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At first, it was a passing thought.
If, no, when Wriothesley dies, and the years pass by, what will Neuvillette do then?
One look at Neuvillette was all you needed to tell that he was not human.
Unless a human had long blue antennas that ornamented their luscious white hair, or opalescent periwinkle pupils that seemed to pierce one’s soul at first sight.
Despite his concerted efforts to keep his identity a secret, it would have been impossible to hide it from anyone he was intimate with. Especially when they had a watchful gaze like a hawk, and especially not when they had an aptitude for observation like Wriothesley.
The evidence of Neuvillette's immortality was damning and while most people regarded his dragon-like features as unsightly or scary, Wriothesley found it to be the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.
In all fairness, most people had also never seen the faint luminescence emitted by those antennas during Neuvillette's moments of vulnerability, nor had they witnessed the contrast of his captivating orbs as he convulsed in ecstasy beneath Wriothesley, tears welling up in those eyes from the relentless waves of pleasure cascading over him in succession.
Most people had never seen when Neuvillette was his most beautiful.
The question turned from a question of Neuvillette's humanity to the precise nature of his being. What exactly was Neuvillette?
Whispers among the land say he was cursed to serve as Chief Justice for eternity by their Archon. Others say he was a vampire that fed off the blood of the living to stay young, which is a… creative theory to say the least.
Wriothesley had his personal theories, and between the passionate moments they’d had and the rain, he couldn’t decide which was more useful in confirming his most pressing theory.
Let’s just say he didn’t expect dragons to be so attractive.
✦
The dead of night had never felt as alive as when they laid in each other’s comfort. The luminescence-like blue glow of those ethereal antennas painted the room with a tinge that prevented absolute darkness.
Wriothesley was in his head.
He had a strange knack for conjuring up the darkest topics when allowed to simmer in his own mind and oddly more so when the head that housed that strange mind of his was nestled into his boyfriend’s chest.
“Neuv…?”
“Yes, love?”
There was a hesitance. Wriothesley was an inherently patient man, maybe this could wait for another night. Yet his curiosity gnawed at him like fire. He drew a silent yet chasmic breath, steeling himself before he allowed his impulsive tongue to strike.
"So… you’re immortal, right?"
"Must I explain it again?"
“Heh, sorry, practically immortal.”
A hum of approval.
"You’ll live for much longer than me, right?"
He could sense where Wriothesley was going with this. In all honesty, it was something that deeply unsettled him, but if it indulged his lover's curiosity, he'd let him go wherever he needed to.
"That's what it entails, yes."
"I was just thinking, well…”
Wriothesley began unconsciously toying with Neuvillette’ sleeves. Neuvillette had grown more than accustomed to this little habit of his. It was his telltale sign of nervousness, which would seem rare seeing as he had a phenomenal poker face.
“What would you do once I'm gone?”
Predictable.
"What do you reckon I do?"
The once imaginative mind, capable of delving into profound depths, was now black like an unused parchment. He knew Neuvillette like the back of his hand, and much better than anyone else did, save for Furina, but had not a clue of a course of action that Neuvillette would take.
In his exhausted stupor, he mumbled an answer, a dumb answer that, in hindsight, was completely implausible.
"Fuck… I don’t know… move on with your life? Start an actual family…”
The latter point was mumbled under his breath.
Neuvillette stifled his laughter before eventually succumbing to a chuckle, prompting the man in his arms to lift his gaze with a questioning expression, an eyebrow raised.
"Come on, is it that stupid of a guess?"
Neuvillette cleared his throat in an attempt to ground himself, keeping his tone light-hearted.
"lf I ever have plans to ‘move on’, promise me you'd climb out of your grave and pull me down with you.”
Those who said the Chief Justice lacked a sense of humour either enjoyed lying or are sorely mistaken.
“Deal but really, I’m curious. What would you do?”
A contemplative pause.
Neuvillette had pondered it far too many times. How could he not?
