Archive of Our Own

The Duke of Meropide did not seem like the type to stop and smell the flowers.

One calculating, omnipresent being, cold like the murky depths his very fortress sits upon– that sounded more like the reputation the Lord Incognito enjoys. Not one that comprises flimsier, fleeting trivialities of everyday life.

Whether it be an indicted individual yet to face trial in the Opera Epiclese, or just a passerby who just happened to catch the tall, crimson-clad man with the icy blue eyes, followed by not just the sound of his guards’ footfalls, but also the clanking metal of the chains attached to his wear, doing business in the overworld, the average Fontanian would say the warden of Meropide certainly lacked the aura of approachability.

If you asked him, he would likewise caution you that meeting His Grace was no good thing either, no matter what. But Clorinde only suspects half a truth in his warning, seeing that she opens herself to being perceived next to the man out in public without a care in the world.

“Tea?” He offered. Casually, without fail, nearly a countless amount of times, regardless of whether they’re in the underworld or the overworld. He may well possess the airs of a traveling tea merchant with how often he advertises it. That is, if he so much as looked the part.

“Why does a man like you, who makes pankration a hobby next to a living, have such a strong affinity for tea anyway?” The raven-haired duelist implored.

“You know you could just utter your usual, ‘No thanks, Your Grace’ instead of, I don’t know, putting me through a blender in your mind and, squeezing the life out of me.” His broad shoulders sagged as he rebutted.

“Your whole life is tea?”

“What if it is?” The man crossed his arms in front of him.

“Well, if you’re not tired of being rejected this many times already, then I’ll admit I'm tired of rejecting your offer.” Clorinde narrows her eyes at him. Teasingly, but still sharp like the tip of her sword. “I only asked so our conversation would go somewhat, different this time around.”

His face morphed with intrigue. “A change of pace, huh? That’s pretty strange considering you always seemed so …”

‘Clear-cut? Blunt? Unwavering?’ Though her face is turned away, her amethyst gaze silently darts back to him, waiting for the rest of his reply.

“... Infallible, I guess.” Wriothesley concludes with a chuckle. And a shrug, too– until he followed up with, “But, His Grace shall extend his graces to accommodate whatever routine it is you’re trying to break.”

She guessed that was his own attempt to denounce her earlier act of misjudgment against him.

As for his comment, Clorinde took it in stride. After all, there have been far worse cases Clorinde has had to face to end up scathed. This wasn’t one of them.

In fact, not even the sharp stares of those watching their every step left a graze. If they were any normal themselves, Clorinde and Wriothesley would probably also feel weary by the quintessential pair of justice purveying authorities such as themselves peacefully roaming the Court of Fontaine as if despair doesn’t follow them.

Clorinde would like to think of herself as a special case when she’s mostly stationed within the courts, under a highly reputable and mandated affiliation as well. But today, she made the conscious decision to be by Wriothesley’s side, in every sense of the preposition.

While they are normal, before any of their more pressing matters needed their attention, they fancied some respite in Cafe Lutece. Contrary to popular belief, His Grace was a man easy to negotiate with, agreeing without so much as a sigh to a cup of coffee in place of his usual tea just to humor the duelist’s change of pace. She watched him put two cubes of sugar and a hefty amount of cream in it– a scoop almost as much as the palm of his big calloused hand can hold– with her face scrunched in the middle.

Wriothesley couldn’t help the scoff that slipped out of him, but carried on with his decaffeinating business anyways. He was doing her a huge solid to even agree to be up in the court today.

“So, do you think today’s defendant would ask for a duel with you?”

The steam from her fresh, fragrant cup of coffee veiled the slightest purse of her lips. After a small sip, she gave a nonchalant answer. “I am not obliged to get to know the characters standing in the grand stage of the opera house to discern whether or not they want to prove their innocence or die.”

“Sheesh, you took one measly sip of this stuff and came up with that?” What a morbid thought under the afternoon sun. Well, given the generous shade of their patio umbrella brings about some darkness, still.

Amused, Clorinde takes another bitter sip of her coffee. Longer this time, eyes peering up at him all the while. “In any case, I’m just a fork in the road. Whether the defendants choose to impale themselves with me or simply proceed forwards, it is not up to me.”

“Ah, it’s never your call.” He rolled his head sideways, taking in the normalcy amidst the fair city streets juxtaposing the topic of conversation. He even chanced on a sip of his coffee … up until he winced at the apparent bitter notes that persisted through the sugars.

It was only a matter of time before it caught up to him anyway– much like how the longer arm of the clock paces itself in chase of the minute arm, their miniscule distractions are simply such. Their short walk to the cafe would meet an outstretched, far longer distance that is the Navia Line, on an aquabus headed to Erinnyes. The lightness in the air, though permeated with the scent of coffee, would more or less turn suffocating when they find themselves in the halls of the opera house. And that one question that stirred their conversation about, as Wriothesley swirled his spoon inside his cup of sweetened joe, would soon garner its answer once that fork in the road has been reached.

“What good can standing trial be when I have nothing to my name to refute any of the plaintiff’s claims against me? They totally blindsided me, it’s clear as day who comes out the winner here.”

“It is much too early to declare the course of this trial. I must remind both parties involved that today’s case will still move forward should the defendant choose against a duel. Please do not be so heedless of your life before we get to investigate your case.” Try as Iudex Neuvillette might to present the suspect with options that could speed up the termination of not just the present case, but his own life as well, Clorinde can easily detect a defeatist when she hears one.

“I … I wish to duel for my honor.”

Against the ocean of noise, such empty words fall like heavy drops of impending rain, cascading a new wave of murmurs inside the courtroom.

Regrettably, the Chief Justice relented to the defendant’s demise. “... So be it. The status of today’s trial will therefore be temporarily put on hold until the results of the duel declare whether or not the defendant emerges victorious and, acquitted from the allegations they are faced with.”

The attendants’ gazes flock not to the Champion Duelist whose sword will undoubtedly conclude the case before it even had the chance to be unraveled, but instead, to the poor man whose blade is no match to stand even a second in the same ring as Clorinde.

Outside the opera house, after the audience have made their exit from the venue, Wriothesley finds the one spot Clorinde reconvenes to every single time someone asks a duel of her. She throws him a knowing look, acknowledging she’d been found, before she walks past him disinterestedly. “There’s your answer.”

Apart from the insipid coffee flavor still lingering on his tongue, a bitter aftertaste left his smart mouth closed, unable to reply– he would’ve made do without an answer hitherto, but he wished he didn’t ask that question earlier entirely at all. He played no hand in what decision the defendant made for himself today, but it sure did suck for fate to toy with one man’s words like this to jinx another.

Yet, even if he felt he should know better than to ask another senseless question, Clorinde’s name wisps out of his lips before he could think otherwise.

