Chapter Text
“Out in the court the fountain chatters
And does not cease by day or night.”
The Fontaine, Charles Baudelaire
“The nerve on her.”
“So soon after her father’s sentencing..?!”
“Si provocatrice!”
“Mademoiselle Ruisseau, you truly know no shame!”
Their dissent notwithstanding, The shocked, outraged and scandalized masses make way for you. Head held high, you ignore the comments. Stained though your name might be, dragged through every muddy lake in Fontaine of any significance, you are still a Ruisseau, impeccably bred and educated. Theirs will not be the satisfaction of seeing you lose footing on the delicate terrain of what is commonly known as Fontainian diplomacy.
The guards standing before the Opera Epiclese look none too surprised by your unannounced arrival. News travels fast in Fontaine, especially that of a scandalous character. One of the armed people, an awkward youth, is visibly shaken as he attempts to barr your path.
“They are in the midst of a performance, Mademoiselle,” he chokes out, ogling the vision hanging at your throat as it catches the light of a setting summer sun.
You give him your most radiant smile, although it does not quite reach your eyes. “Excellent. I shall wait in the anteroom until they are finished then.”
What have they brought this time? A wind-gliding monkey? A choir of hilichurls? The possibilities for demented indulgence were endless. Surely there were better ways to flaunt one’s wealth?
Placated by your lovely bearing he lets you through the doors and into the splendorous, gilded world of the Opera.
As a child visiting for the first time, you were nothing short of besotted with the place, but as you grew and matured into a young woman, you began to view it with much distaste. The sharp stench of pretense permeates through every richly decorated surface. Dark whispers of intrigue take flight like a murder of crows whenever people of means and influence gather; trickery and duplicity prevail even upon the bravest and most honorable of hearts.
You hate how they make you play the game .
Jaws set tight enough to hurt, you pace the rich flooring, the bedazzling lights hurting your eyes. It had been a long, gruesome journey from Mondstadt. Business cut short by the unpleasant news, you had embarked home the moment you were able, yet the Gods had other plans. Be it treasure hoarders ambushing your caravan, or a sea storm that nearly swallowed your ship, you had to overcome many obstacles before you at last reached home.
The welcome you had received was lukewarm on the surface, boiling with animosity underneath.
A great, booming applause sounds from inside the Opera Epiclese’s biggest hall, signaling your waiting is at its end at last. As you did outside, you give no regard to the widening of eyes and gaping of mouths as you are inevitably spotted by the exiting visitors and walk swiftly towards them. If anything, you draw a little enjoyment from the way they squeak and jump out of way; ladies clutching at their fans and handbags, gents eyeing you with a mix of distaste and passive lasciviousness. You did choose to wear your best dress today; the one which color suits your eyes, its cut elevates your curves.
A fitting choice of finery for the occasion of meeting none other than the Chief Justice.
Regrettably, it is not the Iudex who first dares cross your path.
“The prodigal daughter returns.” Muses the lady Furina, eyes alight with something like mischief. You both extend to the other a curtsy, hers lazy, yours tense. “Mademoiselle Ruisseau, you were most missed at your father’s trial.”
“Lady Furina.” You say with an air of barely concealed pique. It is all a game for her. A play in which she, adored by the audience, plays le rôle principal. Past grievances fill your mind, leaving a bad taste in your mouth. Already driven close to fuming by her mere presence, you cannot resist your next words, unwise though they are. “You should know, being the one who raised the accusations against my father in the first place.”
She waves dismissively, taking your rather bold claim all in stride. “I merely shed some light on the findings of a long-going investigation. It was the Garde who gathered the evidence, heard out the involved witnesses, and reached the necessary conclusions. Therein, mademoiselle, should lie your misplaced indignation.” She grins in triumph; knows the upper hand is hers by right - was so the moment the Oratrice spat out your father’s guilty verdict, supported by Neuvillette’s own. “In justice .”
In riling you up, she succeeds admirably. An angry expression disgraces your face before you contort your features into the pleasing facade you so charmed the guard from earlier with. You came to play the pleading, humble daughter; reasonable and firm in her disapproval, yet non combative, lest you end up on trial yourself.
“I have to ask, lady Furina; was the timing of the trial purely accidental, or was it necessary to prosecute my aged, sickly father-” you make sure to accentuate your father’s condition “-the moment his only daughter and protector was traveled away half across Teyvat on business?” You try to keep your growing malice out of your words. You are worried for your father, is all. Fearing for his health, what with the prison and all. The very image of the perfect, dutiful daughter.
“Are you suggesting that justice should bend itself for the comfort of mortals?” Rising her eyebrows, Furina looks insufferable enough that you are itching to punch that self-righteous look right off her face. “ Justice, my dear, waits for no one. On the contrary, it strikes when and where the criminal elements least expect it to ensure it will be seen to its satisfying end. We acted the moment we deemed fit–to keep the public safe, you must understand.”
