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Blood covered half of Wriothesley's face and he wiped it impatiently with the back of his hand. None of the blood was his own, already half frozen as he put another treasure hoarder down on the deck. The ship rocked unsteadily with the waves whipped up by the storm. Dark clouds covered the sky so he could only see his opponents' dark outlines in the lantern light. He was lucky that the men on this ship weren't used to the kind of brutal fighting that went down in the fortress. He had their fear on his side.
Of course, they had numbers.
They surrounded him like hilichurls but with far more intelligence, leaning in, shying back, always a blur of a crowd. Never one person he could target. Something sparkled to his left, and he dodged hard, one hand to the deck to catch himself, as a crossbow twanged and someone to his right screamed in pain.
Again, the waiting. If he couldn't see them clearly, neither could they see him…but they could see the glow of his vision. They were closing in, feeding off each other's bravado, calling out taunts and rallying cries. In a moment, they would all leap, swarming him with their weight.
He hadn't been the administrator of Meropide for long, but brawling he understood. In one motion, he turned and slammed his gauntleted fist into the deck, near the closest smokestack breathing out steam. Frost spread in a vast web across the boards, condensing into ice that raced down toward the engines. The ship rocked with the impact, throwing men across the deck, some into the water, and Wriothesley found himself off balance, surprised by how the ship bobbed in the rough waves.
As the shadows flew wildly in the light of the swinging lantern, someone struck him in the side. He staggered to one knee, already turning to gutpunch the closest man, but two more caught his arm, another grabbed one leg, and then he couldn't count them all pulling him down onto the rough wooden floor.
Even a fake cargo ship had plenty of rope lying around, and most if it now found its way across his wrists, then his arms. They wouldn't risk moving him to find his vision. They simply bound what they could reach.
"Don't let him up!"
"Knife him already—"
"Just cut his throat—"
"But they'll pay through the nose to get him back—"
Chain went around his legs, heavy ship chain meant for bracing cargo, and over the shouting he heard the thick clunk of a padlock snapping the links tight.
"Too dangerous," someone said over him. "Throw him overboard."
In the rain and lightning, he couldn't see who grabbed him—one by the shoulders, one on his legs—and hauled him to the side of the ship. He did see the lights of another ship in the distance, the bright spotlight of a Garde ship racing toward them. But he knew they wouldn't make it in time.
He twisted hard, kicking the man holding his legs. As he dropped back to the deck, thinking to throw himself forward, to buy time, to spread ice across the deck—a simple push sent him over the side into the cold, violent waves.
The chain dragged like an anchor, pulling him to the bottom. He thrashed, trying to pull free. His cryo vision flared ineffectually, leaving trails of frost on the chain and along his arms and legs that he flinched in pain. He'd instinctually held his breath, and now he sank farther and farther into the dark, looking up at the surface.
Bright reds and oranges flashed high above him. The ice of his punch had reached the engines and stopped up the steam engines until the pressure built and the boilers blew. He saw the explosion only as light that quickly faded, a rumble that grew quiet as he continued to sink.
At last he touched the bottom, surrounded by the sudden rush of silt from the lake bed. The chain sank heavily into the soft layer of earth, and the momentum carried him so that he lay askew on his side. His lungs burned and strained against his will. His heart pounded and he pulled against the chain, trying to reach the padlock, to draw down the chain. Nothing gave. He couldn't drown here, but he couldn't stop himself—he opened his mouth to breathe water—
And found himself breathing as easily if he were on the surface.
Long seconds passed as he realized he was still alive. Not the flailing, painful death by drowning he'd expected, he lay stunned as the current found him and gently brought him up from the lakebed. He floated, moved by the soft touch of the water—until the chain dragged on the ground, pulling him taut, holding him fast in place.
The current turned him once, a slow circle he had no control over. He twisted, but he couldn't move or dislodge the weight of the chain. In the faint glow of his vision, the silt settled again, and then there was nothing to see. Down this far, the water was black.
Until someone found him, he would have to wait.
