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Most activities and production work in the fortress waned as the night deepened. Instead of the well-earned satisfaction for another day’s job done well, instinct and the perpetual sense of foreboding signaled that the relative quiet that befell the fortress was the calm before the storm.
No longer a question of if, but when all hell would break loose.
It could be tonight, a day, a week, a month… It made no difference. We’re at our limit. Exhaustion clung to Wriothesley’s bones as he made his way back to his office, but rest was the last thing in his mind as he flashed through the drills, the protocols and procedures he could recite in his sleep.
Eventually, he thought of their guests; the newest inmates—the Traveler and her flying companion had long retired, and the Fatui siblings had hunkered down in the Head Nurse’s clinic. They abandoned the dormitories they’ve been offered to rest in and squeezed themselves into their youngest brother’s cot. Like a litter of kittens, Sigewinne cooed during their final debriefing, huddled tightly around together.
Wriothesley climbed up the stairs, footsteps heavy and dragging on the metal staircase, and a voice suddenly floated from above that said, “Is that you, Wriothesley?”
Clorinde lounged on his couch; he was glad to see she’d changed into the clothes Sigewinne procured for her while her uniform dried, but she was bundled in the blanket he’d laid out for himself. At the table, there was a pot of tea he didn’t remember making, with two new cups laid out. Did she finish the whole pot already?
“Hi,” she said, bearing the gall to nod at him.
Wriothesley approached her with his arms crossed, his chest tight and his stomach in knots. Countless things he wished to say to her since he’d sent her after young Freminet—how are you feeling, and I’m glad you’re safe and even you could’ve died, but what came out of him was a stern, “You’re on my couch. Funny why that is when I gave you my room.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Wriothesley, but it is socially improper for a person of my station to occupy the Duke’s personal quarters,” she said, impassive even when his frown deepened.
“…Clorinde. Be serious,” he deadpanned.
“…I am?”
The thing with Clorinde was that she possessed full conviction in the things she said and did. Yes, she was strong, a given as Fontaine’s unmatched Champion Duelist in centuries, but she was also most sincere-hearted—he admired her a lot for these values. Even if sometimes it translated to a stubbornness that was equal parts enchanting and aggravating.
“The Fortress of Meropide isn’t what I’d consider a bastion of hospitality,” Wriothesley drawled. “I could have offered you a space in the guards’ barracks or a bed in the clinic while you’re here, but you’re my guest. Besides the fact that your boss would have my head on a chopping block for treating his staff like shit, I also think it’s ‘socially improper’ to make a lady sleep on a couch.”
“Watch your language. And I’ve had worse accommodations—this is fine.”
“It is absolutely not fine.”
“I don’t understand your complaints,” muttered Clorinde. “You get to sleep in your own bed. If I were you, I would not refuse.”
“Ha! If I were you, I would take the bed to show my appreciation to my friend’s kindness.”
Clorinde drew the blanket tighter around herself and laid back against the plush red cushions. “Whatever. I’m already comfortable here. I’m not moving,” she said. Then, as if to spite him, she even closed her eyes. Stubborn woman.
“You’re really not moving?” Wriothesley said as he neared her and crouched, elbows on his knees. Clorinde hummed an affirmative with eyes still closed, and he smiled a particularly mean smile. “It would seem we’re at an impasse.”
“So it seems.”
Without warning, he yanked on the edges of the blanket and worked swiftly to bundle her into a snug cocoon, smirking at her affronted growl and scooping her into his arms. He straightened up, and Wriothesley made sure her arms wouldn’t escape her binds when he started walking.
“Wriothesley,” she gritted, squirming like mad. He laughed and held on tighter, liking the way her face tinted pink. “Put me down or you’re dead.”
“Sure, you can shoot me later. For now, I’m putting you to bed,” he said while making his way down the spiral steps and into his quarters, all while handling her like precious cargo.
That he could get away with such liberties was only because she’d let him do so in the first place; a testament of her trust. Of her regard. Wriothesley toed his bedroom door open and lifted her higher, and her head found its place on his shoulder when the door was kicked shut. A sigh left her in a soft whoosh, her breath tickled his collar and warmed his neck.