Mingling with humans, forging close friendships with them, loving them — It left a nauseatingly bitter taste on his tongue. The stark realisation that Neuvillette was to see them pass eventually.
He was not an idiot. He knew full well how delicate his heart was, Fontaine’s proneness to rain being a testament to that.
For hundreds of years, up in his court’s throne, observing and passing judgement, maintaining a cautious distance with humanity while observing the curiosities of their lives. All to protect a fragile heart.
He’s already faltered once for Carole and Vautrin, and he thought it better to never repeat that mistake.
And yet here he was with the one man he’s allowed himself to love after all this time, and the melusine he saw as his own daughter, both poised to be his undoing.
Neuvillette was desperate to avoid the question. “It’s far too early to be thinking of such things. We aren’t even married.”
To be fair, neither of them felt the need for a wedding, nor did they want to go through the paperwork necessary to elope. It was troublesome, and they had no time to put a stop to the fast momentum of their busy jobs or lives to mull it over. It didn’t make a difference either, seeing as they acted as if they were their respective husbands, even developing a habit of slipping up and calling the other their husband.
A wedding would be a spectacle and their love was not something they wished to become entertainment for their plot-twist loving, drama-addicted nation. The public didn’t even know of their sexual preferences, much less about their romantic involvement with one another. Not that they made special arrangements to keep it under wraps, it was simply not in their nature to “show off”.
Wriothesley’s mind began working in overdrive. Fears sprouted from incessant thoughts. It was least expected, considering his childhood and occupation, from him to be grappling with the notion of death now. One would expect him to be desensitised, hardened.
As calloused as he was, desensitised he was not.
Death shadowed him throughout his life. Hardly able to touch but always there.
His biological parents were rendered as good as dead when they abandoned him, sealing his fate before his life could truly begin.
His own siblings — at least the ones he couldn’t free — sold off as commodities and in the best case scenario, decaying in an unmarked grave. Worst case scenario? Alive but still suffering under the whip of some rich noblemen who got off on that kind of thing and had enough money to cover up their wrongdoings.
Even his foster parents, the source of his suffering, met their end — Ironically, at his own hands.
And in spite of it all, he was still standing, alive and strong, as if he weren’t still bleeding from wounds that should have long been healed if salt weren’t thrown in them at every turn.
“Your thoughts are buzzing. What's on your mind now?"
Baritone vocals snap his thoughts away like a light switch had been pressed, clearing his dark clouds like the sun and its majestic radiance. Pale blue eyes peek up, connecting their gaze with myrtle coloured eyes. Pale blue eyes that usually had a predatory regard in them. Pale blue eyes that were now weak, droopy, pathetic in Neuvillette’s wake.
Pathetic. That was exactly the word for it.
For Neuvillette, he was pathetic.
Even if he had all the power and status in his hands, Neuvillette held all his weakness in the palms of his.
Soft hands that made him buckle under the slightest touch of their fingertips.
‘What am I to do with you, Neuvillette?’
A few moments of silence pass, far from awkward. They held their gaze in a comfortable hush, mapping each others’ irises.
Finally, Wriothesley’s thoughts catch up to him, giving him the courage to break his gaze from Neuvillette’s clutch and breaking the silence.
“Death is weird. And scary. But if I do die, don’t let me weigh you down”
‘Weigh me down? What nonsense.’
He had been living nearly 6000 years, and yet he had not felt nearly as alive as he did all those years as compared to when he found love in Wriothesley. With every word of this conversation that passed, a truth was realised. A fear that terrified him truly.
Neuvillette did not want to be alone again. Never again.
He did not want to be without Wriothesley.
Without lingering on his thoughts, he spoke. "We could extend your life somehow, I hear-"
"Nah."
He was slightly dumbfounded by the quick response. He was so sure of himself, almost too sure. In the brief moment before Wriothesley explained himself, Neuvillette’s mind had already wandered into pessimism — a persistent habit of his.
