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Neuvillette doesn’t know who he is.
Of course, he is the Iudex, the Chief Justice of Fontaine.
He is the Hydro Dragon, Sovereign of Fontaine.
He is his appearance to the people of Fontaine - spats and his cravat, the stole draped across his chest without a single wrinkle or hair out of place.
He is the cane that he carries to sentence criminals and maintain order during trials. The harsh sound of two sharp taps on the ground, holding the fate of so many in his hands.
Sometimes he thinks of himself as something almost like a babysitter for Lady Furina, despite her status as the Hydro Archon.
He is all of these things, and yet, when he really thinks about it, he doesn’t know that he is anything at all. Beyond what he shows the people of Fontaine, beyond what it is that Lady Furina expects him to be. Beyond his station as the Iudex. He truly does not know what lies beneath.
Immortal beings, especially dragons as old as he, don’t usually feel the need to confront themselves with the concept of identity. It always exists, or it changes as many times as it needs to. Because of the nature of time and the lives of dragons, the concept of identity often fades away into a sense of duty, of honor, perhaps of loyalty to the nation or to the mortals they serve. Once one reaches a certain age, after all, are they truly more than the sum of their experience? Of the use that they can be to others? Dragons are powerful creatures, but the will of man has felled gods and mortals alike. In the scheme of things, they are tools. Something to be used and shaped to their will.
That is the unfortunate truth that Neuvillette had come to learn, in his time in Fontaine. He remembers his brethren just a little less every day, remembers a land before time, a land worn with strife, just a little less. His draconic form clings to his memory just a little more weakly with every passing hour.
Self-image. What a ridiculous concept to dwell on. How cruel, how insignificant he should view himself when he sentences lives to eternal darkness every day, when he is the last face that many see before they are removed from the sun for their foreseeable future. Human lives are so short, yet they are rife with meaning. So much meaning. Humans worry for their identities, and are willing to go to great lengths to defend them, even breaking the laws of their beloved nation.
Neuvillette should not have this luxury - and it is a luxury. To crave identity, to crave belonging in a world that works tirelessly against you is something so uniquely human that it aches sharply. To truly know who you are, one would think, is something that an immortal being could truly think about, truly come to understand in all their years of life. That is most definitely not the case. In such a long life, there is no real need to think about it, especially when bound by duty or relationships. To have a concept of self… eludes him.
Perhaps it is true, what Lady Furina says. He has been spending too much time around humans, too much time trapped in the throes of the trials over which he presides, doling out sentences to doom seemingly without a second thought. She tries to tell him to take a break sometimes, as do his beloved Melusine, even though he always insists that he is well. With the exception of Lady Furina, he sometimes believes, he knows that they want what’s best for him. But to slow down, to do anything else is impossible for him.
He is his station, after all. That is the identity that he understands. That is the identity that was chosen for him all of those years ago.
Yes, he is the Iudex, the Chief Justice of Fontaine.
Why doesn’t it feel like enough? Why are there now cracks in the facade that he has spent hundreds of years so carefully building and maintaining? Why now is the foundation that he has so carefully built up swaying so dangerously, as if in a hurricane?
Neuvillette. The Hydro Dragon. Sovereign of Fontaine.
Who is he, really?
What is he, really?
He is well aware that he is a beast of awesome strength and power, but he feels frailer than ever these days. He feels as if he is the wavering foundation, the floodwaters of the Primordial Sea that threaten to flood and drown Fontaine at every moment. Waters that he feels acutely whenever he is still for more than a moment. Waters that he must push back, that he must never allow to come any closer to his beloved city. Prophecy be damned, he is the Iudex.
The question always burns in his mind, when he lets himself think.
Is this what Justice means to you, Neuvillette?
Spoken with such rancor, such horrific cruelty that Neuvillette caught their meaning without even having to think.
Who are you, Neuvillette? How could you do this?
How, indeed.
His thoughts get away from him once again.
He sees himself more in the rain hammering against his window just outside of his office, in the clouds that have been growing steadily darker over the last several hours, in the winds and the harsh, icy drops raising alarm in the citizens of Fontaine. He cannot hear it from his office, of course, but he can almost imagine it.
