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Neuvillette takes direct action to avoid personal relationships whenever possible. After all, it is said that the heart afflicted with affection acts against reason. To maintain his status of impartiality, there can be no conflicts of interest. There can be nobody with which he experiences the mortal concept of love, even if he feels a certain kind of warmth towards humanity as a whole.
Well, that’s what he tells himself, at least.
The Chief Justice is not a fool—after living in Fontaine for five hundred years, he has managed to soak up countless tidbits of information from those around him—but even despite that, there are still aspects of himself that he doesn’t fully understand. Perhaps he will never fully understand them. For instance, Neuvillette believes that in order to be an effective executor of justice, he must abstain from personal connections, but that is not the only reason he avoids close human connections like the plague.
He has witnessed the loss of many mortals, and it is his responsibility to mitigate the damage each and every time. Even without personal connections, Neuvillette struggles to endure the tragedies over which he presides, haunted at night by the ghosts of past victims. How, then, could he be expected to hold affection for—no—how could he love a mortal after knowing how it must end—how it always ends?
But then he met Wriothesley, the man who is currently sitting on one of the sofas in his office at the Palais Mermonia, lips curled up in thought as he takes a sip of tea, one foot over his knee.
Wriothesley is Neuvillette’s only real personal relationship as it pertains to mortals, per his own admission. It was not something that he had expected, nor had he actively attempted to become close with the Administrator. However, given the proximity of their positions in the operation of Fontaine, it was only natural that their lives became intertwined, in more ways than one.
Neuvillette is forced away from his thoughts when he hears Wriothesley clear his throat expectantly. His lilac eyes meet the icy gaze of his partner—yes, his partner—who cocks a brow with amusement, “Neuvi, did you hear a word I just said?”
“My dearest apologies, Your Grace,” the Chief Justice replies, reorienting himself to focus on the man in front of him, “I was a bit lost in my thoughts.”
“Come, now. You know you don’t have to call me that. Wriothesley is just fine when we’re alone,” he responds, putting his teacup down into its saucer before standing to walk up to Neuvillette’s desk nonchalantly, footsteps soft on the aquamarine carpet below. He places his hand on the other’s shoulder from behind, which serves as a warm grounding weight. He doesn’t complain about Neuvillette’s mental absence. No, of course not. He merely asks in a hushed tone, “What’s going on, sweetness? It’s not often that I lose you in the middle of a conversation.”
Embarrassment floods Neuvillette’s face at the pet-name, but he responds with the same composure he always manages to have, tracing the lines of wood in his desk, “Ah, it’s nothing of importance. You needn’t worry for me, Wriothesley.”
“Whatever you say. You don’t have to hold everything in all the time, you know. I’m always here.” Wriothesley presses his lips against Neuvillette’s head, something that makes the latter close his eyes momentarily, wanting nothing more than to stay like that for eternity, warm and safe.
The Duke pulls away far too soon, a soft sigh escaping Neuvillette’s lungs. They always separate too soon.
“Now then,” Wriothesley starts, “as I was saying, we need to start thinking about how we’ll announce this to the people. Having a death in the Fortress of Meropide isn’t entirely uncommon, but something like this… well, it’s unprecedented. It needs to be handled properly.”
Oh, right. That’s what they were discussing.
“Yes, I agree, though I will admit that my knowledge in this regard is not extensive. Public releases were the domain of Miss Furina when she was acting as the Hydro Archon,” Neuvillette responds, raising his hand to rest on his chin. The subject at hand is that of a rather gruesome death within the Fortress of Meropide—an inmate. Murder. However, the really disturbing part of it is the scene of the death itself. Written in blood on the walls were the words Justice Kills.
Of course, there are many things to address with something as tragic as this, but fortunately, with the recent death of the Oratice Mechanique D’Analyse Cardinale and its role in performing justice, Neuvillette can begin the process of cleaning the system itself—rightfully shifting the focus to true justice instead of making an entertaining spectacle out of people’s fates.
Perhaps this would be an opportunity to set a new tone for the future of Fontaine.
“Is it possible that the news of this would not make it to the surface?” Neuvillette asks, locking eyes with the Duke, who hums thoughtfully as he returns to the sofa. Wriothesley breaks the eye contact as he idly looks through the file in front of him.
He shrugs loosely, “I can’t say for sure, but I’m aware that some guards were the first people to see what happened… and they may or may not have discretion about it. I’ve told them not to leak anything to the press, but you know how it is.” As Wriothesley speaks, Neuvillette stands from his desk and walks over to the sofa across from him, sitting down with a grace that never fails to make Wriothesley’s mouth dry up.
