Archive of Our Own

I. Sink

Neuvillette tried to kill himself three times.

The first time, he threw himself off an abandoned watchtower somewhere in the Fontaine countryside. He had measured the jump to be about thirty-five meters, plus or minus five meters. That was more than enough to kill a human, and should be enough to kill him. It was probably a safer bet to jump off the top of the Palais Mermonia, but he imagined that it would cause a hassle for everyone in the Court of Fontaine. Better get it done with in the middle of nowhere.

Sure enough, he had woefully underestimated the physical resilience of a complete elemental sovereign. The initial fall was painful, and he did break quite a few bones, but his body’s hydro healing powers kicked in automatically and had him back up in no time.

The second time, he attempted to hang himself. Keyword: attempted. Once he kicked the stool away from below his feet, the rope he used for the noose snapped in half. And there went all of his plans.

A lapse of judgment on his part, he concluded. One could not expect great tensile strength from a scrap piece of unraveling hemp rope he found discarded by the road.

The third time, he tried poison. A concoction that he’d taken such pains to create. For many days he scoured the sandy beaches in Liffey for Lumitoile and Tidalga and for another many days simmered them in a water-filled pot to extract whatever chemicals were in them that would react to form the toxic compound he needed. This compound, an now-illegal substance formerly used in pesticides and known colloquially in Fontaine as the “Plague of All Greenery”, was extremely effective at killing the unwanted weeds in your garden — and you.

Neuvillette had downed the entirety of his concoction — which tasted absolutely terrible, like most poisons — and waited. After an hour, nothing much happened. After two hours, he began to find it a bit difficult to breathe. After three, his lungs were really struggling to function. After four, he was positively hypoxic. Not the most ideal way to go out, but he was content. It felt like going to sleep after a really long day.

He closed his eyes and the world dropped dead with him.

Quietly in the distance the faucet was dripping.

When he awoke again, he found himself in a warm, quiet darkness. Like the soft womb of the Primordial Waters where he was born. There was a low hum in the background, both close to him and far away. It must’ve been eons since he last felt this at peace.

No worldly comfort could compare to this.

“Monsieur Neuvillette? Are you awake?”

He was startled by a familiar voice by his left ear. Why was there someone here? He opened his mouth to speak, but was overwhelmed by a series of coughs and wheezes that stabbed at his lungs like thin threads of steel wool.

“Easy, easy.” A small hand was patting his back, “Breathe. Take it slow.”

Neuvillette took a moment to let the coughs subside. Then he was finally able to rasp out: “Sigewinne? Is that you?”

Silence. Then he heard Sigewinne burst into a fit of sobs. “Goodness, Monsieur Neuvillette! You gave us such a scare! When Wriothesley brought you here you weren’t even breathing, we — we thought we had lost you!”

And that confirmed his worst fear — he was not dead. Neuvillette felt his stomach twist as he swallowed down a scream of frustration and despair. Oh, and now he’s also making Sigewinne cry. How he wanted to slap himself in the face. Why couldn’t things just go as he wished for once?

“I’m sor—”

A hand was immediately clapped over his mouth. “Don’t apologize! Stop apologizing for everything!”

He obeyed meekly and shut up.

“Alright. Now. Tell me how you’re feeling, in detail.”

“Tired.”

“Anything else?”

Neuvillette tried to move his arms and legs. The bedding around him felt incredibly solid. “I don’t know. Just tired.”

Sigewinne audibly sighed. “Do you feel dizzy? Difficulty breathing? Pain in any place? Nauseous? Hot? Cold?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else you want me to know?”

“… No.”

“Okay. I will leave you to rest, then.”

He heard Sigewinne begin to leave. But a few moments later, her footsteps suddenly stopped.

“Monsieur Neuvillette.” Her voice was more distant than before, but the torment in it was just as loud. “If you need — if you ever need someone to talk to, you can always talk to me.”