Had anyone seen him fall? The Garde boat had been so far away, and then the ship had exploded. Would anyone believe he'd survived? Or was he assumed dead with everyone else? Had anyone seen him fall?
He looked up toward the surface, but there was nothing but darkness. The water was silent and cold.
So he steeled himself, told himself that there was still hope, and forced himself to breathe slowly. Panic wouldn't help. He would have to wait.
And wait.
Time turned into a blur. Fear made his wait feel like hours and only minutes. The pressure of the water pushed down on him like a heavy weight, holding him as tight as the chains. Sometimes he felt the chain slip along the lakebed only to lodge again.
He thought the storm must have stopped. The current turned gentle, pushing him one way, then taking him the other, turning him in slow, slow circles. He found himself growing still, saving his strength. The water was so dark. An occasional click and whistle broke the silence, but always far away, always a distant echo. Even the sea creatures didn't come here. The lakebed was white and empty. Not even a plant or shell.
A flash of white caught his eye, the sparkle of a school of fish darting around him, staring curiously. Ripples touched his face as they met his look. They circled, confused by this strange creature who had come down from above. And then they darted away, gone as quick as they'd appeared.
Fear touched his thoughts. What else was out there, swimming around him while he couldn't see? He'd seen a few sea monsters in his time as administrator, huge crabs and serpents and fish with large fangs, drifting lazily by the fortress. Now he was in the water with them, and he couldn't fight, wouldn't even see them coming.
He didn't dare move, afraid of alerting anything nearby. He had to stay still, to wait for rescue. Did anyone think he was alive? Would they find him years from now, a mass of bones held together by weathered, unrecognizable clothing?
The lake was unutterably silent and cold, black and heavy. He felt that this must be what death was like. Or he'd died at sea and sunk, weighed down by sin. There were sailors stories about that, Teyvat's Locker, of ghosts that glowed in the water on the beach at night.
How much time had passed? He couldn't see the sun from here. He felt so tired now, his eyes fluttering closed. Why bother to fight sleep? He couldn't help himself anyway. The currents were soft whispers lulling him into the cold that seeped into his bones. Not enough to freeze, just enough to slowly steal all his warmth and leave him listless.
No one would come. How could they? The lake covered most of Fontaine. Who knew how far he'd drifted in the current? He was a tiny pebble in miles of water.
Something rumbled close behind him, not a call but a groan of muscle cutting the water. His weariness faded for a moment as he felt the pressure change, felt ripples tugging him one way. His pulse quickened. There was a swirl that sent silt up in a cloud again, and then something huge swam just at the edge of his vision's glow. Scales, glistening scales and fins and a hind leg that ended in claws—it vanished so quickly that he wasn't sure he had seen it. And then the jaws and fangs slowly approached, lazily drifting toward him, with a pair of black eyes that rolled up in their sockets.
Wriothesley froze, paralyzed at the sight of fangs like knives only inches from his face. He could see down its throat, see the flex of its gills, and darkness just as deep as the water around him. His breath caught. It hovered, studying him, and its breath was enough to swirl the water and send him turning in place, pinned by the chains that held him as fast as an anchor.
The monster was all muscle and sharp edges and murder, its eyes still rolled back as it decided if it should bite. He was an easy meal. He couldn't fight back, couldn't even scream.
Then it turned ever so slightly and passed by, brushing him roughly as its fin flicked. The push of its body sent him around again in uncontrolled circles, and he whipped his head around, not knowing where to look, trying to see in all directions, only able to see where the water sent him. Did it mean to swim back suddenly?
As minutes—seconds? hours?— passed, he thought perhaps it had changed his mind. He was trembling. There were more monsters down here, hungry for easy prey. He'd faced everything in the fortress, in his life, with his head held high. But this…this wasn't human.
Breathe. Breathe. Don't panic. His heart didn't stop pounding. Death waited at the edge of his light. He couldn't breathe. Was his sight blurring? He couldn't tell. He shut his eyes tight. If something came at him, he didn't want to see.