“Clorinde.”

Her raven locks sway to fate’s winds as she turns his way– seemingly undeterred of how it moves her.

“Your Grace?” She blinks, eyes half expectant, half dull.

‘Are you alright?’

He purses his lips into a frown, deciding against his earlier slip of tongue. “I am … just down at the Fortress. For anything.”

‘Of course you would, where else would you be?’ Her fast tongue, swift as lightning, would have bantered on like normal– had it not been for that pensive look on the duke’s face. He walked off with his confident stride without so much as a nod farewell, presumably leaving her to dwell in her little pity corner that overlooked the duelist ring.

From her vantage point, it didn’t seem so bad from way up where. For now, it’s only a dome of stone, catching sunlight through the emerald tinted ceiling that cancels out the redness yet to soil the cold hard tiles below.

Clorinde gave it thirty more seconds of attention, then peeled her gaze away. Just like how Wriothesley quietly slipped into the crowd. Despite his height, despite her lingering. Despite themselves.

To Wriothesley’s surprise, Clorinde finds herself down at the Fortress days later.

“You’re not throwing yourself a pity party with one of Wolsey’s Welfare Meals, are you?” The duke never fails to not ask permission first to take the seat across from her at the cafeteria, but she never asked him out of it anyway.

“Well, it is the only food anyone can get in the fortress. And I’m not about to start flaunting special treatment down here when I’m just passing by.” She shrugs, lightly picking at the plate of haggis before her that apparently looked … perfectly edible. She thinks Sigewinne must’ve known she was coming.

“Don’t tell me you actually like the food down here.” He sneers.

Though she does agree it was more unlikely than it was impossible, he wasn’t completely wrong. She took a hearty bite of it, as if saying, ‘it’s not half bad.’

“Well then, another reason for you to visit more often.”

“That reminds me, what did you need me down here for anyway?” Clorinde brought a gloved hand to her mouth whilst she spoke and chewed.

The duke crossed his arms atop the table. “Ah, I didn’t particularly think you’d take me up on my offer. I mean, door’s always open for you, it’s just,” He shrugs. “It’s nothing urgent.”

Leniency and patience were hardly regarded as wealth, but it bred the most lavish of things. Like her nicely cooked haggis today. The distant hums and buzzes of the production zone overhead, the inmates naturally disinclined to stagnancy. And perhaps, ultimately, the life people live down here in the Fortress.

When Wriothesley said he’d just be at his usual station days ago– apparently no form of an invitation or a request whatsoever– it just seemed like his usual aversion to the overworld and, quite possibly, the discomfort of an omen yet to pass.

But as he sat across from her, watching her eat without a Welfare Meal of his own, in the slowness of lunchtime within the cafeteria grounds, it made her all the more aware just how rich he just made her.

The corners of her lips lifted, quite pleased. “Some tea to wash this down would be nice.”

Clorinde could’ve just said the one word instead of shadowing a suggestion, but it was pretty comical the way the duke’s eyes lit up– like a dog’s ears perking up at the sound of his favorite treat rattling in its container.

He grinned and uncrossed his arms, then nodded at her half-eaten haggis. “There it is, I knew nobody actually liked the Welfare Meals down here– ah, best not to tell Wolsey that, though.”

She’d think the very person that reformed the culture within the Fortress would have more faith in his people, but the duke isn’t all work and no play with them not to jest every so often. She’d even think he was fond of them–

“I’m sorry, I cannot disclose any agendas Miss Clorinde has down at the Fortress.”

The duelist made a halt halfway up the familiar winding staircase inside Wriothesley’s office once her name echoed from outside the brass chambers.

“Come on, Your Grace.” A voice other than Wriothesley motioned. “You two didn’t seem too bothered with anything urgent at the cafeteria earlier.”

Clorinde pursed her lips– she shouldn’t eavesdrop, even if their topic of conversation was herself. She shouldn’t even have stopped within eyesight of the door, but there she was, only a head tilt away from addressing the people wanting an audience with her.

“Hey, Champion Duelist! I’ve got something to say to you!” Said one man, too early into his sentence to stir up trouble like this.

“Yeah, so do I!” A woman piped up beside him, age worn on her skin like the high society women in the overworld would wear their jewels. “Why don’t you come down and hear our pieces?”

Her heels clank against every step down before she could decide otherwise. Her dignity as a Champion Duelist lacked the tarnish for her to hide it. And, at the Fortress, what has been decreed as above, so below.

She meets the faces of those that carry the burden of atonement while walking with it in stride. She memorizes the expressions on their faces– a wiseacre lift in their brows, their chins raised to the heavens, the demand called by their hands on either hip.

“Miss Clorinde, I advise you to head back up to my office.” Without moving an inch, Wriothesley spared her a hard glance.

“Don’t worry, Your Grace. I just have to hear their pieces like they asked.” Clorinde says nonchalantly. “Besides, very seldomly do I get summoned at the Fortress, don’t I?” Then she lays her patient amethyst gaze on the inmates.

“Now how good mannered of you, Miss.” The woman sounded relieved, like she was ready to put her grievance past her. “What does a proper lady like you have to do with slaughtering the sinful? Are you contracted to kill anybody that sets foot in your pillared playground?”

“Miss, just- give me an answer to my question, and we’ll live with what you say, hm? We’ll even leave you two alone, how does that sound?” The third one finally spoke. He seemed to have been holding in that query he proposed the whole time. “Do you consider those challengers even the tiniest bit human before you get rid of them? Or are they all the same to you, just target practice or, a means to sharpen your swordsmanship?”

If the Primordial Waters were the lowest depths in all of Fontaine, her scowl would have already done a deep dive into its murky death right about now. “... What an absurd way of thinking.”

“So you do admit it!” The nail on the woman’s finger was as dull as the finger she pointed straight at her was sharp. “You kill for sport! Hah, you elitists are all the same.”

“Hey now, I’d appreciate it if you all showed some decorum for a guest of mine down here at the Fortress.” The duke’s command was as sound as gospel around here. But–

“Are you gonna deny it then, Champion Duelist?”

The title bestowed upon her did not only inaugurate the sword she wields, the hand that slays, to the just cause of Champion Dueling, but it as well provokes the spirit of justice to manifest itself. Of course, humans are but fickle things– even she’s not immune to partiality. Yet she’s expected to remain sharp, for lightning’s absolution doesn’t halt in the name of mercy.

“That’s enough.” Wriothesley intervened much firmer than the first attempt, placing himself in between the two parties. “If you can’t conduct yourselves with decency when the lady was kind enough to spare you her time, then you can blow off some steam at the production zone, where you ought to be anyway at this hour.”

“She took my daughter’s life!”

Ah, there it is.

The crumpled distort of their features, the strain in their voices, anger dripping from each hardened syllable– blame.