It is an ill omen, they would say, nervously clutching shopping baskets and parcels, trying to save their beloved meka from the oncoming storm.
What has upset the Hydro Dragon so? The elderly, fond of their tales, and children, who believed so whole-heartedly were sure to ask. He has heard them before, on his walks through the streets in his own storms.
Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, don’t cry!
An old adage, one that embarrasses him to hear on the best of days, but would likely cause the thinly-veiled slew of emotions he had just barely dammed to burst and flood completely. He couldn’t do that to Fontaine, he had sworn not to.
That is who he is, even though they will never know it. The Hydro Dragon. Thunder claps outside, deep and foreboding, as lightning flashes and strikes just a bit too close to the Palais Mermonia.
For a moment, he thinks that he sees himself reflected in its unforgiving arc.
The lightning crackles and fizzles away, leaving scorched and smoldering wood in its wake, the only evidence that it was ever there.
Such is the way of mortal lives, Neuvillette supposes. Brilliant and burning, and destructive and beautiful. Perhaps it wasn’t himself that he saw in its arc at all, he muses as he delicately lifts his water goblet up to his lips.
He gets away from himself once again.
A knock sounds at the door, two gentle taps - Sedene’s knock - jolting Neuvillette from his thoughts, and almost causing him to drop the goblet in his hands.
“Enter,” he calls, hoping that the slight tremor in his voice was not audible to her.
His hopes were quickly dashed when Sedene entered, an expression on her face that was somehow both worried and distinctly unimpressed. Foolish, he never lets himself get distracted, never lets himself grow so immersed in himself that he allows himself to be caught off-guard. Constant vigilance was something that he couldn’t afford to let slip.
“Your honor,” Sedene’s gentle voice breaks through the fog, and the rain eases up the slightest bit, “Duke Wriothesley is here to see you for your scheduled three o’clock meeting,” she gestures behind her, where a hulking figure appears to be lurking. Neuvillette does not miss the way that she pointedly emphasizes scheduled, as if to chastise him for his spiraling thoughts. He composes himself immediately, straightening up fully in his chair and setting the goblet gently down on its coaster before standing, mentally cursing himself for his own carelessness.
He may not know himself, but he does know himself to be better than allowing himself to spiral so severely during a workday.
“Of course,” he keeps his expression its usual impassive mask, the tremor gone from his voice. “Please, send him in.”
When Wriothesley enters, the first thing Neuvillette notices is that he is soaked. Guilt blooms in his chest like a withering flower, its petals unfurling into his chest and stomach. It is quickly followed by a peculiar feeling of warmth when he sees the other man rub at his hair, the action oddly reminiscent of a dog shaking itself off. The slightest hint of a smile curls beneath his skin, although he doesn’t let it show on his face. Wriothesley looks distinctly disgruntled as he removes his coat (without asking first! Honestly, this man has no manners whatsoever) and sets it on the rack next to the door. Neuvillette has to suppress a sign at the action, trying to ignore the fondness that warmed his skin.
Their eyes met once the Duke’s coat was off, the other finally turning his attention to the reason that he had come to the overworld in the first place. He still looked like a sopping wet dog, especially with his hair plastered to his head - which it remained no matter how many times he ran his fingers through it.
Sedene gives them both a strange look before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. Leaving them to whatever peculiar staring contest they found themselves in.
“Forgive the intrusion,” Wriothesley pulls a folder from… somewhere - the confines of his coat, perhaps? - and sets it on the desk before Neuvillette. The Iudex immediately shakes his head, settling back into his chair with a flourish of his robes.
“It is not an intrusion when you have an appointment,” his voice had a note of warmth to it, a gentleness that was almost imperceptible to the average person.
Wriothesley had always been exceedingly perceptive, and Neuvillette saw his expression melt into something almost unbearably fond, although he didn’t want to ponder on the meaning of that particular expression. Fondness? From the Duke of Meropide?