'Nah'? What did that mean? Perhaps, he didn't reciprocate the same devotion that Neuvillette held for him. Or maybe he was getting weary of him, unable to see them together for eternity. Was Neuvillette really that boring for hi-
A kiss against his chest wakes him up from his thoughts. Chaste, yet sweet. It was as if Wriothesley could hear his every thought.
"It takes… less than justful means… to increase a human’s lifespan. Even more so to make someone immortal. I don’t wanna see either of us go down that path, alright?”
Though most of his words were muffled into his chest, Neuvillette heard him loud and clear. As his doubts were cleared, he couldn’t hold back the smile that crept onto his thin lips.
For someone serving as a Chief Justice, he, in contrast, didn’t seem phased at the idea of committing a crime so heinous just to keep Wriothesley alive. He’d kill who he’d have to, sacrifice his title, disparage his name. If he’d permit, he’d commit the worst of crimes just to extend Wriothesley’s lifespan. To have his humanity by his side. But if it didn’t please him, what was there for him to do?
“If I die, I’ll send myself to the moon. So I can still see you and Sigewinne every night.”
“What nonsense.”
Their conversation eventually fizzled out into caresses and kisses, enjoying the scant moment of physical affection they had during the night. In the morning, they’ll go about their jobs without the sight of each other, diving mile high into their respective mountains of paperwork with the hopes to find the smallest shred of time in their schedules for an impromptu meeting in one office or the other.
✦
To Sigewinne, it was “Your Grace” and “Monsieur” during work hours, “Pa” and “Dad” off the clock.
There was a duality in their lives that she found appealing. As head nurse of the fortress, she had the privilege of seeing the couple confident and powerful at work, only to go home and witness how unbecoming they can be around each other.
To add to intrigue, she was much older than Wriothesley himself, even watching him grow up, and yet still referred to him like a father. Melusines had a unique way around family titles that was ungoverned by conventional thinking.
While on her trips to the overworld, she made it a point to pay a visit to her other father. She found the dynamic funny, it was like two divorced parents with split custody. Melusines are weird.
However, this visit proved to be atypical. Her dad’s heart rate was a beat faster, his antennas were duller than usual. It was raining. It was as clear as water that something was wrong.
“Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”
The silence was thicker than usual.
Neuvillette met the inquisitive look in her eye, parting with his reflection in the glass of water in his hand.
“My apologies, Sigewinne. It seems my mind was wandering.” The corners of his lips hinted at a mild tug, an expression that might seem neutral on anyone else but, on Neuvillette, resembled a warm smile.
“There has been something that has been… troubling me. Mention none of this to Wriothesley, will you?”
Sigewinne’s ears perked up. The thought of keeping some special secret from Wriothesley excited her. She flashed the dragon a thumbs up. “Your secret’s safe with me, Monsieur.”
In any normal father-daughter relationship, this wasn't the most appropriate topic for discussion.
Fortunately, and unfortunately, there was nothing normal about their family. A father-father-daughter dynamic between a dragon, a human and a melusine set the stage for the most peculiar conversations.
“Wriothesley… He asked me the other night what I’d do once he passes.”
A frown began to take root on her face, deepening at every word said. She'd always been somewhat aware that she would outlive Wriothesley, but she never thought of confronting it so directly. She didn’t know the first thing about dealing with her emotions on the matter and was far from figuring it out.
However, what she did know was Wriothesley, intricately. She knew his ticks, preferences, specifications and pet peeves in a way unparalleled by anyone else. From his dislike for being touched without explicit verbal permission to the intricacies of how he liked his tea, whatever it was to do with him, she had a wealth of information.
Her medical file on him, while much about his family history had been omitted, delved extensively into his behavioural patterns — much like an overly detailed character study. Once again, I remind you, Melusines are weird.
Even Neuvillette himself seeks her out when he notices something awry with his spouse, just as he was doing now.
“He’s always been calm about death, Monsieur. Especially his own.” Sigewinne said it so matter-of-factly, as if it was an ordinary thing for someone to be nonchalant about.