“She was the most selfless girl, you know? Always brought back broken tinker goods for her siblings, promised all of us a better life above Fleuve Cendre– and you, you mercilessly took her away from us.

“Would it have wounded your pride so much if you just faked your own loss? To spare those obviously below you for a shot at redemption?”

“You don’t think that’s the whole point of dueling for your honor?” The duke returned the same energy.

“Would you have done what you did if you knew she would fight for not just herself, but you too?” The duke asked, his voice dropping to icy temperatures and his piercing gaze hard as ice picks. “If she was truly selfless in your memory, maybe it was because parents like you were too selfish in their own ways for her to behave otherwise.”

“Tch.” The inmate was stunned into silence. His little band of rogues looked unwilling to be training dummies for yet another sucker punch from the duke himself either– if only it weren’t for the reprieve His Grace’s guest spared them with.

“If it means anything, I’m … sorry, for your loss.”

Wriothesley was dumbstruck.

“Since you have been granted a chance to right your wrongs here in the Fortress of Meropide, I hope your grief soon eludes you and that … better things replace that which you lost.” The purple eyed duelist chose her words carefully, fashioning them like hand picked flowers to place on a casket yet to be lowered. Try as she might to meet their gazes, it seems that haggis was turning quite bad in her stomach for her to do so. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“You will all find yourselves in the production zone where you’re all needed. Unless you’d rather be without your precious coupons for the day, then be my guests.” The duke spared them those last words before chasing after Clorinde’s heeled clanking against the spiral metal steps with his own.

By the time she allowed His Grace to wash his discerning gaze across her form, she had already luckily drawn the breath that untied the knot in her chest. A portrait of calmness she became in that split second.

“You didn’t need to apologize to them.” He started.

“No? I believe I was offering my condolences.” Her voice sounded even. “Sorry, as in sorrow, Your Grace?”

Wriothesley’s icy gaze hardened, then walked off to his most precious tea collection. “You were just doing your job.”

“... I know.”

Of course she did, never does it slip her mind what part she plays in the judicial process within a system that ironically dignifies the accused with a chance to fight for their honor with their life on the line. Now that she thought about it, Clorinde realized that the lady might’ve had a point– if she believed in fairness, why not lose?

'Because of the plain fact of their crimes committed in the first place'– right. Yet she gets away with murder under the ruse of bladesmanship. It truly was a concept most confounding.

Whilst the duelist kept her eyes closed, lost in her thoughts, the duke prepared them two cups of tea, just like she said earlier. The first cup was Clorinde’s made with sage and mint, for the troubles that circulate within her like thunderclouds hovering about. The second was his; cinnamon. To wash down what bitterness settled at the back of his throat after what has been said and done, and to warm up his insides so he wouldn’t get cold feet for when he asks,

“Are you alright, Clorinde?”

Seems like he didn’t need his tea when he managed to ask even before he could set their cups down.

“What do you want me to say, Wriothesley?” Though she could keep face and remain nonchalant, her patience seemed to end right where her voice faltered. “That I pitied them? As if they don’t pity themselves enough to pull that stunt in the first place? In front of you, no less?”

“I’m just saying you don’t have to brush everything off so easily like they’re … scratches.” Wriothesley sighed. “You don’t have to be so infallible.”

“You take back what you said then?”

“No, I-” He abruptly looked away– unintentionally to his shelves, as if scanning through his ledgers for a singular dictionary in his possession for what words to use. “I’m actually honoring your request for a change of pace.”

Clorinde brought her cup to her lips, pondering the memory. She didn’t exactly say it outright– heck, those words didn’t even come from her own mouth but … she guessed she did want it then.

Past tense.

Or at least, she didn’t want it as much anymore.

“Don’t worry, Your Grace. I’ve since settled back into routine, I need not trouble you further like that again.” Clorinde promised.

But His Grace insisted, “You’re no trouble at all, Clorinde.”

She looked at him then, past the steam of the freshly brewed tea from her cup– as if his voice could be any less audible with all that hot air in the way. He allowed himself the comfort of his most favorite thing in the world like any other day, arms less tense against his desk compared to when he faced his nosy prisoners earlier, poised in defense. And lunch must be coming to an end judging by the percussive metal noises that his discerning ear picked up for him to peel one eye open back to reality.

The duke must be rich– you know, even if he lives in the bottom of the sea surrounded with brass and stone instead of gold and gems. And, being a duke must merit some academic prowess for him to be correct in the amount of time he spares for his afternoon tea, just before a staff member comes in to deliver a report to start the second shift of the day. The same amount of time it takes to earn back what rigidness and asperity he had to pay listening to those troublemakers, and convert them back to his own brand of wealth, in the form of unrushed, well-made tea, suitable for both their palettes.

Perhaps it eluded her that a change of pace didn’t mean one gigantic leap across an epic mountain, but rather, one measly step in the right direction to start. For that, she had to give Wriothesley credit.

“I suppose since you lack a reason to be here, feel free to finish that cup of tea and,” He hesitated, but managed with utmost politeness. “Then you can take your leave.”

Right, because she was close to morphing into a chair like the empty one across her with how stiff she situated herself. That’s when she realized she had been too busy watching Wriothesley radiate that slow, lenient aura that surrounded the cafeteria earlier, as if he can freeze time at will and, ironically, exude warmth at the same time.

Clorinde released the breath she was holding, blowing the steam still pouring out of the teacup her lips had yet to touch.

One cup, she told herself. One cup of Wriothesley’s tea, and then she’ll come back up to the surface and be infallible, even cause trouble again for the undeserving ton.

“Please, I-” Shaking as his explosive-armed hand already was, the challenger pleaded, prayed, eyes glassy like melting ice– “I’ve done nothing wrong, please let me live! I want to live!”

“Then fight like you’re no coward.” The duelist bellows across the arena, her sword glistening under the dazzling moonlight overhead. “If you do not bear any fault of crime, then you will walk out of this arena alive, with your honor intact.”

It was almost monstrous how she beckons the fighting spirit of innocence to prevail amidst insurmountable odds. If innocence outweighs such circumstances, challengers wouldn’t have to face trial at all. Yet, such is the margin of error with which the accused use like a window of opportunity to escape the ever-shrinking room of judgment. It just so happens that when one manages to slip through the crack in the system, the landing is down at the duelists’ arena– which is a far worse fall from grace, if you ask Clorinde.

“The victor for this match, reigning champion once more– Miss Clorinde!”

The spectators cheer like she had just gunned down the biggest game in their hunt. Her sword is stained far bloodier than her pristine white gloves, but that wasn’t any more comforting. She kept her head bowed, even as she straightened her posture, to pay respect to the case– the life that had just concluded before her.