Something stung horribly at his heart. “I know. Thank you, Sigewinne.” He let his head fall back into the pillow. “Oh. By the way, is it alright if you turn the lights on?” The darkness, which had initially been comforting, was now growing cold.

“What do you mean? The lights are on.”

“They are? But… but it is really dark. I can’t even see you.”

There was a pause.

“Monsieur Neuvillette, please wait one moment,” said Sigewinne’s voice. “I’ll be back.”

He heard the sound of fabric shuffling and light footsteps. The next thing he knew, there were a pair of fingers — presumably Sigewinne’s — prying his eyes wide open. He felt his eyes water, and he couldn’t help but squirm at the discomfort.

“I see.” After what seemed like a long wait, Sigewinne spoke up again. “It appears that you have lost your vision. The poison you ingested caused fibrosis in your lungs, which deprived your system of oxygen flow for an extended period of time and in turn probably damaged your optic nerves.”

The warm touch of the fingers left his skin as Sigewinne sprang back to the floor.

“For humans, this damage is oftentimes irreparable, but you do have slightly different physiology… so we will just have to wait and see whether you recover.”

Neuvillette could not conceive of how it was even possible for his luck to be so bad.

He had tried to die three times, and he was still alive. Not only was he alive, but he was alive and unable to see. Worse still was Sigewinne’s distressed, reproachful voice that seemed to bounce around the walls of his brain twenty-four hours a day: “How could you do this?”

Sigewinne had tried to talk to him, and he would pretend to be asleep. He knew she meant well, but he found conversation too tiring. Everything was too damn tiring nowadays. His mouth felt dry, but he didn’t even have the willpower to ask for water. He just wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep.

Or go to sleep with his eyes open. It made no difference now.

II. Pulse

Monglane, the receptionist of the Fortress of Meropide, was thoroughly engaged in her copy of a newly-published light novel from Inazuma when a pair of shadows looming over desk caught her attention. She quickly slammed the book shut — she really didn’t mean to loaf on the job, but usually there was nothing to do and she needed a way to spend the time — honestly — she swore by the no longer existing Hydro Archon’s name.

She looked up to see two men in formal dress. Now that didn’t look like your average prisoner dispatched to exile in the Fortress.

“Good morning, sirs. How may I help you?”

“Good morning, Madame. We are here in representation of the Palais Mermonia,” said the man on the right, “And we would like an interview with His Grace Duke Wriothesley to discuss some pressing matters.”

“I see,” said Monglane, “By His Grace’s orders, no one is to go in and see him while he is in. Sirs, you may wait here until His Grace has left. Then you can go in and see him.”

The men glanced at each other briefly as they both failed to wrap their heads around the whole matter. “I’m sorry?”

“His Grace is not currently available, sir.”

“Is His Grace not in right now?”

“He is, sir.”

“Is His Grace busy with something?”

“No, sir.”

The man on the left looked like he was trying very hard to not facepalm on the spot. “Then why can’t we go in and see him?”

“Those are the Duke’s orders, sir. We are not allowed to let anyone in to see him at his office when he is in his office.”

“Then when can we go in and see him?”

“His Grace said that you can go in and see him when he has left, sir.”

“But if he has left, he won’t be there!”

“No, sir.”

“And we won’t be able to see him!”

“No, sir.”

“Are you screwing with us?”

“No, sir. The Duke issued these orders two days ago,” Monglane pulled out a sheet of paper that had Wriothesley’s signature, big and clear, at the bottom.

“Is it possible at all, Madame,” said the man on the right, “for you to go in and report our presence to the Duke? We have urgent matters and we really need to see him immediately.”

“I am sorry, sir, I am unable. His Grace’s orders are that no one is to go into his office and see him while he is at his office — ”

“ARCHONS ABOVE!”

Meanwhile, the Duke in question was glued to his desk, pretending to be occupied with paperwork. This was the sixth time he had read the same line on the same page, and he still had no idea what it said.