Neuvillette was already well aware of this. As his lover, he’d been subjected to many of Wriothesley’s late night rants and it was hard not to notice the surprisingly dark turns some of them took.
"He explicitly urged me not to let him 'weigh me down”, if I may quote him. He also made it clear that I should refrain from any attempts to prolong his lifespan."
A melancholic atmosphere settled between them, leaving behind a palpable taste of dejection.
"I'd prefer not to share any of this with him, but the idea of him... passing... greatly disturbs me."
An accidental sigh escaped Sigewinne’s parted lips. She set her tea down briefly
Wriothesley’s suicidal tendencies were no secret to her, not to mention his equally as concerning predisposition to getting hurt. Both of which were written in detail in his "medical file", and both of which Neuvillette was acutely aware about.
There was one conclusion, one coda that Sigewinne could use that could explain away his behaviour.
Trauma leaves an indelible mark on a person.
For a prison warden and a boxer who had seen their fair share of gruesome injuries, Wriothesley still flinches at the sight of blood.
He winces at unexpected skin contact and places an utmost emphasis on consent.
His reluctance to trust others, the fact that he can actually sleep with one eye open.
Sigewinne found herself speechless, realising that there were no words she could offer that her father hadn't already heard or wasn't already aware of.
They sipped their respective beverages in silent solidarity, making a subtle toast to the unconventional predicament they've found themselves in.
To abnormally long lifespans, To their strange family, To the inevitability of death.
When all was said and done, it was still raining.
✦
Saying that Wriothesley aged gracefully would be an understatement.
His dark stubble had begun to turn white, mirroring the salt and pepper of his locks. For a man at 55, he looked nothing short of astonishing.
Nevertheless, time took a physical toll on him. Despite having retired from boxing, he still tried his best to keep fit, occasionally releasing his pent up stress on a sandbag. His bones were degenerating faster than he’d like them to, rendering him too weak to take on an actual person.
He continued to serve as Fortress Administrator, though Sigewinne harshly insisted that she take up most of his responsibility. His role being whittled down to paperwork and occasional discipline.
In incredible juxtaposition, Neuvillette remained the same spitting image of himself. Not a day over 6000.
The setting sun bathed the room in an orange hue, casting beautiful golden rays that danced off the white marble walls and intricate carvings of the office. Two cups of tea sat forgotten on Neuvillette’s desk.
Neuvillette was a vision of beauty, utterly flawless. The evening glow played gracefully against his fair skin like a soothing massage. He was remarkably youthful and he seemed almost ethereal, especially when seated on Wriothesley’s lap.
The setting sun changed the way his eyes looked. There was a depth to his irises that looked celestial, pale purple soaked in a wash of autumn as light bounced off of his pupils. His hair was in a long, beautiful braid with marcotte and pliue lotuses carefully adorning it, courtesy of Sedene and her fellow Melusines’ hard work.
Wriothesley was careful to not ruin the handiwork, knowing how it would upset his love. But if it came between them physically, he wouldn’t mind crushing a few petals.
“Do I still look kissable to you?” Wriothesley sat on the desk chair, head nuzzled into the crook on Neuvillette’s neck who was finishing up the last bit of paperwork he had left before he could return home.
“I don’t think I’m as much of a show-stopper as I was when I was younger.”
Neuvillette raised an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder. He thought the question to be amusing. Kissable? He had to be kidding with such an understatement of his handsomeness.
Neuvillette found him charming, mature, and just as alluring as he was the day they first kissed. Of course, his appearance has changed significantly, but goodness, if he could allow himself to be vulgar and blunt, Wriothesley was hot as fuck. “Attractive” was not an adjective worthy of him, and there will never be a word that could truly sum up his gruff charisma.
“Dear, I could kiss you a thousand times over.”
There was a distant sorrow in every word said. Distant, but still watching.
Every wrinkle that adorned his face was evidence of the years passed. Like an hourglass, each sand that fell, though one particle at a time, there was no denying that time was flying by.