“I see,” Neuvillette mutters, “So it is unlikely that we would be able to get away with saying nothing.”
“Yeah… I don’t think that’s a great idea. Even if we could get away with it, it’s a better look for you to just acknowledge it.” Wriothesley finishes off his tea, the liquid unpleasantly lukewarm at this point. He looks back at Neuvillette who ponders silently for a moment, a crease forming in his forehead. Oh, how he’d love to press a kiss to that skin and take this man into his arms, even for a moment. But this is business, not pleasure.
Neuvillette clenches his jaw before speaking once again, “I will reach out to a member of the Steambird, then. Until I hear back, I will carefully consider next steps. Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Wriothesley.”
“Don’t mention it, Neuvi,” the Duke replies, leaning back against the plush cushions on the sofa. He adds with a casual tone, “Do you have any other meetings today?”
This question makes Neuvillette smile a bit. He asks this every time that they meet in the overworld, his not-so-subtle way of gauging the time they could spend together. Knowing this, the Chief Justice always attempts to have his schedule relatively clear on the days that he sees Wriothesley. He tilts his head just slightly, “Not for a few hours. Would you like to stay for another cup of tea?”
“You know I do.”
Wriothesley looks at Neuvillette with adoring eyes, clearly no longer in the mindset to do work or discuss the Fortress of Meropide. The shift is not very noticeable to onlookers, but Neuvillette can always sense it. The moment that their bubble of professionalism is pierced by affection—and yes, he would even go so far as to say love. He moves to refill Wriothesley’s cup with fresh tea, the aroma of bergamot distinct and strong.
Then he sits down next to Wriothesley, as opposed to across from him, the latter wrapping his arm around Neuvillette’s waist and pulling him closer as if it’s second nature. The two don’t speak for a while, falling into a comfortable silence that is quite common for them. Neuvillette allows his head to rest on Wriothesley’s shoulder, a risky move to make while they are still in the office, but comforting, nonetheless.
“Hey,” Wriothesley breaks the silence with a nervous voice, rubbing circles into the other’s back. When Neuvillette hums in response, he continues, “This whole case actually made me think of something that I’ve been meaning to talk about with you, but it’s not the easiest subject.”
“What is it? Is it something with which I may be of service?” Neuvillette asks calmly, lifting his head from his shoulder to look him in the face. Wriothesley doesn’t look back at him, instead staring into the depths of his tea, watching as the liquid ripples across its surface, his face unnaturally grim. The Chief Justice feels his stomach knot up at the sight.
Wriothesley sighs, “Well, it’s just… I—… hm. I’m not sure how to say this. But seeing how suddenly this happened, it has me thinking about how quickly people can be taken from the world, and…” The man stumbles over his words, hands trembling for a split second. “I suppose there’s no delicate way to say this, so I’ll just be frank with you. Neuvi, I’m not going to live forever, certainly not as long as you. And if something happens—”
“I know. We don’t have to discuss it, Wriothesley,” Neuvillette interrupts, harshly pulling himself away from the warmth of the other man. The air becomes thick with tension, and sound of rain sprinkling outside registers in Wriothesley’s hearing. It feels as if the temperature of the room dropped ten degrees in a manner of seconds.
As Neuvillette stands and walks to stare out the window, Wriothesley simply probes, “Sure, maybe we don’t have to, but I want to. I don’t have a family, you know? I have Sigewinne and Clorinde… and I have you. So, isn’t this something we should talk about?”
Neuvillette feels his hands trembling. This is the last thing he wants to talk about—the last thing he wants to hear come from his partner. He is not naïve. He knows that Wriothesley is a human and will thusly cease to exist someday, but to think about it shatters his heart into a million different pieces. After meeting Wriothesley, after loving him, he cannot imagine a happy life without him—not even after hundreds of years alone before. Nausea settles in his stomach as his thoughts progress to worse scenarios. He can’t hear Wriothesley if he is still speaking. He cannot hear anything but the sound of his own heart beating wildly in his ears. A sensation of numbness spreads through him that he cannot explain.
Wriothesley will die and so will the only true love Neuvillette has ever had.
A hand grabbing his own pulls him out of his thoughts, and he hears a muffled voice, “…ness? Hey, I know this is difficult but—”
“You know nothing,” Neuvillette says coolly, tearing his hand away from the Duke’s grasp. The rain only grows, a low grumble of thunder shaking the building. “Centuries of loss. Centuries of isolation, and the one time I divert from the path I was given, I must suffer the greatest of pain. You could not possibly understand…” he trails off once he notices his voice trembling.