Clorinde continues to keep her head down, even with her sword sheathed and the skin of her palms breathing more freely outside the confines of her gloves, outside the duelists’ arena. The silvery moon overhead bears witness again, to yet another win, another slaughter, bathing her in its glow like a spotlight. As if she had yet to exit her stage and give up the big girl act.

She kept her head down, gaze casted groundward, until she found herself one step away from boarding the tiny boat that floated down River Styx, where Cerberus lay waiting.

A misplaced chuckle barged out of her cold stature’s sealed lips once Sigewinne rushed off to inform the duke of her unexpected visit. As someone trained for the hunt, Clorinde found it somewhat humorous that a guard dog like Wriothesley would keep a blue-haired, winged, almost rabbit-like Melusine right by his side.

What’s probably more fascinating, perhaps, would be a hunter seeking comfort from the very gun dog they keep close by. Almost fondly, as if not just an accessory to the ferocious cause.

“Clorinde? What brings you down here at this hour?” His voice sounded a bit scratchy, the hour far too late for his usual polite tone meant for receiving guests.

She wished she could open this particular conversation on a lighter note, hopefully to soften the blow coming by so late must deal– but her hands are freezing, her heels bring about a slow death to her feet, and she just wanted something that’ll deactivate the fight response still livid in her system. “... I just concluded a duel tonight.”

“Oh.” It finally dawned on him– it was today. “Uh … how’d it go?”

“I won. As usual.” She let out one bitter scoff before pushing past him into his office.

“Congrats.” The duke most graciously sang her empty praises just a few steps behind her.

After she perched herself on the vacant chair in front of his own metal, upholstered throne, listening to every subtle fall of his footsteps against the cold floor, she waited, waited, and waited, for that one word he never fails to utter– until he doesn’t.

Clorinde peels one violet colored eye open to find His Grace with a frown on his face and his arms folded across his chest.

The duelist scrunches her brows together. “Aren’t you going to offer me some tea?”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s what you always do.”

He huffs begrudgingly, but relents anyway. “Alright. Some tea, then.”

Once she hears the sound of his fingers shuffling through the tea packets in his collection, the clamor of teacups against the tabletop, Clorinde finally allows herself a moment of weakness, closing her eyes and listening to the familiar sounds of his tea making.

“Thank you for accommodating me at such short notice, Your Grace.” She spoke formally, nearly forgetting her manners.

Wriothesley doesn’t stop to look at her. Instead, he makes small talk. “Is it a full moon out tonight?”

“Hm? I, didn’t notice earlier. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason. You just remind me of those light novels with the werewolf stories they sell near the blacksmiths in the overworld, is all.” He shrugs to himself.

“What does that mean?” Clorinde cracks an eye open.

“Well, are you here to brag about your flawless winning streak as a Champion Duelist? Or did you come here to, decompartmentalize, as Miss Sigewinne just recently learned?” There was a passive aggressiveness to the duke’s tone that made Clorinde feel unsettled, her peace disturbed. “I’d be more than willing to lend you an ear for your troubles.”

“Please, I’m not one of your prisoners for you to fuss over.” She raises her chin up.

“Of course not.” Both he and his kettle let out some air, his being much quieter than the steam pouring out of the container’s spout. “Still, that doesn’t mean you have to bottle up whatever it is you’ve come down here for.”

“You sound absolutely certain I didn’t just come down here to … pass time, idle away.”

Of all the places a huntress of high society such as herself would find respite in, she would choose the Fortress of Meropide?

The duke had to laugh. “This brand of ambiguity of yours, Miss Clorinde– how should I put it? It’s rather, unbecoming.”

“Ambiguity, huh?” The duelist decides to take it in stride, as always. “I guess that’s only because you’re– what peculiar phrase did you use a few days ago? “Squeezing the life out of me by throwing me into a blender”?”

“Yeah, well, I thought we had an understanding the last time you were here. But,” He shook his head and brought his cup of tea to his lips. “I must’ve misread the room.”

Whatever was there to read? Clorinde couldn’t think of any sentiment from before that was noteworthy to turn into a habit, other than tea– but Wriothesley never fails to offer tea to anybody who visits him down here.

It … couldn’t be that, sliver of a moment of peace she had after she got confronted, could it? Or him practically giving her an all-day pass to visit the Fortress with no expiration date at all? The spare change from his bottomless wealth of time and space he so generously handed her?

Each other’s company and, what comfort it brings?

‘… What of it?’

“Come now, Your Grace. I think you underestimate yourself.” She found herself offering him reassurance. Grinning, even. Then she blew the steam pouring out of her cup his way.

Behind that puff of air, Wriothesley’s icy gaze pierced through her violet pair. “Wanna bet?”

“On what?”

He chuckles bitterly. “That this is the last time you’ll ever come down here and see me.”

“What- why?” Clorinde nearly choked.

“Simple. You are the infallible Champion Duelist Clorinde. As above, so below.” Wriothesley weaved his free hand across the air as he spoke, the other holding his beloved cup of cinnamon tea to his chest. “You are by no means a damsel in distress, am I right?”

“There probably isn’t anything I can deal with out there so long as I have either my sword or my gun, that’s true.” She set her cup down, carefully considering his … praise, of sorts.

“Why, between us, I’m probably the poor prince locked up in the tower, eh?” A chuckle escapes them both– the duke was no sort of man to stay trapped somewhere unfortunate if he could help it. “Except I don’t need saving, and neither do you. That said, you don’t need to find yourself somewhere that dulls your exceptional talents, hm?

“Somewhere that slows down the speed of light, that muffles that wrath thunder precedes.” He mused some more. “... Somewhere you’re not meant to be.”

Clorinde stared at him blankly. Wriothesley sighed– he should get to the point. “You don’t need to be here, Clorinde.

“You don’t have to pity yourself after a job well done, you don’t need to swim all the way down the murky depths to wash the blood off your hands. You don’t need my tea, not Sigewinne. Heck, you don’t even need me.”

The elephant in the room he finally pointed out took its seat on his chest after being addressed, feeling awfully heavy after that last bit. But it was the truth, one whose weight is worth a death sentence.

“So maybe it’s best you don’t hole yourself up down here. We both know this is no sacred ground worth staying in.” He finishes off with a sip of his tea.

“You want to bet on that?” For a moment, it got to Clorinde just how absurd yet, shallow this all was.

How clear-cut he’s making her out to be. How bluntly he struck himself down with her own sword. And, how stubbornly unwavering she was still acting in front of him.

But that look on the duke’s blue-eyed face was just as firm. That same look of resolution that more or less increased the chances of acquittal well within the duelists’ arena. A will that cannot be deterred, even with his tea going cold and the moon rising higher up in the sky outside.

If he lacked the grace that his address needed of him, he might as well have said everything he wanted to. I’m a busy man, I don’t want to have to cater to you everytime you fancy an impromptu visit. You can’t just waltz in here a different person and expect me to greet you like someone I know. I’ve got enough ice from my fists to have to make room for your cold attitude, Champion Duelist.