And their time was running extremely short.
“You flatter me too much.”
“It isn’t flattery, it’s the truth.”
A kiss, passionate, lingering and doleful.
Time, with all its uncaring cruelty, hung in the air above their heads. Like a guillotine, begging for its blade to fall.
Though Wriothesley was far from being put on his deathbed, there was an unshakable certainty that it would come faster then they anticipated. Faster than either of them wanted.
The things Neuvillette would do, despicable things, just for Wriothesley to be with him for just a big longer. For a fraction of a second to kiss him once more. If Wriothesley would give him the go ahead, the people he would kill — the people he would sacrifice.
The irony of a heavenly dragon preparing sacrifices for a human made of sin.
He swallowed these thoughts and buried them in his gut.
✦
The intense smell of petrichor. Grey clouds muting the sunlight. Black umbrellas forming a canopy over mourning heads.
Fontaine had been abused by a torrential downpour that lasted months on end.
The grass and mud of the graveyard softened under the overwhelming moisture, the steps of a hundred mourners proved unforgiving to the soil as they mushed it to mud.
Sobs and sniffles punctuated the air that weighed heavy from the gravity of grief. A sea of grievers, all clad in black attire, crowded the sacred grounds.
There were about a hundred, Neuvillette estimated. Then again, an estimation through eyes clouded with tears wasn’t bound to be the most accurate one.
The crowd consisted of Meropide guards and staff, retired and still serving alike. Melusines who mourned alongside Neuvillette, old friends, Sigewinne, ex-inmates who owed everything to Wriothesley. It spoke volumes to just how many lives Wriothesley had touched, the profound impact he had on the people around him. The only notable absence was family, a fact that Neuvillette couldn't help but acknowledge.
News reporters, press writers, and journalists loitered in the periphery like a shadow, trailing and capturing each moment and movement. They remained a respectful distance away from the grave, which Neuvillette was thankful for despite the disgust he felt.
Did the events of his life, — the events of Wriothesley’s life — did all of it boil down to entertainment for the masses?
Neuvillette was almost unrecognisable. He did not take any special measures to hide his identity, this was just one of the only times the public has seen him out of his regular judicial clothing. For one, his hair was tied into a neat bun atop of his head, a stark contrast to the customary low tie and bow. A black veil obscured his face, and he leaned on a black cane.
It was a strange similarity to the way a widow would dress.
Adorned in a simple black suit with a few accent pieces, Neuvillette's appearance carried an air of mourning and solemnity that repelled reporters from even daring to interview him.
He stood at the very front, eyes completely entranced. Watching as the casket was lowered by his loyal men.
Unlike the others, he didn't seek shelter under an umbrella. The rain mingled freely with the salt of his tears, his drenched state a mere afterthought; his focus was solely on the casket.
Panic surged, sudden and blinding. His heartbeat echoed in his ears as he stood as a helpless witness. Incompetent and vain, unable to do anything but watch as Wriothesley was torn from him.
The veil did little to conceal the continuous stream of tears, like a relentless waterfall from the heavens. Tears in the forefront of a backdrop of amethyst pain.
In his right hand, the one unoccupied by a cane, Neuvillette clutched Sigewinne's hand. His grip was unintentionally tight, and Sigewinne reciprocated with a firm hold of her own. They found a fleeting solace in the others' hand.
Sigewinne was far beyond distraught, cutting the edge of devastation. She had little memory of how her life had been without Wriothesley. The strange boy she met had grown into the father she now mourned.
He was gone, just like that.
And in her own heart’s spite, she was already starting to forget.
How did he smell, that unique blend of bergamot and tea? What was the timber of his voice, and how long was his hair? The details were vanishing away, leaving a sting of loss in their wake.
She didn’t want to forget, she couldn’t
But no matter how hard she could beg, how hard she could pray, there was no preventing the inevitable.