Wriothesley set her down the bed and the blanket unraveled on its own, and her fist shot out to grab his collar. He clenched his jaw and braced for impact, hovering awkwardly above her prone form but Clorinde just blinked, slow and deliberate. This close he saw how dark and sooty her lashes were still; little flecks of mascara smudged at the corner of her left eye.
“Stay,” she said to his silent, prodding look. “The bed is big enough for the two of us.”
“…Are you screwing with me? You made all that fuss about social impropriety and whatever,” Wriothesley huffed, smiling blandly when her grip loosened and a thoughtful expression crossed her face, “and now you want to share the bed. I just need to know what’s the angle here.”
“There is no angle. I can’t let you take the couch, much less the floor.”
Wriothesley’s face scrunched. “Hell no.”
“See? It’s more practical to share.”
“For three days?” he doubtfully asked.
“I don’t mind.”
Her hand splayed along his collarbone, and the hairs at the back of his neck prickled when her fingers brushed the bands around his throat. He realized he was still half-bent over her and leaned back to sit from a polite distance away, patting her hand back down to her side.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to be all over you like that. Don’t kill me with your social properness or something.”
Clorinde rolled her eyes. “God, just let it go. You live to see another day,” she said with a ghost of a smirk.
“Oh, I wonder—you’ve seen what it’s like down there. Primordial Seawater could be flooding the whole place and dissolving everyone left and right as we speak.”
Her smirk dropped, and her gaze slid downwards and sideways in a solemn contemplation. He tried not to regret bringing it up; dire the circumstances may be, he’d brought her here to rest. Sigewinne taught him to have better bedside manners than this. “My bad, didn’t mean to be a downer,” he winced.
“You’re not wrong,” shrugged Clorinde. “The situation is bad, and we can only hope to be as prepared as we think we are.”
“Really loving the optimism here. Room for one more?” He tapped her knee as he said it, and Clorinde wordlessly scooched to the side. The pillow was uncomfortable and damp because of her hair but Wriothesley collapsed face down into it anyway, too tired to be picky. “Thanks.”
There was so much to do and so much at stake, and rest was the last thing he needed. It called to him all the same. Wriothesley ignored it, and for a while, only silence reigned as the two of them lay together. Nothing but the sound of the fortress clanking and groaning in undecipherable places, the muted slosh of water against metal. The shift of clothing, breathing; he focused on hers, dangerous as that might be. Dangerous in the sense that it was grounding. Steadying.
That he felt that way at all with another person was concerning in itself.
Wriothesley shifted to his back, and looked over to her; his bedmate was staring at the ceiling, hands clasped together on her stomach. The tumult in her gaze was obvious, despite her impassive expression. Wriothesley stretched his neck against the pillow and copied her pose, clearing his throat.
“We’re receiving shipments from Liyue tomorrow,” he said casually, keeping his gaze forward even when he felt her eyes on him, curious. “Yauwans are finally in season again, and I cannot miss out on single-origin yauwan tea this year. You ever tried it before?”
“I have not. You forget I don’t drink tea unless you ask me to, Wriothesley.”
“Tch. As if I don’t have to beg and grovel at your feet just so you’d join me!” Finally, Clorinde breathed out a small, huffy chuckle. Wriothesley smiled, too. “I cashed in on a favor to have one of the early batches shipped from Qiaoying Village, so… I’m really excited about it,” he added.
“Good for you,” she replied, blandly.
“What about you? Tell me something you’re looking forward to.”
“Your silence, perhaps.”
“Oh, wow, okay. Shutting up.”
Clorinde let out another small laugh. The bed shifted, and he watched from the corner of his eye as Clorinde turned sideways, facing him with her eyes closed and sliding a little closer to him in the process. She pulled the blanket to her shoulders and curled into a ball, and the stab of affection he felt was singular, but potent; how is it that just looking at her perforated his defenses so keenly?