Instead, he puts her resolve to the test. Just how long she can keep herself afloat, even when they were thousands of feet underwater.

And she said it herself– a Champion Duelist never has a say in the battles that need to be fought.

So she sips her tea, letting its taste frolick across her tongue before swan diving down her throat. Much like how she so heedlessly made her way down to the Fortress without so much as a reason to justify her unwelcome, which is, of course, now followed by the sinking feeling of bidding Wriothesley goodnight, then farewell.

“About this bet,” Clorinde stops at the last step down the stairs, refusing to lift her head the duke’s way. “If I win?”

“Then you get to keep your winning streak.” He was watching her all the way down, an arm leaning against the railing while the other held up his chin. “Besides, people are better off not seeing the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide in their lifetime.”

“... And if I lose?”

Wriothesley hummed, the slightest bit of hope fighting its way within the pankration ring that was his ribcage. “You can find me somewhere on a nice patch of grass, with that coffee that you like, and the weather in our favor. And maybe then, we can start running instead of, taking ten steps back … towards that change you wished to find.”

The raven-haired duelist fought with what strength she still had not to look up. To lock gazes with him, and allow herself that endless wealth of patience, that kindness he’d always given her. For when she had insisted she needed bloody tea instead of an ear that listens so well that it bends to every rest and note in her voice, she had shoved it back to him with much ungratefulness that even His Grace wouldn’t take in stride.

Clorinde wasn’t not accustomed to the rules of the arena not to accept her defeat when she had been fairly struck down either. She will take losing Wriothesley like a champ, for far worse scenarios have left her scathed. And this shouldn’t be one of them.

Or at least, that’s what she tells herself.

Because she still had what awed praises the little kids at Quartier Lyonnais shower her with, cardboard swords and water guns raised in her honor whenever she reports back to their headquarters. The Melusines still trust her almost as fondly as they do the Chief Justice, more than ready to accompany her during her investigations as if she wasn’t a private entity they employed to discreetly do the harder parts of their jobs.

Yet, on days where the trials avoid reproaching the fork in the road, and she leaves the opera house without having to pay respects to the duelists’ arena by scattering crestfallen gazes like it was a ritual, Clorinde is still armed to the teeth.

What kind of swordswoman allows blind spots for herself? What kind of huntress leaves to the grounds without a weapon? What was she if not always vigil, on guard,

Constantly looking over her shoulder, wondering whether she should grow another pair of eyes at the back of her head.

Or maybe trade her Electro vision for a Cryo one to conjure some sort of shield made of ice, impenetrable to flimsy attacks.

‘Nonsense, I’m fast enough to anticipate any ambushes against myself.’ She shook her head.

“You are the infallible Champion Duelist Clorinde.”

As her frown deepens, her avarice rises from that insipid voice that echoed from the back of her mind. Who also happened to belong to the same person whose piercing icy gaze always knew where to look for her. Like a guard dog tailing her just a few steps behind.

She wondered if Cerberus ever gets lonely at the gates of hell.

But even if he did, the beast had it coming when his upturned nose detested the reeking scent of fresh blood on the hunter’s person that unfortunate night– as if he had forgotten that face of hers when she gave her condolences to those inmates who had lost someone in the duelists’ arena before. One fair, fallen look on a usually composed face, even with the steam of their tea obscuring their sights.

From his own end, Wriothesley has done what guilt succeeds– repent. The Fortress of Meropide is only the best place in all of Fontaine to make up for your sins, after all. It was far beyond the man now to complain about just how many pages of the year’s ledger he had filled, what paperwork he had to sort through, and the criminals he had personally escorted from the overworld down to the underwater prison himself when he ultimately brought all of this upon himself.

Was he deliberately trying to catch glimpses of one raven-haired swordswoman at the courts? The duke wouldn’t admit to such a claim unless he was officially put on trial.

But if given the chance, within optimal circumstances– he did the math– would he be one to refuse seeing the Champion Duelist?

“It is not up to me.”

The answer brought a scowl upon his visage, but he wasn’t surprised. Besides, it didn’t make for a good look to be the one to call off a bet he had proposed in the first place.

So he makes a quick detour to Arouet’s, picks up a pack of coffee beans– with a big order of cream and sugar on the side to go with it– then makes his due descend down the underworld to spend yet another long night on even more accounting than he’ll ever actually need to do.

“A rather divergent scent is present around here– is that coffee?”

Neuvillette was many things. The duke guessed that being the Chief Justice must afford a quick sense of observation– despite the man’s lack of social perception at times.

“Long night ahead.” Wriothesley spoke briefly, to which the Iudex took with much understanding. “What brings you down at the Fortress at this hour?”

“Right, please forgive me for visiting unannounced–”

“Not at all, Monsieur.” Wriothesley quickly waved him off.

“Very well. I came down here at Sigewinne’s behest to discuss some new learnings she had picked up from the books I last brung her.” The silver-haired gentleman took his seat in front of the duke’s desk, crossing his legs and weaving his fingers together. “She was right to mention the peculiar smell of caffeine on you over the past few days, it was the first thing that greeted my senses upon entering your office. If you could please indulge our curiosities, is there any particular reason you’ve traded your usual cup of tea for this relatively more bitter beverage?”

“Ah, Miss Clorinde was the one who introduced me to this brew. I just thought I’d broaden my tastes especially with this cup’s strong purpose of getting me through one more round of paperwork for tonight.”

“Sigewinne also noted that your productivity has also been increasing. The inmates must be behaving quite well for you to pour your attention towards these ledgers and files, Wriothesley.”

It was undeniable that Neuvillette was a well-spoken man, but he’s got a long way to go before using his cursive-sounding vocabulary other than for pleasantries– his tone completely lacks any teasing, literally inebriated as to what secret lies beneath what he just said, but the whole gist of things was already laid bare unbeknowst to him.

Wriothesley pursed his lips, thought for a second, then replied. “Yes, well, I hardly get any visitors down here to pour my attention to.”

“No bets with Miss Clorinde lately?”

The Lord Incognito was caught off guard. The tip of his pen hovers above the page, his breathing stops, and he wills his pale blue eyes at the Iudex.

Seems he underestimated the Chief Justice earlier. There is underlying humor on the sharp featured man’s visage now.

“You look … red handed.” Neuvillette hummed, narrowing his eyes even further. “... Was I not supposed to know?”

The duke readjusted his hold on his pen, snickering and shaking his head while he was at it. Neuvillette was more than willing not to question him further if Wriothesley’s reaction proved his assumption correct. But Wriothesley affirmed their ongoing bet regardless, then he clarified that it had nothing to do with the Chief Justice at all the soonest he could get it out.

