She has heard both Neuvillette and Wriothesley stopped going to the dance lessons, but some whisper of private lessons that they’re taking at Monsieur’s apartments. Furina just can’t contain a giggle at the thought. It’s all perfect, it’s all amazing.

It’s almost time to go — the night is getting darker and deeper. There is no guard inside the gardens yet; she has asked them all to leave while she explores to have an immersive experience. Even Clorinde, after a lot of arguing, stayed back with a grunt and told her to just make it quick.

Furina steps to the border of the gardens, the one overlooking the city, and pictures in her mind tomorrow evening: the fireworks, the people cheering, the smell of sugar and the notes of violins lingering in the air. Lovely.

She is about to turn around when she senses someone behind her.

“Hello?” She turns, but before she can do so someone approaches, swift as a cat, presses something into her neck and with one gloved hand covers her mouth, keeping her face turned so she can’t see who is attacking her.

Furina tries to scream all the same, and the hand presses even harder, one long fingernail cutting into the skin of her lip. She tastes blood, then the thing pressed in her neck emits a snapping sound and there’s a rush of warmth in her body. It’s all soft, all of a sudden, the edges of things disappear, the sky vacillates and falls to the ground as Furina faints. She can almost make out a tall female figure catching her as she falls, wearing a mask. The figures glitches in red.

Then all is black.

***

The morning after, nothing seems amiss.

The air is warm, but fresh — a blessing, seeing as summer is here and it’s scorching in the afternoons. There is chitter-chatter coming from the houses, children yelling in happiness, restaurants opening slowly as they anticipate everyone will be at the festival. Cafés are working overtime instead, a flood of people having breakfast outside to enjoy the morning sun. Windows open everywhere and flowers and people alike turn their heads upwards to bask in the sun.

Beautiful dresses on beautiful people pass by the streets like a procession of elegance; young ladies wave themselves with fans and rest them on their cheek to hide their faces as they giggle to each other when an handsome person passes by. Groups of children here and there hold hands as their parents walk in front of them, guiding their joined families to the gardens.

Marachusée guards offer maps of the city to people from Poisson and other outside villages, pointing them to the direction. But even if they were to miss one of the spots in which maps are being distributed, it would be enough to follow the stream of people walking all in the same direction.

From the Steambird’s main building Charlotte leaves with a couple of colleagues, ready to document the beautiful festival.

Some lucky goers whisper to themselves on the street, stepping to the side: Monsieur Neuvillette is walking in the middle of their same street, elegant cane in hand, for once not clad in his Iudex clothes but wearing all blue and silver all the same, politely waving back to the people bowing and curtsying to him.

On the other hand, those walk on the boulevard that brings to the gardens from the outside of the Court shrink back and their eyes widen at the sight of the Warden of Meropide. The bows made at him are shallow, scared. As he passes by, people sigh of relief: he’s not here for them.

From the gardens, the first violin starts to play, and people hurry: it’s already starting!

Nothing indicates that the Archon has been missing since last night.