Wriothesley is not one to be offended, but his face morphs into an expression of hurt anyway. “You think I don’t know loss?”
“That’s not what I was implying, and you know it. I am aware of the adversity that you were forced to endure in your life, Wriothesley. But… to think about losing you is too difficult. I can’t bear it.” Neuvillette looks at the ground. If he looks at Wriothesley, he just knows his mask of collectedness would fall apart. He doesn’t get a response for enough time that his throat begins to close, moisture finding its way to his eyes.
“…Fine. We don’t have to talk about it right now, but we should sometime soon. You’re a reasonable man, Neuvi. Surely you understand why these conversations are important.” The Duke crosses his arms, silently wishing that the other would face him, but he is met with a brick wall, silent and impenetrable. He is met with the Iudex, not his Neuvillette. He sighs. Should he just walk away and leave the man alone?
Neuvillette answers before Wriothesley turns away, “I do understand. However, you are quite capable of protecting yourself, so we have plenty of time to discuss it. Time is a most valuable commodity, so I’m aware of how selfish it is to ask for you to wait. But…” He keeps his gaze locked on the floor, but he reaches out to touch Wriothesley wherever his hand reaches. In a hushed tone, practically a whisper, he adds, “I request that you give me time. I apologize, Wriothesley.”
Wriothesley doesn’t respond with words, taking hold of Neuvillette’s waist and pulling him into a tight embrace. The Chief Justice falters but quickly melts in his partner’s arms, digging his face in Wriothesley’s neck. He smells like comfort—tea and musk and everything warm.
The rain continues to fall outside, a bolt of lightning flashing through the window.
“I don’t intend to leave you anytime soon, Neuvi. I really don’t. These cases just shake me sometimes,” Wriothesley eventually says, mumbling the words into Neuvillette’s hair, running his hands over the other’s back. They hold onto each other for dear life, neither man willing to pull away. Not now. Perhaps not ever, if only they could help it.
Even despite the ending of this conversation, the tension has not fully dissipated. Wriothesley holds onto Neuvillette despite the unwavering sense of anxiety he feels pool in his gut. He must trust the judgement of the Iudex, the man with unquestionable prudence and reason.
He kisses the crown of Neuvillette’s head, pulling him even closer and closing his eyes. Neuvillette attempts to push away the dreadful thoughts. He forces himself to focus on the feeling of Wriothesley against his fingertips, wrapped around him like a blanket. Wriothesley is here. And he is okay. There is no good reason for him to disappear from his sight just yet. Exhaustion runs through his body, the weight of their interaction making his knees nearly buckle from under him.
“I’m sorry for how I spoke to you,” Neuvillette mutters, almost soft enough for Wriothesley to miss it. The Duke merely kisses him again, this time on his forehead. He lets his lips linger on Neuvillette’s skin, the act of speaking proving to be too difficult a task for just a moment.
Eventually, he sighs, “Don’t worry about it, sweetness. I understand.”
The rain dies down to a gentle sprinkle as Neuvillette presses his lips to Wriothesley’s, something the latter doesn’t expect but reciprocates anyway. Through each movement, emotions that cannot be said flow through each other: fear, pain, resignation… all of them are exchanged with every second that their lips are locked together. When they pull away, Wriothesley stares at Neuvillette, loses himself in those piercing eyes as he runs his fingers through beautiful white hair. As if in a trance, he breathes out, “I love you, you know, that?”
Neuvillette’s eyes widen at this, neither man saying the words out loud often. When they’re spoken, they carry great weight. Heat fills his cheeks, but he concedes to the expectations laid out in front of him.
“I love you too, Wriothesley.”
And that was it. That’s all there was to the conversation, and they never mentioned it again. The subject never comes up—not during work, not in bed, not in mornings after. They carry on with life like they always had.
That is, until a month passes, and Neuvillette receives an impromptu visit from Sigewinne, the Fortress’s head nurse. His office is always open to Melusines of any kind, but he will admit that he does hold a particular warmth and fondness for Sigewinne. He smiles softly when she enters the room, and he goes through his normal routine of offering his pleasantries, but it doesn’t take long for him to ascertain that something is… terribly wrong, a disturbance beneath the surface.
“What can I do for you, Sigewinne?” he asks gently, feeling his heartbeat strongly in his chest. For something to be so wrong that Sigewinne is paying a visit would suggest a problem within the Fortress of Meropide, but then… why wouldn’t—
“His Grace had a heart attack this morning, sir.”