Neuvillette cleared his throat. “If memory serves me right, you have quite the winning streak with these things. It seems that Miss Clorinde is always picking up a prize for you in her spare time.”

If he were any religious, Wriothesley would’ve prayed to Celestia above for some salvation tonight.

The duke knew deep down that the moment he asked about Clorinde would put all his efforts to waste. If he engaged in more small talk now, he wouldn’t get any work done. And he’d have tortured himself with only a third of a cup of that horrendous coffee brew with more bitterness than his worst inmate that he bought a whole box of for nothing. He’d even be putting his wrist at further risk of carpal tunnel syndrome doing unnecessary calculations for nothing too. Then he would soon regret instead not signing up for any fights at the pankration ring to keep his head cool the rest of the week until he had to go back up the surface to run some more errands. Errands that he’s still deluding himself into thinking weren’t mere windows of opportunities to catch glimpses at the Champion Duelist acting as the former Hydro Archon’s bodyguard for no specific employment reasons, but rather, out of the kindness of her heart. That she obviously possesses, but buries ten times deeper than the ground level at which the deceased are buried in, as if the number would atone for the deaths she had caused–

“Ah, I seem to be taking up your time. I shall take my leave then-” Taking the duke’s prolonged silence into account, the Chief Justice interrupted his unfortunate internal monologue.

“Sorry, Monsieur- I uh,” Wriothesley shook his head. “I guess this coffee’s settling badly into my system.”

Softly, Neuvillette remarked, “You’d do better with your usual cup of tea, then.”

“I can fix us both a cup, if you’d like to stay a bit longer.”

Before the younger man could get up, the Iudex smiled. “The night hours are growing darker, we should both retire for the day. Goodnight, Wriothesley.”

Neuvillette is a solid guy in Wriothesley’s books for the duke to feel bad about letting him leave like that, so he honors the virtue the Iudex has graced him with by following his advice. He brews himself a cup of his favorite bedtime tea, he puts on some music, and he leaves his pen between the pages he’ll continue with the next morning.

“If you find yourself free the next following days, we would be honored to have you even for just a short while.”

Clorinde should be the last person to be invited to a wake. Much less to impart some empathy for those grieving a person her blade had crossed off the face of Teyvat. If she were any more saintly, the greatest act of kindness she could have given these people bereft would have been to spare the life of their loved ones.

She eyes the funeral leaflet for one Bastien, a kindhearted man who did those whose paths he crossed with right by. If she could remember the details of his trial prior to their match, the evidence had been perfectly orchestrated to frame him for simply doing the work he was told to.

A fleeting thought lands upon her, that perhaps there were far worse evils in this world to bring down an honest person such as him than herself.

The deceased’s cousin wore the same smile as before, when she made the trip to the city from Poisson to personally hand her an invite to grieve with them. To commemorate a life that ended much too soon– too cruelly, at that.

Clorinde could feel a hand on her arm. “I’m glad you could spare us some of your time, Miss Clorinde.”

“It was no trouble, Miss Yolanthe.” She placed her other hand atop the woman’s.

“I heard you– in the shrill silence that I thought would never come until someone drew their last breath.” Yolanthe’s breath came out sharp, then she inhaled once more, continuing. “You told him to fight like he was no coward, which he probably was … up until he asked for that duel.

Bastien’s cousin does a fond little laugh. “He told me it must’ve been the craziest, bravest thing he has ever done in his mediocre life. We’ve always told him not to be afraid to take a leap of faith every now and then, but I suppose life isn’t without its thrills after periods of peaceful cessation.

“I guess what I want to say is, please don’t blame yourself.” Though her voice is laced with much sorrow, her eyes were just as sincere. “You allowed Bastien to take the reins of his life one last time. The odds may not have been in his favor, but none of that started with you. After putting everyone first, he finally thought to defend himself, to his ending breath.”

The seaside breeze climbed up from the shore, straight towards the little cottage where the family’s marcottes grow. Yolanthe told Clorinde they were flowers of pure and sincere expression, and that it must mean something for a plant of such virtue to sprout all across the Land of Justice– as if, despite the villains in every plot, there are heroes and kindred folk that step up to subdue them.

A shame she feels a complete antithesis to them.

“You’re no trouble at all, Clorinde.”

She purses her lips, unknowingly balls her fists tighter, then pulls herself up from her distant reverie. In place of her sword and the pride in its gleam, there were flowers in her neatly gloved hands today.

She murmurs a little prayer before leaving them atop the casket and taking her leave, thanking Yolanthe for her hospitality, above every other good thing she couldn’t put a name on at that moment.

Like sensibility, a subtle tenderness in the way her fingers touched her arm the whole time– and she’d never been handled like that before. The same way she could glance at the duelists’ arena without blaming it for all the resentment, frustration, the unfairness it had to house. It was just a dome, and she was just a girl with a sword.

The feeling lingered around her, keeping her company the whole trip back to the city, like the wild marcottes across the green fields of Fontaine. She expounds on it, wide as the sky above her on the aquabus, until she hears a familiar sound in her mind. The thought of being keenly observed as her sentiments slowly seeped out of her skin, like a hot brew simmering on its post. Sat down and stirred, until the fragrance is poignant in the air, because she can’t just keep to herself forever. And then,

And then you enjoy it with someone you trust.

“... I owe him tea.” She muses, followed by an afterthought. ‘And an apology.’

Admitting it was the easy part. Even the thought of scouring the outskirts of Fontaine to find that particular random patch of grass he could be leisurely sitting on seemed doable with few of her investigations still ongoing.

But it seemed fate finally relented to letting her have her way.

As she bid Lady Furina a good evening after dinner together one night, Clorinde stood next to the light novel stand right across Estelle’s workshop to note some new releases Furina had told her about when one heavy-footed Wriothesley personally picked up his order of components. The loud metalwork from the workshop efficiently drowned out the sound of chains clanking as His Grace moved about.

The far end of Furina’s apartment was lit, and Estelle had to fetch a Gardamek to help His Grace carry the heavy parcel. Every other citizen seemed to be on the other side of the courts having dinner around this time too, and not even the well-dressed doggies were taking their strolls at this area.

Fate’s winds seemed to breeze between the two– an entire avenue of distance to boot. Yet they lacked the momentum, the power, to make either of them talk.

Wriothesley, ever so gracefully, cleared his unclogged throat and threw her a bow. “Good evening, Miss Clorinde.”

“Your Grace.” She placed a well-mannered hand to her chest and did the same.

“I trust you’ve been well.”

Clorinde forced a grin. “Thank you for your concern.”

The duke stared at her, trying to ask himself whether or not he’s ever joked about getting her to smile when she didn’t need to. And how few and far in between but awfully genuine the tiny grins she’s ever shown him amounted far better than this creaseless, rehearsed face that she probably picked up for high society.