He tried hard to understand.

He tried hard to understand how the very man who had lit him a candle and pointed him the way out of his pit of darkness and despair, the very man who had told him — congratulations, you have found something you wish to do at last — could now be digging his grave for himself.

He blamed himself for not seeing it coming. Even now, he could hardly believe it. People often said that hindsight was twenty-twenty. But his was positively myopic. And astigmatic too, probably.

He remembered the horrified scream that was ripped from his throat by Neuvillette’s cold and unmoving body on the floor. There was the string of agonized howls and incoherent pleas, met with indifferent silence. There was the frenzied dash back into the Fortress of Meropide, begging for Sigewinne’s help as she, also in tears, tried to calm him down while strapping an oxygen mask over Neuvillette’s face. And there was the agonizing wait outside the infirmary after the poor Melusine nurse finally had enough of his hysterics and kicked him out. He paced to and fro outside the door, unable to do anything.

One eternity later, Sigewinne emerged from the infirmary.

“I have good news and bad news,” she said, “Which would you like to hear first?”

“Is he alive?”

Sigewinne nodded. “Yes. That is the good news. His life is no longer in danger.”

Wriothesley breathed out a sigh of relief. “And the bad news?”

“Hypoxia can have some… ” Sigewinne paused, as if trying to find the least aggravating way to deliver, “Lasting effects. You see, every tissue in your body needs oxygen. When cut off from oxygen supply for a long time, they start to die. That can mean that some of your functions will never recover. Monsieur Neuvillette is still in a coma, and I am unsure when he will wake up, if… if he does at all.”

The realization hit Wriothesley like an aquabus going at full speed. His leg started to feel wobbly. “You mean — you mean he might be brain-dead?”

Sigewinne chose not to answer directly. “I will monitor his conditions closely and make sure to update you at the first chance I get if anything changes. Meanwhile,” Her expression turned stern. “You need to take care of yourself, Duke! I don’t need both of you out cold in my infirmary at the same time. Would you like a milkshake? It will help to replenish your — ”

Wriothesley made a run for it.

He wasn’t sure which would be worse — Neuvillette being dead or being stuck forever in a coma. The former constituted despair one and done, while the latter was like chasing a crystalfly that stayed half a meter ahead of him no matter how he ran. Never would he stop running, and never would he catch up.

“Your Grace?”

Sigewinne’s voice came from outside the door.

Wriothesley’s orders had, in fact, one exception. He gave Sigewinne — and only Sigewinne — discretion to visit his office while he was there. After knocking, of course. Although now Wriothesley was also starting to dread seeing her, because every single time the Head Nurse showed up she would reprimand him for turning into a “shut-in” and try to convince him to go out and “interact with the world” because isolating himself was “not healthy.”

He knew Sigewinne was right. But he needed time to think.

“Come in.”

The Melusine nurse entered, shutting the door behind her. There was no discernable expression on her face.

“How are you, your Grace?”

“Like shit,” Wriothesley said flatly.

“Understandable. Miss Monglane wanted me to relay to you that there are two Gestionnaires from the Palais Mermonia asking to see you. They claimed that they had urgent matters.”

Wriothesley let out a miserable snort. “They’re definitely here to talk about Neuvillette. The man’s disappeared for four whole days with no explanation. The entire Fontainian administration system must be in chaos.” The Iudex was kept in a private ward in the infirmary, and he had been careful to not let out any word about his whereabouts. To this date, only Sigewinne and a select few Melusines in the overworld, like Sedene, were aware of the situation at hand, and they were instructed to keep quiet. “The Palais knows that the Iudex works closely with me. They probably think that I might have some leads to his whereabouts.”

“That is a reasonable assumption,” said Sigewinne, “Speaking of Monsieur Neuvillette — I also came here to let you know that he woke up.”