Each second felt like an eternity as he floated in the blackness, struggling not just against the chains, but against the crushing weight of despair. He had been a fighter all his life, but here, in the depths, he was powerless.
He floated there, weary, coming to resign himself to death. He thought he heard whispers around him, rushing in the current. When he opened his eyes, shadows and shapes floated at the edge of the light, twisting in his imagination. He hallucinated wild creatures and people and ships, songs and voices.
One shadow caught his eye, small at first, then growing larger. He was losing his mind. Or was it bioluminescence, a glowing monster who'd finally scented the bait? He watched it approach, instinctively drawn to anything that wasn't darkness. Then the current turned him again. He struggled this time, writhing in the rope around his arms and wrists, twisting his legs. His movements were made small by exhaustion. He couldn't even turn his head, held aloft only by the water.
The water stilled as if on command. Something pressed behind him, something warm and enveloping. Instead of the current, it was strong hands that turned him around, bringing him face to face wtih Neuvillette.
Wriothesley stared in disbelief. No, he had lost his mind. This could not be real. But Neuvillette looked so clear, his eyes full of relief and joy. Neuvillette looked over Wriothesley briefly, seeing how he would bound and anchored. Then he met Wriothesley's gaze, pulling him into his embrace, holding him flush against himself.
Wriothesley had no strength left to give, simply resting against Neuvillette. He drew in a ragged breath that caught in his chest. To have given up hope and then be found despite the darkness of the vast sea…
Neuvillette said something that Wriothesley couldn't hear, but his voice brought him further back to himself. Neuvillette gathered him up, holding him close, and they were rising up, lifted from the depths. The darkness turned to twilight and streaks of sunlight, and then they broke the surface, Neuvillette moving through the air as easily as the water.
"Hold on," Neuvillette said, pressing Wriothesley close as he shivered. "Hold on. "
Wriothesley murmured in return, impossible to make out. He turned his face to rest against Neuvillette's shoulder, the stiff collar and lace wonderful against his cheek. The journey was a blur of sparkling water in the setting sun, a rush of wind and Neuvillette's powerful heartbeat. His strain finally eased—he hadn't realized he had been so tense for so long.
Wriothesley blinked, and they were surrounded by white walls, tall windows, and warmth from a crackling fireplace. Still limp in Neuvillette's arms, he was gently set on a plush couch, braced forward on Neuvillette's shoulder. He blinked slowly, watching firelight flicker on the ceiling as the other man's arms came around him, holding him close.
Salt water and mud sank into the couch, and blood as well. Neuvillette reached behind Wriothesley, carefully tearing the ropes between his fingers so he wouldn't pull the rough cord any tighter than it already was. Blood stained the tips of his glove. Wriothesley had struggled so much that he'd left bruises and rope burns through his sleeves.
With infinite care, he peeled the wet clothing from Wriothesley's back, dropping it in a pile. When he moved to set him down, though, he found that Wriothesley wouldn't let go, holding him with the fragile remains of his strength. His grip was weak, shaking as feeling rushed back into his arms. His fingers simply wouldn't let go of the Iudex's coat.
"It's all right," he said, covering Wriothesley's hand, curling their fingers together and taking great care in pulling his hand away. "I'm here. You're safe."
Wriothesley's eyes fluttered, fighting sleep, trying to turn. His legs could barely shift, and he tightened his hand around Neuvillette's as he was eased back onto the cushions.
"You're still in chains," Neuvillette said. "You have to let me finish letting you out of this awful mess they wrapped you in."
"…t-they…did they…?" Wriothesley's voice was hoarse, and he stared unevenly at the blurry outline of the Iudex, slurring his speech. "On the shhip…"
Neuvillette cupped his hands around Wriothesley's face, holding him still, smoothing away his damp hair and finding a bruise to match the deep black and blue on his side. But Wriothesley's gaze looked on his, searching his face in return.