“And the public had their much desired spectacle,” you cannot help but hiss, abandoning that meek, abiding visage you so dearly tried to hold onto, old animosity seeping from underneath the mask. “A feeble old man disgracing himself on stage without a reliable defense, no one who would stand for him.”
Furina studies you for a moment, big eyes unblinking, tinted with curiosity. “Poor old Ruisseau spending the rest of his days in the fortress of Meropide paints a sad picture indeed, but then, you have lost more than a father,” she notes, slyly, the full scope of your situation dawning upon her, “With his assets frozen, his fortune seized, you are almost, if not certainly, destitute.”
A heat crawls up your body; a numbing prickling underneath your skin. The vision at your throat burns ; your hands are freezing cold. You are a failure and will never amount to anything .
Emboldened by your strong reaction, she continues. “Of course, you might live comfortably enough out of your own purse, for a while, that is. When that runs out, though, whatever lies in store for you? Servitude abroad, perhaps? You are quite the warrior, mademoiselle Ruisseau - nothing compared to the likes of my champion duelists, naturally, but enough to earn a living among the Eremites of Sumeru, for example. But should you choose to remain in Fontaine…” She looks you up and down. “You should start by selling your dresses.”
You’ve half a mind to remind her of the days you once ranked among her precious duelists. You’d like to tell her a great many deal of things, naturally, but rank and circumstance keep you at a distance. Like a dog on a leash, you are all bark and no bite .
“A most shameful display,” says a voice coming from behind Lady Furina. Unhurried, measured steps carry him, tall and elegant, the very image of propriety. As always, the Iudex is impeccably dressed, long hair flowing past his waist, lilac and silver eyes trained first on Furina, then settling over your frame, still shaking with rage. “Are altercations to be solved with threats and derision?” He speaks softly. His serene face remains impassive even when scolding.
“Ah.” Lady Furina folds her arms over her chest, none too pleased to see him, and a little disheartened to be caught in this situation. “I was merely educating mademoiselle Ruisseau here on the nature of the Judicial–frankly, she is a little too old for the lesson, but it is never too late to-”
“Was there not an after party you were talking about looking forward to?” Neuvillette cuts her off, smoothly. “Something about monkeys riding bicycles?” He adds, when she just stares at him, unblinking.
“Seals,” she corrects him, begrudgingly, as if the detail was of great importance, “there were to be seals. On unicycles .”
A silence befalls you then. The Chief Justice holds her stare expectantly.
“Right,” sighs Furina, defeated, “I shall be greatly missed if I do not attend. As you were, Neuvillette.” She nods you good-bye too, smiling pleasantly. “Mademoiselle Ruisseau.” You return her nod with your own, unsmiling.
She leaves, leaving you alone with the Iudex. Suddenly remembering your reason for coming here, you open your mouth to speak. “Monsieur Neuvillette-”
“Mademoiselle Ruisseau, is it?” There is something in his eyes, a dark cloud passing over skies of lilac and silver, that makes you think he knows exactly who you are. “I was given information that you were on a trip to Mondstadt, conducting business in your father’s place.”
“With all due respect, monsieur,” you say, “Without the quarries and smithies, there is little business left.”
That had been the wrong answer, for a small frown lines his otherwise ageless face. “The very same quarries which had provided the Fatui and a number of other unsavory characters with a steady supply of arms? To your family’s great profit, of course.”
“‘Tis no more than a vile scheme,” you reply, once again on the defense and growing increasingly desperate in expression, “Put together by a rival business, no less. I would not be surprised if the Lefebvres were themselves employed by the Fatui.”
“Oh? Are you raising a case against the Lefebvre family? Albeit we are in an unofficial setting, you must realize the seriousness of that accusation.”
The Lefebvres, who dealt in fire and iron, same as your family, undoubtedly stood to profit the most from your father’s downfall. As far as you understood, it was the Lefevbre matriarch who went to The Steambird to point out some irregularities in the Ruisseau accounts. There was a rather large transaction, dating to Winter last year, but with the water levels rising, people have been growing restless, even conspiratorial. It made sense to some to stock up on weapons, ammunition or raw ore - which is why you thought nothing of it. Besides, it was not as if you at the time paid much mind to your father’s business, as you were then enjoying your freedom off Furina’s leash and without familial responsibilities, adventuring across Teyvat. Only much later, when your father’s condition deteriorated to such a state that he could no longer be relied upon to manage the business did you step in, as was your duty as his oldest child. Never in your wildest dreams have you imagined your father would be spirited away from his bed to a courtroom the moment you were at a safe distance, your whole family caught in a scandal the likes of society had not seen since the whole Spina di Rosula’s late president business.
The old Ruisseau was a traitor, the tabloids and the Oratrice sung in unison, having accepted huge sums of Mora - some of it on the side, to make matters worse, father, what were you bloody thinking you were doing?! - from a company tied closely wíth the Fatui. What engendered the most outrage, however, was the fact that the weapons could be comfortably traced to an errant branch of the Fatui, who had committed a vile terror attack on the Fontanian capitol a few months prior.