He had bolted in the direction of the infirmary at a nearly inhuman speed. When he opened the door, Neuvillette was asleep. For a split second he feared that he had imagined Sigewinne’s visit and that Neuvillette was, in fact, still in a coma with no sign of recovery, until the Head Nurse herself finally caught up to him and explained that he really had woken up, and had just gone back to sleep.

He learned from Sigewinne that Neuvillette had gone blind due to some complications of prolonged hypoxia. Alright, that’s fine — not fine fine, but a lot better than the worst that he had tried and failed to prepare to cope with. At least he was alive.

Alive.

The Duke closed the door behind him softly and shut his eyes.

Quietly in the distance a faucet was dripping.

III. Bleed

Sigewinne was glad that Wriothesley was finally getting out of his office.

The Fortress had sort of returned to normal after he’d learned that Neuvillette had woken up. Sigewinne knew that the Iudex meant a great deal to the Duke, but she had underestimated the extent to which the Duke’s sanity hinged upon him. In the past few days, Wriothesley’s reaction to the whole turn of events had dealt an equal amount of distress to her as Neuvillette’s condition had. He certainly would’ve gone mad, sooner or later, had Neuvillette not woken up.

She had her own speculations about how things came to this. Monsieur Neuvillette may be the Hydro Dragon Sovereign, but he was born as a human. His brain was wired like a human. What humans needed, wanted, so did he. One could call it a curse, for his identity — his position — or perhaps just himself — kept him from satisfying those wants. But those were still mere speculations, because Neuvillette refused to communicate with her. And whereas she could read a lot of people like an open book, Neuvillette had grown so skilled in disguise over the years that to her his face was a blank sheet, beneath which was a bottomless ocean.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when there came the creak of footsteps in the otherwise silent infirmary. Sigewinne grinned knowingly. had been expecting him, and she knew where he was headed.

“Good morning, Duke!”

In return the Duke nodded rigidly. There was a tense smile on his face, and he was fidgeting with the bandages on his hands. “And you, Sigewinne.”

“You’ve better luck this time. He’s awake.”

Wriothesley’s eyes brightened at this, though his nervous fidgeting increased in frequency proportionally. “Great, great… I was hoping to speak with him, yeah.”

“Well then, what are you standing around for? Don’t wait until he’s fallen asleep again. Go on in.”

“Right, yeah… right.” He breathed in deeply and finally steered in the direction of the private ward. Sigewinne watched him disappear behind that door, and rubbed her chin as she fell deep into thought.

The human mind was truly a complex, delicate thing, she mused. But if Neuvillette truly meant so much to him, perhaps he could get him to talk.

He closed the door behind him, inducing a soft screech that did startle the man on the bed, who tilted his head in the direction of his entry and stared right past him with filmed, unseeing eyes.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley initiated, when he saw that said man had no intention of making further acknowledgement of his presence. “Good morning.”

“Wriothesley?”

“Yes, it is me. How are you feeling?”

Neuvillette shifted slightly under the bedding. “Fine.” he croaked groggily. His voice was hoarse from disuse.

“Really?”

A brief silence. And then — “What, would you rather I don’t feel fine?”

“No — I just… ” Wriothesley swallowed thickly. Great. This conversation was going about as badly as he had expected. He had mentally rehearsed, several times, what he wanted to say to Neuvillette, but words were really failing him now that he was in the act. Where in Teyvat was his usually easy eloquence now that he needed it?!

Before he could scramble a sentence together, however, Neuvillette spoke again. “I apologize, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to be rude. But I really am fine.”

He even managed to smile.

Wriothesley felt like he had just been punched in the guts. He was almost glad that Neuvillette could not see him, could not see the expression on his face that was probably twisted in the ugliest, most painful way possible.

“Neuvillette,” he began, but stopped again. He wished that there was a way to tell him that he mattered to him, to Sigewinne, to so many people, that they loved and cared about him, that he was not alone in this world, without coming off as trying to guilt-trip him.