That alone should’ve been enough for him to bridge their gap and genuinely ask how she’s been, but the very fact that she has to fake it with him delivered the message quite clearly. So he remained still–

“I uh-” Clorinde spoke.

Wriothesley glanced up at her way too fast that she had to retract.

“Ahem,” She raised her chin a little higher. “I, paid a visit to Bastien’s wake upon his cousin’s request.”

“Did you?”

The interest in his voice couldn’t have given him away any more than the way his pale blue eyes turned into snow globes.

She nods in reply. “His cousin was very welcoming towards me.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Clorinde.”

Now even he finds himself faking a smile. Or more accurately, stretching the grin already spreading on his light-mannered face.

And then at that precise moment, the Gardamek Estelle fetched earlier stepped out from the back of the workshop with that heavy box the owner just couldn’t let His Grace lug around by himself, its footfalls heavy across the stone ground. While she still had some talk in her, Clorinde asked about the box and if that was the only thing that brought him up to the overworld. Wriothesley was not about to air out his own dirty laundry, so he simply nodded, and that should’ve been the end of it, but–

“On what patch of grass was I supposed to find you if you won?” Clorinde asked with much indignance.

The meka walked its merry way by itself whilst the duke halted in his steps. When he glanced her way again, she looked like she had some fight left in her, after that display of demure and politeness albeit.

Wriothesley’s features softened. “Need I remind you that your victory is only guaranteed once you come down the Fortress? Meeting me anywhere else doesn’t count.”

“Am I wrong to presume then that you wouldn’t tell me where I’d find you even if I conceded?”

“You’re not one to point your sword at anyone first without reason, but you’re not one not to put up a fight either.”

She finally breaks eye contact, her gaze flitting groundwards. “What good is fighting without something to fight for anyway.”

Perhaps it was the late night accounting coupled with bad coffee finally getting to him, but the numbers started crunching in Wriothesley’s mind.

Ten steps. Wriothesley could take ten steps– two to face her, five to close the gap, three if she backs away– and make her look at him again like she would rather fight than let fate blow her away.

Like the true duelist she is.

And he knows a fighter when he sees one– so he stands his ground.

“Let me win, Clorinde. Fair and square.” He smiles.

“But you always win.” She groans. Incessantly, sorely.

“All the more reason for you to fight harder, no?” The duke shrugs in a blithe fashion, all his cares haphazardly thrown into the wind. “See you real soon, Miss Clorinde.”

Nobody– well, except Navia, Miss Furina, and Sigewinne– should look forward to seeing a Champion Duelist in their lifetime. More often than not, the one place they’ll see her is at the arena, and nobody would want to find themselves there.

But Wriothesley,

“His Grace? Oh, he mentioned something about meeting with the divers maintaining the pipes outside the Fortress of Meropide.” Sigewinne was tidying the duke’s empty office when Clorinde finally conceded.

The Champion Duelist suspected an alignment, foul play of sorts.

How convenient that Sigewinne, who more or less belongs in the infirmary instead of in the duke’s neatly kept office tidying up, was there to accommodate Miss Clorinde while Wriothesley was out running errands within his own time and expense again.

The blue Melusine grinned at her too, feet swaying off his couch and a hint of mischief in the room.

Between a hunter, a guard dog, and a rabbit, Clorinde didn’t think Sigewinne was capable of causing this much trouble, next to the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, followed by a Champion Duelist.

And yet, the marcottes do not wither under her touch, nor does the grass turn brown under her boots the entire trip there. Despair does not follow her just as she thinks it does. Nor does His Grace bear the same curse, when the waters still glimmer clear instead of crimson, the sunlight warm on both of them.

The grip she had on the flowers in her hands loosened at the sight of him– at peace, unobliged, innocent ever since. If life was any kinder on him, then maybe he’d have had more days under the sun than beneath the waves.

But, if life was any kinder at all, then the Land of Justice would celebrate far less triumph in truth unearthed. The duelists would simply be hobbyists of elite statuses, the Fortress of Meropide would keep its hierarchical model, and the marcottes would stand to lose its symbolism.

Nevertheless, they were both normal people once. Today, they were but normal once more.

“You win.” Was all she declared, dumping the handful of marcottes she had plucked on her way on his chest.

It soon rumbled with laughter, then he sat up. “Aww, don’t be so sour about it. It’s not like you lost anything, did you?”

“No.” Clorinde took her seat next to him, offering one short answer as she did so– “Well, if it means anything, I guess my winning streak doesn’t seem so impressive anymore.”

“That’s not true,” Wriothesley glanced her way, intent on watching every twitch of her eyebrows, the colors in her eyes that dull and sparkle at the same time. “I know a real fighter when I see one– and boy, do you fight. I almost wanted to concede myself.”

She locks gazes with him, looks upon him softly, then rests her head against her arms crossed above the knees she brought up to her chest. “I refuse to fight against someone who’s already claimed themselves the loser. The escalation towards a brawl is merely conflict that wasn’t solved through cordial means. Whatever urged you to propose that bet surely doesn’t need us drawing our weapons at each other, no? You would’ve suggested meeting at the pankration ring instead.”

He leans back with the palms of his hands flat against the grass, a look of elation spreading across his boyish features. “Your wits are as sharp as your sword, Clorinde.”

“Yet you made mention of my … ambiguity.”

“Well,” The duke lightly picked at the peach colored petals of the flowers on his lap, something to the effect of choosing his words. “Does death become any less incendiary when you’ve sustained far too many burns already? Does it no longer hurt no matter how familiar you’ve acquainted yourself to pain?”

“I change my mind, take out your gloves-”

“Hey, weren’t you the one that made a big deal about sorrow instead of sorry? I'm being awfully serious.” He turns himself to face her, the marcottes sandwiched between his palm and the grass beneath them. “You can put down the gun and your sword, Clorinde. It’s okay.”

“... And if I do,” Clorinde’s voice drops to a whisper. “What happens then?”

At last, her occupational fears don’t seem any different than her mortal ones. What if her senses go dull? What if she loosens her grip? What if she loses? What will she become then?

Clorinde can never let herself lose, not because of some obsessive need to keep score, but because there’s too much to regain if she does. If she sheathes her pride within her heart, she’ll end up thinking twice about getting blood on it at all, thinking it was hers.

“You wanna know something?” Wriothesley sneers, a light in his tired eyes reminiscent. “I’ve lost thrice the amount of fights that I’ve ever won.”

The duelist blinks, her amethyst gaze flickering to the scar on his neck, the bandages on his arms. She doesn’t notice she’s already reaching out to touch them until she sees her gloves on his blemished skin.

Unfazed, practically welcoming it, he continues. “I’ve been wounded, bruised, and beaten to a pulp on multiple occasions. And there’s no shame in admitting that.