“That’s a relief to hear,” the Duke chuckles, standing up to help himself to the selection of tea that Neuvillette keeps in arm’s reach for this very purpose. “I’ve prepared the budget, and brought it to you personally. As requested. Hopefully there are no surprises this time around.”
The Iudex appreciates his fastidiousness. All things considered, Wriothesley was an exceedingly dependable man.
“Thank you. That is greatly appreciated.”
“Mmmhm,” Wriothesley hums as he selects his tea - a blend from Liyue that he was particularky fond of. Surprise registers briefly on the warden’s face when he finds the kettle next to the neatly organized shelf empty.
The Iudex blanches when he registers the cessation of movement, immediately recognizing his mistake. In the trappings of his memory, Neuvillette had forgotten to prepare it. Foolish, foolish, foolish.
“Your Honor…” the Duke begins before thinking better of it, shaking his head as he wordlessly fills the tea kettle. The rain outside tapers briefly to a drizzle before returning in a torrential downpour as Neuvillette’s face warms in embarrassment. What an awful host he was being, allowing a guest to act in such a way.
Standing up, he tries to ignore the feeling of being off-balance that had been plaguing him all day - a side effect of his wild emotionality, he assumed.
“Your Grace-“ he begins, silenced by a raised hand. Stunned into complacent silence, the Iudex blinks. No one else spoke to him in such a way, like he was a human, rather than the untouchable Chief Justice of Fontaine.
“None of that,” Wriothesley shakes his head, having clearly anticipated what he was about to say. “I know you don’t like the stuff, so I can’t always expect you to make it for me!”
The words are delivered gently, jokingly even, but they strike Neuvillette’s aching heart like a hammer. He blinks rapidly, a touch surprised himself by the onslaught of emotion. Wriothesley didn’t mean anything by it, he knew that, but…
It felt achingly like his reliability was being called into question.
Was he not good enough? For not remembering?
He should be better. He should always have the tea prepared for the Duke. He always has, in the past. Whatever his emotional state, first and foremost, he has a duty to fulfill.
He is nothing more than that, he knows well enough. That is the only answer he can come up with when he asks himself who he is. He is duty incarnate. Nothing more.
He is overreacting to a simple comment. Wriothesley did not mean anything by it, he did not mean to imply anything like that. Neuvillette knows him well enough to know that, so why? Why was his heart racing?
The Iudex forces himself to take a deep breath as he examines the state of his own body, the withering bud of guilt in his chest creeping its way into his throat. It has taken on a darker edge, vines of an emotion he can’t quite name curling around his windpipe. Squeezing and stealing the breath from his lungs. A crash of thunder sounds outside, and he startles minutely. The sound has never bothered him before, not in his hundred years of life. Yet he feels his hands begin to tremble, and he quickly hides them on top of his cane, his knuckles white beneath his globes with the force of their grip. His entire body is a live wire, an aching nerve that feels everything with such precision, such clarity that it hurts. His robes are too tight, all of the fabric clinging to him suffocatingly. His racing heart refuses to steady, feeling uneven with each one of his breaths. He feels out of place in his own office, and, for lack of a better word… scared. He is scared.
What is he scared of? The fog in his mind is unrelenting, the pounding of his own heart defeating in his ears. He is so wrapped up in it that he doesn’t register anything outside of himself until a gentle hand hesitatingly rests itself on his shoulder.
“-ette? Hey, Neuvillette? Are you okay? Can you hear me?” Wriothesley had turned around at some point, when Neuvillette was lost in his thoughts, the tea entirely forgotten behind him. He looked as if he had seen a ghost, blue eyes wide with nervousness, and something beneath that the Iudex couldn’t figure out.
When he breathes, it comes in a wheezing gasp, and he slaps a hand over his chest, pale eyes wide.
“I-I’m quite alright,” he tries to lie despite himself. Wriothesley’s nervous expression briefly flattens into hard disapproval, and he shakes his head.
“You’re shaking. You’ve been standing there for the last five minutes, looking like you’re caught in aquabus headlights,” he points out, tone carrying no judgment. Just worry. “You stuttered. All signs are pointing to not alright, Your Honor.”