“I,” he said, “I — ”

Neuvillette interrupted him. “Wriothesley. I am not trying to kill myself because I feel unloved.”

The Iudex of Fontaine was in no shortage of love. He was loved by Wriothesley as a partner, by Sigewinne and the Melusines as a father, by Navia and Clorinde and Furina as the one they could trust in times of trouble, by his people as the symbol of impartial justice. And in turn, Neuvillette loved all of them, from the very depths of his heart. And he wished to return the love they gave him.

It was hard to define why, and when it all started. Maybe it was when the sword went crashing down into the stage and Focalors dissolved in front of his very eyes. Maybe it was when he let Callas walk to his own demise when he knew things couldn’t be as simple as they appeared. Maybe it was a lot earlier than that.

At night he would lay in bed wondering whether he was doing the right thing, and if the law was really there to serve justice, rather than just ensure life went about in an orderly fashion for some at the expense of others. Or if there was justice at all. Perhaps it was all just his own delusion. Was he truly worthy of the love and trust his people placed in him?

Quietly in the distance the faucet would be dripping. He had zero motivation to go tighten the knob, even when the constant drip, drip, drip started to become infuriating. He clawed futilely at his bedding as everything seemed to twist and turn and rock.

“Why did you just let him die, despised and hated by all?”

“Please, everyone, anyone, just listen to me… !”

“When is this rain going to stop…”

He felt indebted to the dead. Carole. Vautrin. Callas. Focalors. And even more so he felt indebted to the living. Wriothesley. Navia. Furina. It was a debt he could never repay. He’d rather that they all hated him.

The faucet went on dripping until the morning came and he pulled himself out of bed to get to the bathroom. He took one look in the mirror at his tired face and wondered when it would all stop.

“Neuvillette.”

Wriothesley’s voice brought him back from his trance. A warm calloused hand was placed on his arm.

“I’m sorry.”

Neuvillette covered his ears. The guilt and misery in that tone was unbearable. He was definitely acting like an ungrateful scum, he thought. Wriothesley saved his life and he hadn’t even thanked him.

He knew that Wriothesley — and plenty of other people — may be sad if he were dead right now. But time solved all problems. Time would make sure they get over him. He would undoubtedly cause more pain to them in the long run if he still lived. Like this.

“How long have I been down here?”

“Five days.” Five long, excruciating days, Wriothesley added in his head.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Just me and Sigewinne, and a few other Melusines you work closely with.”

The man on the bed groaned. “I hope that the court is not in flames when I get back.” It would also be his fault if it were, he thought inwardly.

Wriothesley nearly spat out a laugh from frustration. “Monsieur Neuvillette. Why in Teyvat are you already thinking about getting back?!”

Neuvillette opened his mouth for rebuttal, but then he suddenly sagged back down like a sack of potatoes. “You’re right. Maybe I’d do more harm than good to Fontaine if I go back,” he said as he turned away. It would be even worse than before. He couldn’t even see now, and there was no saying whether he would ever recover.

“That’s not what I meant — ”

“What have I ever done for you, Wriothesley? Sigewinne told me that you brought me here to the Fortress. Why? Why does my life matter to you? Why are you still talking to me? How will I ever repay you?”

“What have you done for me?” Wriothesley repeated incredulously. He ran a hand through his hair. “You can’t even imagine. No.”

He spun around and met the man’s empty eyes, and the fire that was burning at his throat was suddenly doused.

The Hydro Dragon did not cry.

He could not cry. He could not crumble before the people he loved, the people who loved him. Tears were a sign of partiality, of weakness, neither of which should be associated with him and his position. There were things to be done. There was no time for tears.

And surely, tears on his face would distress those around him. He did not wish to see them distressed.

He robbed himself of his tears, and the skies wept for him instead. On those days he would stand outside the Opéra Épiclèse soaking in the rain, which was comforting at first until his robes became too waterlogged and sagged his shoulders.