As the dirt was piled into the grave, the dragon and melusine stood impotent, bystanders to the departure of the person who had brought them together, the man they loved so dearly. Wriothesley slipped through their fingers like sand, leaving a void that seemed impossible to fill.
No words passed between the crowd. Neuvillette and Sigewinne didn't need to exchange glances or speak to exchange sentiments.
There was nothing to be said that the other didn't already feel or understand— a silent solidarity that transcended words.
The crowd behind them began to disperse slowly, each person having paid their respects and offered their blessings to the grave. The sudden emptiness left a sense of desolation in its wake.
Neuvillette urged Sigewinne to return home first, though home could not truly feel like how it had.
"You need not wait for me, dear." The sun had begun to set, he’d prefer it — no, Wriothesley preferred it if Sigewinne was home by then.
Though with a hesitance, she left him to mourn in his lonesome. She knew it’d do him some good.
Bright and dull flowers, an array of vibrant hues, adorned the grave like a living tapestry.
'I wonder if Wriothesley would like these, I could take them back home and...'
Nevermind.
Gaunt hands ghosted over the headstone.
Memories, bittersweet memories, swamped Neuvillette's mind.
To think he once regarded him as just another face in his court — a peculiar boy whom he initially regarded as just another criminal.
The usual dance in the courtroom consisted of criminals that at least attempted to prove their innocence, even when guilt seemed apparent. But Wriothesley, a name that wasn’t even his, offered no defence, no opportunity for the prosecution to explore the motives behind his actions. Even Lady Furina excused herself half way as she saw no use in monitoring a trial that was an open and shut case.
While Neuvillette found it curious, his thoughts rarely lingered about him as he served his sentence. As judge he had a role to play, cold and distant, even if the rain said otherwise.
It wasn't until much, much later when he heard news that Wriothesley sought to assume command of the fortress that their paths converged once more.
The teenage boy he himself sent to repent for his crimes had matured into a smart and talented man. Neuvillette, initially reserved, found himself trusting Wriothesley, deeply. The transformation was profound, and the trust Neuvillette placed in him was evident as they fought together to earn Wriothesley's title as Duke.
Though Wriothesley could be pinned as the one who fell first, there was no argument that Neuvillette fell twice as hard.
And now, Wriothesley was gone, returned to the soil.
Death was not a foreign concept to him; it had become a customary part of his existence over his 6000 years of life. It was precisely this familiarity with loss that had led Neuvillette to maintain a careful emotional gap, especially around humans. Even before Carole and Vautrin’s passings, he kept them at arms’ length.
Yet, Wriothesley became the exception. The one man he allowed himself to get close to, to love, and the man who reciprocated that trust by placing his life in Neuvillette's hands.
In the palm of Wriothesley's hands laid every weakness that Neuvillette had guarded for centuries. The very thing he had desperately tried to prevent — a deep emotional connection that could leave him exposed and wounded — had now come to fruition.
In the face of overwhelming loneliness and unbearable pain, Neuvillette discovered an unexpected absence of fear. The emptiness left by Wriothesley's departure was poignant, but within that emptiness, a strange sense of comfort emerged, coursing through his veins and providing an unforeseen relief.
His gaze drifted to the expansive canvas of the night sky. Rain had turned into a drizzle. The full moon hung brightly — No, the moon held no innate brightness of its own. It exists solely to mirror the sun's radiance, and yet, in its reflection, it possessed a breathtaking beauty.
Whatever ethereal light that the moon could offer kissed Neuvillette's pale skin, he felt a subtle consolation in each delicate ray. It was as if the moon, in its borrowed luminescence, offered a hush condolence. A serene presence, whispering reassurance to a grieving soul.
He wondered for a moment whether Wriothesley had truly sent his soul to the moon. It was a stupid idea to even think but if there was even a shred of a possibility that he had, Neuvillette was willing to gamble on it.
To think that he was still watching over him and Sigewinne. How he hoped it would be true.
The rain opened up the sky, a smile dignified his lips.
“The moon is beautiful, Sweetheart.”