Wriothesley looks distinctly unimpressed, and Neuvillette finds himself shrinking back, like a chastised pup. He is not scared of Wriothesley - how could he be? But he does feel scared. He feels nervous with no direction. Fear with no direction, that expands ever outwards with nowhere else to go. It catches on everything that it comes across, darkening the sky further.
A word begins to surface in his foggy mind: anxiety. He is having an anxiety attack. Judging by the rapid beat of his heart and overwhelming sense of doom, he suspects that he is having a panic attack. If he’s remembering the books that he’s read on human emotions correctly. Which he very well may not be. Nothing feels right. He feels like he is going to die. The thought is patently ridiculous, but he cannot help but think it.
“I will be,” he finally forces out. “Please… leave?” It comes out a question rather than an order. The Duke’s lips flatten again, and he takes a small step towards Neuvillette. His unimpressed expression thinly conceals worry, but Nevuillette only catches that he appears to be mad at him.
“And leave you like this? What if you collapse? What would I tell people then? What would Sigewinne think? And Sedene?” He prompts, voice a touch desperate. Neuvillette’s face goes ashen at the thought of his beloved Melusine, and he surprises himself.
He whimpers. The sound is high, distressed, and most definitely draconic in nature.
Wriothesley blinks, head cocked to the side, studying Neuvillette as if he were a puzzle that he was just on the brink of solving. Recognition flashes across his features just briefly, although Neuvillette is unsure what he thinks it is that he recognizes. He has had his suspicions that Writohesley knows more than he is letting on… but he has no time to consider that.
The Iudex slaps a hand over his mouth, but it is too late to muffle the sound. He has never lost control like this, never let his facade slip to the point of revealing himself to a human. The only others who knew were Lady Furina and the Traveler (who were hardly human themselves). His anxiety swirls in his chest again, the vines constricting further. He takes a step back without thinking, his cane clattering to the ground with a clattering sound that startles him once more. Wriothesley leans down to pick it up, offering it to him with an expression somewhere between a frown and a hard line. It is distinctly worried, with something warm beneath it. Something fond. When Neuvillette takes the cane again, his hands linger for just a beat too long.
“I-I am so-”
“Don’t apologize, Neuvillette,” Wriothesley sighs. “Of course you would try and hold decorum when you’re in the middle of a panic attack.”
A panic attack. So he hadn’t hidden it well at all. He opens his mouth to speak again, but another draconic sound of distress escapes him, this one a rumbling whine. Wriothesley shakes his head, gently tapping the hand over the cane once more. A reassurance.
“I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. At least don’t worry about that,” there is an edge of desperation to Wriothesley’s voice, and Neuvillette wonders if he has any experience calming others down, or if he is just as out of his depth as the Iudex himself feels.
He wasn’t worried about that at all, but he appreciates Wriothesley’s dependability nonetheless.
He tries to speak once more, but finds himself lacking words. The Iudex, Chief Justice of Fontaine, lacked words. His throat was too tight to speak even if he could think of anything. Hoping to convey something, he looks down at his cane, then looks back up at the Duke, a wordless expression of thanks. When their eyes meet, Wriothesley’s expression is soft. There is a tenderness there that he has never seen before.
Tea entirely forgotten, he takes a step closer to Neuvillette, holding his hands out to him. The dragon looks at him warily, as if expecting an attack. The rain has let up somewhat, but the dark clouds still threaten a monsoon.
“I don’t know if this will help you, but sometimes when Sigewinne gets overwhelmed, physical contact helps? The offer is open if-”
Before he can stop himself, Neuvillette interrupts Wriothesley by stepping forward into the proffered arms, collapsing into the broad chest of the Duke. He feels stripped to his very base urges, picked apart by fear and overwhelmed with the confines of his daily life.
“There you are,” Wriothesley murmurs, arms wrapping tight around his waist. The contact is a balm on his soul, warm and welcoming, and Neuvillette feels himself breathe for the first time in several hours.
Neuvillette still doesn’t know who he is.
But, as Wriothesley hugs him, he realizes that he does not have to.