So he willed the skies to stop raining.

Eventually — and thinking back he was unsure how this was even possible — it actually stopped raining. The sun emerged from behind the clouds and screamed at him like an angry, red-hot pinhead.

And when Wriothesley searched his recollections with painstaking scrutiny, those were perhaps the only moments when Neuvillette showed any sign of weakness at all — and only now could he recognize them. Every once in a while, the Duke of the Fortress would come to the overworld and personally deliver a particularly dangerous prisoner. Said prisoner would be accompanied by two or three Guardes, and occasionally, Neuvillette. The Iudex would stand basking in the sunlight, the twigs of his silvery hair adorned in a soft glow. His features were the magnum opus of an expert sculptor. And then he would smile at him, the sort of smile that Wriothesley would long and thirst and lust for the rest of the day once it graced his eyes.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace. I hope it is not too much trouble.”

“Of course not,” Wriothesley would say. It is always a pleasure to see you.

The skies were clear. Not a single cloud in that yonder blue sea. He must be in a good mood, Wriothesley would think, but now he knew that it probably wasn’t as simple as that.

Neuvillette’s smile came to mind again as he watched his slumped figure beneath the covers. The fine work of a sculptor indeed. It had been so perfect, he had not paused for a second to doubt what surged beneath the calm surface of the endless sea up overhead. It had been so perfect that now it made him want to cry.

He turned away and tried to contain his sobs, but clearly unsuccessfully because he felt a hand pawing the back of his jacket before reaching his arm and rubbing it.

“Wriothesley,” behind him Neuvillette was saying, “Please don’t blame yourself.”

The touch was soothing and stinging all at the same time, like cold water on a burn wound. Wriothesley sucked in a breath and let the sensation engulf him.

“Neuvillette,” he said, “There is no need to hide anything from me. Everyone needs somebody.”

Neuvillette’s hand paused in its motion. Wriothesley took it with his own, and gently intertwined their fingers. “Everyone deserves somebody,” he continued when Neuvillette said nothing, “And so do you.”

He let his other hand find its way to Neuvillette’s cheek and brush away a stray strand of hair.

“I don’t want to worry you,” Neuvillette said finally. His voice was barely a murmur. “This is not — not your burden to carry.”

“You worry me by carrying that burden alone. You’re tired, you’re worn out, and you know it. I want to help, Neuvillette. To do something.”

“I would make you sad.”

“You dying would make me sadder.”

“Temporarily. You’ll get over it.”

The unaffected tone with which he spoke made something in Wriothesley snap. “It’s been four hundred years and you still couldn’t get over Carole and Vautrin,” he shot back, “What makes you think I’ll get over you?”

To this Neuvillette had no response.

“I’ll live my whole life knowing I failed you.” In truth, that was what he was already feeling. “I don’t know what it is that you think, but let me tell you one thing — Monsieur Neuvillette,” he nearly broke down again, his throat clogged for a good second or two by a wave of soreness that rose to his nose. Swallowing, he sucked in a breath, cold and sharp, to regain his composure. “You’ve already done everything you can for us. Let me do something for you. Please.”

He waited in vain for a reply.

IV. Agape

He opened his eyes.

A faint dizziness clung to his head and throbbed behind his eyeballs. And then he was vaguely aware of a dim, warm light swimming above him. Like a hazy ghost it wandered aimlessly in his field of vision, shivering at his gaze.

“Neuvillette?”

A fuzzy black blob came into view, and he reached out involuntarily to touch it. A set of strong fingers intertwined with his. They gave his hand a squeeze, before they suddenly stopped in their motion.

“Hang on,” said Wriothesley, “Neuvillette, are you — are you able to see now?”

Neuvillette blinked. And so did everything within his line of sight, like a light turning off and on.

“I believe I can perceive some forms of light and dark, yes.”