Neuvillette feels his stomach drop. It takes him all his willpower to maintain his façade of composure, but it is not convincing, his hands trembling violently as he processes the information. He will have to cancel his schedule. Cancel all trials. He must go visit the Fortress. When he attempts to speak, his voice comes out weakly, “I am very sorry to hear that, Sigewinne. Has he been treated?”
The Melusine looks down at the ground with an expression of pure guilt and sadness, the emotions so strong that Neuvillette can’t help the pang in his chest just from looking at her. Sigewinne stammers, “I did everything I could, but he had collapsed hours before I found him. Your Honor, I hate that I must be the one to tell you this, but… he’s gone. I’m so sorry.”
Tears begin to fall from Sigewinne’s eyes, a display of grief that is most heartbreaking. And Neuvillette just sits there, unable to do anything. He simply trembles and tries to make sense of these circumstances. He will never see Wriothesley again. He will never again be able to hear his voice, or feel his touch, or laugh at his admittedly stupid jokes. He is undoubtedly and completely alone.
Today had been forecasted to have clear and pleasant weather, but the heaviest rain that Fontaine has ever seen begins to crash down on the earth. It is loud and all-consuming.
A dampness finds itself on Neuvillette’s cheek and he doesn’t bother lifting his hand to wipe it off. He allows the tear to fall down the length of his face, landing on the wood of his desk. What is he supposed to do in this situation? Even the centuries of experience do not help him grapple with his tumultuous emotions. He knew this would happen eventually. He knew that Wriothesley would soon fall victim to the realities of being mortal. But… he was so young. God. Neuvillette scrunches his eyes shut at the use of the past tense.
Wriothesley is the past now. He is no longer here, and it doesn’t matter if one day passes or a year or a decade—Wriothesley will not walk into this office again.
Neuvillette is so overwhelmed that all he feels is numbness. There is no dramatic sobbing. No screaming, no thrashing about. He just sits there, blank-faced, with a damp cheek. How is he supposed to respond? What is he supposed to say? What can he say?
“… Monsieur, I know that this must be a very hard thing to hear, but I’m not just here to inform you of His Grace’s parting. He doesn’t have any documented family, so there hasn’t been anybody to arrange his funeral or write an obituary… I don’t know what to do with him,” Sigewinne sniffles, “and I know you were close with him. Do you have any ideas?”
The Chief Justice falters. They never had the conversation. He has no clue what Wriothesley would’ve wanted because he never wanted to talk about it.
Wriothesley may never have his wishes fulfilled and it will be his fault.
Suddenly the reality of the situation hits him like an aquabus. There is so much to do, but he cannot begin to surmise how he is supposed to act. He fumbles to speak, clearing his throat before answering, “I cannot say that I have the most knowledge about Wriothesley’s wishes in this regard, but… I would be honored to take on the responsibility of writing his obituary. Of course, I will also aid you as much as I can with funeral preparations.” The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Funeral. He’s just discovered that the love of his unnatural life is dead, and already he is thinking of funerals.
Such is the life of the Chief Justice.
“Thank you, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Sigewinne nods.
“Please, just call me Neuvillette. No need for formalities. If you will give me a moment, I need to cancel the rest of my meetings for today, as I wish to spend as much as time as I can with you, since you’ve made the trip here,” he insists, standing from his chair on wobbly legs. The world around him doesn’t feel real as he informs Sedene of the situation. He feels like he is dreaming, like this is some twisted nightmare that the Heavenly Principles are using to further torture him.
When he returns, Sigewinne has seated herself on one of Neuvillette’s sofas, the same one Wriothesley always sat on. His heart threatens to burst out of his chest as he sits across from her, wishing nothing more than to see that handsome across from him again.
He shakes away the thoughts and carries on. He must carry on. “Well, what questions do you have for me?”
They spend all day discussing all matters of death and ceremony. How his body is to be disposed of, who to invite to his funeral, what to have written on his grave, who to lead the service, who to consider replacing his role as administrator—all of it is on the table.
They even go through the late Duke’s last will and testament to see unsurprisingly that he had left almost all his belongings to the few people he knew. All his credit coupons are to be distributed equally among his inmates, his real Mora to Sigewinne and Clorinde, and all personal items to Neuvillette, the last part being a slight shock to the man in question. And somehow, the act of burying himself in the work aspect of planning the funeral and distribution of property makes him forget who it is for in the first place.