“One time, I had to maneuver one of the machines in the production zone without using either of my hands because, I couldn’t feel them after this really intense brawl I was in. I gotta thank the guy for leveling the playing field by using only his fists the same as me, but he was one talented boxer, and I was a puny little fledgling to the pankration ring.

“I can’t say fights in the pankration ring and in the duelists’ arena are the same– archons, no. But, I’ve been on the losing end, Clorinde. And, life unfortunately goes on. It’s gonna move at a glacial pace, and you’re gonna feel like the world’s biggest failure, but you’re only human, aren’t you?”

Wriothesley moves beneath her fingers– bunches up the marcottes on the ground and brings them to her attention. As if he knows just what words they mean in the language of flowers.

Her purple eyes softened at the sight of them. She thinks they’re closer to weeds than flowers with how invasive they seem, but purity was no nuisance in numbers. An excess of sincerity shouldn’t spell trouble.

So when Clorinde had come into Wriothesley’s office that evening, fresh from a duel where she yet again emerged with victory, it would make sense for the host of the home to glare at her for boasting and smearing blood all over his property. Of course Cerberus would growl with contempt from such a rancid smell, no matter how accustomed he was to it. No matter how well he knew who it was staining.

Because even by the way he stopped to look at her, let her have her thoughts to herself, as if he’s just waiting on his favorite brew to develop its flavor in the piping hot water– Wriothesley knew that neither the duelist nor the contender came out of that fight unscathed. He knew that fact like the scars beneath the gauntlets on his own two hands.

“I feel bad about it–” Clorinde mumbled to herself, almost inaudibly. “Hurting people the way I do.”

“Yeah?” Wriothesley tilted his head at her.

She nods, closing her eyes the way she does when she’s safe in his office. “Sometimes I fashion myself a criminal for all my victories. The Marechaussee Hunters and other Champion Duelists may think otherwise, but I, too, have a sense of responsibility.”

The duke releases a chuckle. “We are not without our woes in this life, Clorinde.”

And what overwhelming woe does she bear. To have to take up an heirloom and strike down the very person that handed it down to her. To polish one’s image so that it glimmers on the outside while it tarnishes, rusts and cracks on the inside. To sever relationships you never thought to test in the first place, just to prove one’s own strength.

“You make it look so easy.” Clorinde sighs. “To live with the weight of it all.”

“Why, thank you. They don’t call me Your Grace for nothing.” His Grace boasts, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Making light of things now, are we?” Ironically unamused, she played along.

“I can carry some of that weight off your shoulders.” His lips opt for a smile instead of a smirk, and it feels as warm as the afternoon sun. “You’re no trouble at all, Clorinde.”

The winds of fate start to sting her eyes– it’s got to be fate again. Unwavering, soulless fate being mean to her once again.

“... Do you mean that?”

“Ah, allow me to apologize for … mounting your gun to my chest, if you may.” The duke looks away, a wistful look in his blue eyes but the grin remains. “I only gambled the way I did knowing you wouldn’t pull the trigger.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Well, let’s see– you apologized to my inmates,” Wriothesley starts counting on his fingers, feigning ponderment. “You went to one of your contenders’ wakes to pay your respects. You still look out for Lady Furina every chance you can, I know you often think about Navia and the late Mister Callas. And, everytime we made a bet and you lost, you’d always pick me up a little something as a prize, even if we both know you don’t have to.”

“That’s custom.” The duelist corrects him.

“That’s you.” He insists. “And I know you, Clorinde.”

She fails to speak, and he says nothing more, knowing how mean a sucker punch that must be– of the gentlest manner.

Satisfied with himself, the duke plops on his back against the grass once more, one arm cushioning his head and the other bringing the marcottes to his chest with the petals tickling his chin. As though taking the gesture to heart.

Clorinde cannot believe she was played so well– not even her best friend Navia could outsmart her like that, and they’ve known each other their whole lives. How a person like Wriothesley, with more than enough reason not to place his trust, much less scourge what little faith he has in people, could do so for someone as confounding yet fleeting of an existence as her. Because, what, he knows her?

A frown creases her sharp features. Why would one calculating, omnipresent being like His Grace fall to such flimsy trivialities?

The Duke of Meropide did not seem like the type to stop and smell the flowers either.

Yet she seems unrelenting to misjudging the man still.

Wriothesley peels his eyelids open– “Staring is rude, Miss Clorinde.” – waiting for some sort of rebuttal, because he half-expected she still had some fight or, banter left in her. But instead, he was met with the faintest, most genuine grin he’s seen in a while on her face.

“... What a pleasant change of pace.” She muses.

Clorinde breathes out a sigh of defeat, tallies yet another loss in all the bets she and the duke ever partook, then inhales one relieved breath, with base notes of fresh dew and hints of marcotte from the stalk right beside her.

She’s walked all this way from the Opera Epiclese, upwards from the Fortress of Meropide– that should account for more than ten steps forward, surely. Now all that’s left is to charge forward.

The raven-haired girl springs up to her boots, snatches the peach colored flowers from the clutches of His Grace, and makes a run for it.

“Hey, where are you going-” Wriothesley dashes forwards too, nearly face planting on the grass as he steadies his pace. “I won those!”

“You always win!” She bellows. Incessantly, sorely.

“Fair and square at that!”

He leaps a great distance, not a single breath hitching for a fighter like himself, and she almost finds herself conceding. But she throws caution– and the marcottes– into the wind, jumps straight into the water, and loses him.

If he could talk her up like that, tell her she was infallible all the while she nurses one of her less graceful losses, yet still make her feel victorious, then Clorinde could put everything to rest.

She could sheathe her sword, put her gun back in its holster. She could worry less about the foliage underwater dying as she descended down to its embrace. Because despair doesn’t follow close behind, but Wriothesley does.

The waters remained pristine and unstained even with the crimson-clad warden of the underworld aswim beneath the waves.

Though, Clorinde did feel a surge of blood inside of her when everything fell above her– the glaring heat of the sun on her skin, despite the depth she had fallen and the underwater pressure taking its toll.

Those and, Wriothesley’s heavily built frame, the palms of his hands engulfing hers, his gaze as gentle as the sway of the terrestrial waters around them– kinder, more patient than fates’ merciless gales–

And his lips on hers. Tender like a fresh wound yet to be kissed better.

Champion Duelist Clorinde uncharacteristically didn’t bother putting up a fight then. Not when she lacked a reason to do so, more so when the wealth of time and grace was rather infinite than in any other space.

“That was not fair, Your Grace.” Clorinde gasps when they reach the surface, tenacious with that mean glare of hers as if she wasn’t the first to pull away.

Wriothesley chuckles breathlessly, sweeping her wet locks away from her face.

“Hey, what can I say? The winner takes all.”