“That’s,” A pause. “That’s. That’s great. It means you’re getting better.”

He watched quietly as the world rearranged itself in smears and streaks. It was almost fascinating. He’d been in the darkness for so long that he must’ve gotten used to it and he was beginning to wonder if this was all just a dream.

“Yeah,” he agreed weakly, “Yeah.”

He thought he could see Wriothesley smile. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as he thought.

Quietly in the distance a faucet was dripping.

The next thing he remembered, he was no longer in the infirmary. Neuvillette scanned his surroundings, and beheld the all-too-familiar sight of an imposing, dimly lit hall — of a magnificent stage, of rows of velvety red seats. The operahouse, however, looked somewhat different from what he was used to, and when he looked up to see his usual judge’s seat conspicuously vacant, he realized that he was standing on the defendant’s balcony. And the view was sure a contrast, slanted, partial — distorted, even. He couldn’t remember when he got here, why he was here, what he was doing, or why he was clenching a pistol in his right hand. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, though there was no audience.

There was a pair of hands clasped to his shoulders, shaking him as if trying to wake him up. He couldn’t see who they belonged to because they were shaking him from behind. For some reason, however, he thought it was Wriothesley.

“Neuvillette,” the person spoke, and Wriothesley it was indeed. “Neuvillette, can you hear me?”

He tried to turn around, but the grip on his shoulders was too tight and forced him to stay in place. Neuvillette felt the strings inside him begin to tense. “Wriothesley.”

“Can you hear me? Please, please say something,” the Duke continued to beseech him.

“Wriothesley, I’m here,” he said, this time louder. But still the man behind him seemed to take no notice and kept repeating himself, and Neuvillette started feeling afraid. At some point he was shouting, but remained unheard. The world seemed to turn upside down and then upright again, swaying and crumbling and threatening to swallow him.

He wrenched away from Wriothesley’s grasp, and whipped around to face him. Wriothesley’s hands remained raised in midair, as if still on an imaginary pair of shoulders, and his eyes were wide and bloodshot and he kept mumbling, though now his words were mostly incoherent. His voice faltered and rose, pleading and accusing and gloomy and furious. Endless cycles, one leading into another, spiraling out uncontained.

It was almost like an instinctive reaction. The next thing he knew was that he was pointing the pistol at Wriothesley. The stage lights above him poured down like boiling water, and something burst forth from within the depths of his head and filled his eyes with blazing white light. It was something old, bleeding, festering, long overdue, something that he had tried so desperately to keep locked away for centuries. It reminded him of the instant the Primordial Seawater tore open the trapdoor in the Fortress of Meropide, or when he finally decided to turn on the dripping faucet and let the water spew out in a deluge to drown out the drip, drip, drip that went on and on. The trigger gave, and Wriothesley’s eyes grew even wider as he stared, in his direction but not at him.

The recoil of the pistol sent Neuvillette staggering slightly and plunged him into a brief moment of clarity where what he had done finally registered in his mind. Perhaps there had been immediate regret, perhaps not. But all he knew was that it had been done.

He emptied the pistol of its remaining bullets into the man before him. His ears ached as each shot seemed to ring in resonance, and the smell of ashes stung at his nose.

“No!”

His voice came out like a broken flute as he jolted up into a sitting position on the bed. “Wriothesley,” he gasped, “Wriothesley.”

Everything was pitch dark, and he thought he had completely lost his eyesight again until he detected a faint swirl of movement before him that proved otherwise. Then something warm was wrapped around him.

“Neuvillette. Neuvillette? Can you hear me?”

Those words again. He nearly screamed.

“It’s alright, I’m here.”

He clawed frantically at the air until he felt the texture of fabric and skin on his arms and proceeded to bury himself in headfirst. A familiar scent crackled at his nose. It was then that the eggshell of the dream cracked open, and reality began to materialize.