“I’ve no proof as of yet, only motive,” you are forced to admit through gritted teeth, “There is the fact, of course, of the missing money. There is a mention in the books of–of some of it, at least, but as for physical evidence-”
“It could be already spent, or hidden, a possibility the court took into account.”
His crude interjection does not serve to deter you. You’ve traveled too far for that, stand to lose everything. “It is also curious that none of my father’s advisors seem to remember a meeting with a potential investor of such means. Every time someone big decides to buy from us, the board-”
Again he interjects, in a cool, impartial tone. You cannot confidently say if he’s looking at you or through you - the eye contact is too severe, but at the same time, almost unfocused. “No man will willingly admit to a traitorous charge.”
“Why-why would father willingly sponsor such destruction?!” You demand to know, now sounding close to distressed. You’ve no chips to bargain with, other than the remarkable pathos of your situation. And a pretty, vulnerable face.
Men love a weak woman , echo the unwelcome words in your head.
“Our offices are only a few streets away from where the carnage struck hardest. Why would he risk damage to his assets, his employees, his own life?! I know my father, he is a staunch nationalist, a true patriot. It is outside of my realm of comprehension for him to knowingly aid terrorists on this…heinous crusade to destroy our home.” With some effort - it really does not help that you hate him when you need to pretend to fear for him - your eyes begin to sting, and sure enough, a perfect tear soon rolls down one rosy cheek. You raise a delicate lace glove to dab at your eye, sniffle a little to drive the point home.
A flick of the Justice’s stare, from your glossy eyes to your heaving chest, does not escape your notice.
When he speaks again, his tone lacks some of the stoney resolve it had carried earlier. “Now, Mademoiselle Ruisseau, there is no need to-”
It is you who interrupts this time, with a cry and a leap to his arms. This - you think, this is the rock bottom. Your final act of loyalty, your last mendacious escapade, all executed for the family name. Because if you are not a Ruisseau, you are nothing, not even worth the Vision you’re wearing.
To his credit, Neuvillette does not stagger, nor does he push you away. His steady, warm chest supports you just fine, as do his arms, instinctively wrapped around your back. You cry softly into his pointed ear, all pathetic, and hate every second of it. You lament your poor father’s fate, destined to live out the rest of his days in an isolated, underwater prison ( finally got what you deserved ); you curse him for passing such an unfair judgment to a most loyal countryman; you wonder aloud, pitifully, whether there truly is a place in society for a woman as dishonored, as destitute, as yourself.
Your tirade continues in a similar fashion until you at last disentangle yourself from the Iudex, and pierce him with your most miserable of looks; eyes big, shining with tears yet to be shed, peering at him from underneath dark lashes. You give him a moment to appreciate all there is to ogle - a weak woman weak woman weak woman - but to your surprise, his eyes do not wander this time, remaining firmly planted on your tear-streaked face instead.
Reading him is hard, even given your experience. You’ve heard before he is cold, barren of any emotion, which definitely figures into the whole ordainer of inexorable justice persona. However, you are not so sure of it anymore. His hesitation after you started crying, how he became almost shy after he, perhaps unwillingly, let his gaze slide to your bosom - it’s as if he is capable of human emotions after all, yet simply incapable of fully understanding them, those of others and his own.
“Oh, Neuvillette,” you sob, “Whatever shall become of me?” A wretched expression. One perfect curl, falling into your fathomless eyes. Parted, red lips, like an invitation.
This is the only thing a girl heir is good for .
“Mademoiselle Ruisseau,” he says, very softly. Anything above a whisper and the silence would break violently around you, raining down in a spray of glass. Slender, white fingers reach for the curl on your brow, uncoiling it with a certain fascination, then wrapping it back around the digits. You close your eyes as his skin brushes yours as he withdraws his hand, open them to see him staring at you, transfixed.
And then, abruptly, he takes a step back, too suddenly to be a premeditated decision. Gone is that wonder, that vulnerability - replaced by a face that could as well belong to a marble statue.
“Mademoiselle Ruisseau, you play a dangerous game,” he addresses you in a low, warning voice. Too polite to outwardly threaten, but just toeing the lane. Then, with inhuman grace and facility, the Iudex turns on his heel and leaves hurriedly without bidding you farewell.
Alone in the splendorous filth that is the Opera Epiclese, you release a breath long overdue. Your eyes are smarting from all the forced weeping, some undiscovered scratch on your cheek stinging from salty tears. The first part, the hardest part, is behind you. Now all you have to do is wait for him to come after you.
And you have no doubt he will, for monsieur Neuvillette might be many things - Fontaine’s Chief Justice, the Iudex, not wholly human - but he remains, in the end, a man; which means he is all too susceptible to what you have on offer.