By the time they are done, there are only two things to figure out: what Neuvillette should write in Wriothesley’s obituary, and how he will spend the rest of his life alone.
Considering the lack of people in the overworld who knew Wriothesley, it is decided that the ceremony would be held in the Fortress of Meropide the next day, where the inmates could give their respects without risking the safety of the citizens in the Court of Fontaine. The one fortunate part about this is the ease of planning—the space too small for any major plans.
It is a quiet service, most inmates sitting in despondent silence as the officiant goes through the routine that comes with his job.
Neuvillette does not attend.
Instead, he stands at the site of Wriothesley’s grave, the same patch of land in which Callas rests, and many others. A rainbow rose sits at the foot of it, the only thing that Neuvillette had taken with him. Rain beats down on the ground, leaving him cold and alone as he stares at the stone slate with an empty expression.
In Memory Of
Duke H. Wriothesley
xxxx—xxxx. Age 36.
A noble gentleman beloved by all who knew him.
His love is buried here. Six feet underground, the person who used to fill him so much warmth lays among the dead. Neuvillette did not choose to see the body before it was buried, even if it may have given him some closure. To think of Wriothesley as a corpse rather than the man he was… it fills him with dread. He reads the grave over and over, still trying to make sense of how someone as young and healthy as him could just drop dead. A chill runs across his arms, but he makes no effort to warm himself.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Wriothesley,” Neuvillette starts idly. He feels foolish talking to his partner as if he can hear him. He feels foolish for being there in the first place. But what else can he do? He continues, “Words fail me today. Instead, I am filled with questions that will never be answered. How do I begin to say goodbye to you? How may I go to bed tonight knowing that you will never be there next to me? How can I carry on working when my heart is filled with the deepest of grief?”
He stops for a moment, feeling the familiar tightness in his throat that comes with crying. The rain continues, as it has been constantly since the announcement, as tears begin to form in Neuvillette’s eyes. They fall, and he lets them, the dampness mixing with the droplets plummeting from the sky.
“I… feel a profound amount of regret, and all the things I should have said do no service to you now. For my own sake, though, will you listen?”
There is another pause as more tears make their way down his face, choked off sobs forcing their way through his lips. Everything hurts. Everything that has happened, every good memory, weighs on him. He brings a hand to his mouth, muffling the sounds of his despair as he weeps. Such a fall from grace this is—the esteemed and revered Chief Justice hunched over to mourn a human. And yet he cannot stop, no matter how hard he tries to pull himself together. The tears are endless. His body shakes from the force of his cries, silent as they are.
He wipes his cheeks—a futile action—and attempts to finish his thoughts with a trembling voice, “I remember your trial and thinking to myself that I had failed in my duties for you to be in front of me in the Opera House. I vowed to myself that I would never let such an error of judgement occur again. And yet, because of my inconsiderate selfishness, I broke this promise to you. I… I should have listened to you back then, when we spoke about the possibility of your passing.
“I couldn’t fathom the idea of you not being here. But… now I must face this reality,” he snivels, looking away from the grave, “I am so incredibly sorry, Wriothesley. I wish that I had appreciated more the time we had together, instead of making the foolish assumption that there would be time for us. I was wrong. Please, forgive me.”
There is no response. Only silence. Only emptiness.
Neuvillette sobs once again, this time unsuppressed, a most pitiful sound. He bewails, “You don’t know how much I wish I could hear your voice right now. Hah… but alas, I know I can’t. I can only hope that I have made the correct choices to honor you and your legacy. Fontaine will not be the same without you. I will not be the same. You were a man of integrity until the very end, and I hope even despite the difficulties in your life that you were able to find some semblance of happiness.” Even if I will never feel happiness again. Even if I will be forever haunted by your absence.
He wraps his arms around himself, wishing desperately to replicate the feeling of Wriothesley holding him, but he knows nothing will ever feel the same. The warmth is not there—lost to the hands of tragedy.
“There is so much more that I wish I could say, but… well, you understand, I am sure. You’ve always told me not to think too much,” Neuvillette smiles bitterly at the memory. With a sigh, he gathers himself, readjusting his clothing before he speaks one last time, “I must go sort through your things now, so I will have to return at another time. Wriothesley… you will be the only man I ever truly love. I hope you knew that.”
With this, he rests his hand on the gravestone, a final goodbye, before turning towards the Palais Mermonia. Neuvillette does not know how he will carry on, but he walks anyway with one foot in front of the other, leaving only the torrent of raindrops in his wake.