Wriothesley crossed his arms roughly, tucking his restless hands under his arms lest he reach out and touch her, rub away the bits of mascara that blemished her otherwise bare face. How irritating, he usually had more self-control than this.
“…Going on a trip,” Clorinde said suddenly, gently pulling him back from where his thoughts had gone. “Miss Charlotte wrote about Inazuma’s flower viewing festivals once… I’d like to see it in person. That’s what I’m looking forward to. Maybe one country each season when this is all over, if I could.”
Wriothesley raised both brows. If she was chasing the seasons, she’d be out of the country for a year or two. He would feel jealous if he wasn’t such a homebody as he thought, that’s good. A woman like Clorinde should be going places, enjoying and exploring life, unshackled to the bonds of duty.
Really, she should be anywhere but here. Wriothesley told her this, and he frowned at the firm shake of her head.
“I have a duty to Fontaine. I can’t be away for too long,” she answered solemnly.
“Fontaine’s got a death sentence,” Wriothesley rebutted, pretending not to feel her kick to his leg. Stop speaking like that, her narrowed gaze seemed to say. “I’ll regret putting off that trip during my last moments, if I were you. Hey, d’you think it’ll hurt, getting dissolved?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be asking stupid questions.”
“But it’s a reasonable thought, isn’t it? Fuck, I personally hope it’s painless—”
Clorinde sat up, Wriothesley tensed; she’d leaned down close enough that her unbound hair tickled his cheek, and a lump grew in his throat as he took her in this way for the first—and perhaps the last—time. Clorinde had always been beautiful, but right now he couldn’t find the right words to accurately describe the way she held him captive simply just for existing.
“I don’t like having these kinds of talks while in bed,” she murmured, and so taken he was by her proximity, he almost missed the way her eyes diverted away. Somewhere lower, where she lingered for a breathless few moments. Clorinde’s gaze wavered and steeled in the same breath, and he felt caught from the gravity of their situation; stripped of their layers and sitting in his bed, alone and together.
His mouth tingled. She was waiting for him to kiss her.
Wriothesley blinked. No. That couldn’t be right, he was only seeing what he wanted to see. Unfairly projecting desires he didn’t need to burden themselves with when it wasn’t the time to indulge in base impulses.
But he could do just this one thing for her.
“…Duly noted,” he said finally, softly, reaching out to her face.
It killed him when Clorinde leaned into his touch, and her expectant expression faded when he didn’t meet her halfway. Wriothesley got rid of the soot below her eye line, his thumb moving in gentle strokes, and when it was over, the only blemish that remained was her lack of a smile—her mouth was set in a miniscule pout that was both endearing and tempting.
“Don’t look at me like that, please,” he whispered with a wry grin. “Maybe this could be another thing to look forward to when we make it out of this alive.”
“…Pass. Add this to your long line of regrets, whatever,” Clorinde said with a shrug.
Way ahead of you. She finally leaned back, his fingers slid away from her cheek with an echo of regret as it hung in the air for a moment before he let it drop carelessly to his chest. In the silence that followed while Clorinde laid back down, he expected her hurt pride would make her turn away, but her shoulder was warm against his own as she settled next to him, boring holes at the ceiling yet again. Small comfort.
“Feels like we’re sitting ducks,” she muttered, frowning. “Maybe it would be prudent to keep an eye on things down there.”
“Yeah, agreed.”
Wriothesley let out a sharp breath and jerked up to a sitting position as the unease returned, roiling uncomfortably in his gut. His instincts never failed; there was something going to happen tonight, if it wasn’t already. That was bad. “I’ll see if your clothes are dry,” he said as he got out of bed.
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
He offered a hand to her as she sat up, and she lingered when she took it, firmly squeezing his hand. He returned the gesture, casting her a meaningful look, and then Clorinde let him go.
But Wriothesley would always run back to her. Secure in the knowledge that she would be there, dependable and dedicated, the light at the end; surging sea waters lapped at his heels and he ran like hell, but there was no room for fear when their eyes met. Only faith. Wriothesley nodded: I can make it.
And when she nodded back before taking that shot, he knew exactly what she would’ve meant by it: you better.