“It’s all my fault. I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Wriothesley’s arms were around his shoulders. “Sigewinne is right. You do need to stop apologizing for everything.”

“But — ”

“Whatever it is that happened, it’s not your fault.”

But it is, said a voice in his head, but it was overwhelmed by a greater need for something else. “I’m cold,” he slurred, “I’m cold. It’s so cold.” He became suddenly aware of his sweat-drenched clothing that was sticking uncomfortably to his skin. His own hands were cold and slimy, like eels. But Wriothesley seemed to take no notice of his unsavory state and only held him closer, whispering words of comfort in his ear.

Wriothesley was warm. And for once, he let himself indulge.

“What if,” the Duke suggested, “I take you up to the overworld this morning? It is springtime, the weather is warm. It might, um, you know… help.” For the lack of a better phrase. “Some fresh air might do you good too.”

“It doesn’t have to take long, and the entrance to the Fortress is fairly secluded. No one will know that we’re there. Besides Sigewinne, of course. I would probably need her discretion.”

Neuvillette said nothing for a long time. His heavy breathing gradually steadied, and Wriothesley had thought he’d fallen asleep again until he heard a muffled voice come from below him.

“That… that might be nice.”

“How is Monsieur Neuvillette?”

Sigewinne smiled as her overworld counterparts fixated their anxious gazes on her. “His vision has recovered somewhat. As for his psychological condition — ” She sighed. “What we are witnessing here is the result of four hundred years of repressed emotion. It will take much more time to unwind than physical damage. But Duke Wriothesley asked me earlier whether he could bring Monsieur Neuvillette to the overworld for a walk this morning. That Monsieur Neuvillette agreed to this, I believe, is a good sign.”

The other Melusines visibly brightened.

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Sedene. “We were all worried sick. Liath here couldn’t sleep for days.”

She paused, before hastily adding: “Don’t let Monsieur Neuvillette know that last part, of course. We don’t want him to feel like it’s his fault.”

If this were any other situation, Sigewinne may have chuckled. “You know him too well.”

Sedene’s ears drooped. “Not well enough. I see Monsieur Neuvillette everyday — if I’d noticed something awry earlier — ”

“Hey, Sedene, don’t blame yourself!” said Sigewinne, quickly patting her friend on the shoulder. “Nobody is to blame for anything that happened. Monsieur Neuvillette is just… ”

She looked up towards the sunny skies overhead.

“… too kind.”

Wriothesley held his hand in a firm grip as he guided him towards the exit of the Fortress. There was apparently a private passageway that led directly from Wriothesley’s office to that elevator section, which spared them from being noticed by others along the way.

“Ready?”

“You sound as if we’re about to break the law.”

There was a tinge of amusement in his tone, and Wriothesley felt as if something that had been hanging by a thread in his heart had finally settled. He laughed. It felt like ages since he was last able to laugh so heartily. He cupped Neuvillette’s cheeks with both his hands and landed a brief kiss on his forehead.

“Then you’ll have to forgive me, Monsieur Chief Justice.”

Neuvillette heard the low rumble of the elevator running, and the clink of metals as its door slid open. Wriothesley’s hand was now on his shoulder as he gently ushered him in.

His vision was still blurry and feeble, and according to Wriothesley the day was still young, but there was no mistaking the rays of sunlight that were now attacking his eyes as they neared the surface. They were bright, much brighter than any of the artificial lighting down in the Fortress. For a brief moment he fell under the illusion that he was a prisoner who’d just finished serving their sentence, emerging into the overworld for the first time in many years. A strange feeling stirred feverishly in his stomach — was it anticipation or fear? It had been a long time since he had felt either.

“Wriothesley,” he called out, for no particular reason.

“I’m here.”

The sun was hot and dry against his skin, making tears prick at his eyes. For the first time in his long life, Neuvillette finally let them fall freely, without resistance on his part.

His tears burned into his face, searing, blistering, alive.