"You were successful," Neuvillette assured him. Exasperation colored his voice. "Reckless, rash, and completely ridiculous in the risks you took. Boarding the ship without waiting for backup, without any thought for your own safety…"
Wriothesley didn't argue. He gave a faint laugh, little more than a breath, more himself as he was scolded fondly. He felt the chains snap, link by link, under Neuvillette's powerful hands. He closed his eyes, warmed by the fire's heat on his bare skin. Comforted by Neuvillette's presence.
"'M all righ'," Wriothesley mumbled. "Don' worry s'much…"
Neuvillette didn't argue. Perhaps Wriothesley didn't remember how afraid he'd been, but Neuvillette had seen the fear in his eyes, the despair as he swam close, the helpless abandon that Wriothesley had lost himself over to.
The last of the chains fell away. Neuvillette arranged him on the couch, tucking his arms over his waist, nudging his leg so it wouldn't hang at an angle. Bruises in the shape of chains covered his legs. Neuvillette lay his hand on Wriothesley's shoulder, reassuring himself that he was there, really there, safe at last.
“You’re here now,” Neuvillette whispered, his fingers brushing lightly across Wriothesley’s cheek. "I found you."
Wriothesley finally let himself relax, trusting in Neuvillette's presence.
Hours passed. Siegewinne came and left a treatment plan of rest and hot liquids. Neuvillette reluctantly left Wriothesley's side to continue with the work of running Fontaine, but at his desk here in his apartments where he could watch over his friend. A pile of papers started on one side of his desk, slowly moving to the other. Working through the night was easy—he watched the other man sleep, turning fitfully sometimes, sighing heavily in his dreams. The strain of his ordeal was clear from the bruises mottling his body, the tremor in his limbs as he lay still.
But there was nothing more he could do. It was a hard realization for someone with so much authority, so much of his own power. So he simply had the day's business brought up from his office and continued to manage the country while his real concern quietly rested before him.
A full day passed.
Sunlight streamed in from the windows. Wriothesley blinked, confused by the white ceiling, the clouds overhead. He sat up, turning on his side as his back refused to bend. Every muscle was sore, and his arms trembled as he sank down again.
"Please don't try to move," Neuvillette said somewhere behind him. "You suffered a terrible amount of stress and injury. You will need time to recover."
Wriothesley lay flat, eyes shut, gripping the wooden edge of the couch. The cushion under his head was stiff, scratchy, with a corner that dug into his collarbone. It was the best thing he'd ever felt. The upholstery was pretty nice, too—firm with raised edging that pressed uncomfortably against his bruises. He frowned. He could feel it on his skin. He wasn't wearing any clothes. A flush of embarrassment rushed through him, coloring him red.
"Tell me the other guy got it worse," Wriothesley groaned.
"The 'other guy' is dead," Neuvillette said. "The engines exploded and everyone went down with the ship."
Neuvillette paused.
"Including you."
Wriothesley heard the soft scold. He heaved a deep sigh, glancing around the room to try to guage where he was. At first he thought it was Siegewinne's infirmary in the prison, then remembered that there were no white walls or couches there. The Iudex's office in the Palais Mermonia? No, those chambers were huge, designed to dwarf anyone coming in. Then where…
He felt his face and chest grow red. Oh. Neuvillette's private apartments.
A plate of toast crumbs and an emptied tea cup sat on the low table before him. So he'd eaten, but he didn't remember it. Neuvillette must have… He groaned. The embarrassment wouldn't stop.
"Tell me I didn't embarrass myself," he muttered.
"Then I won't tell you," Neuvillette said, but good humor touched his voice. "I found it rather endearing."
"…thanks," Wriothesley grumbled. Then, more quietly and more heartfelt. "Thanks."
Neuvillette’s quill paused mid-stroke, and he turned to look at Wriothesley with a frown.
"You came very close this time."
He was answered with a small nod. Neuvillette looked back at the paper, then put his quill away and paused, not sure how to voice his feeling. He did not normally feel this kind of anger and frustration, and now that Wriothesley was alive, on the mend, safe under Neuvillette's stern gaze, he could no longer hold himself in check.
“Reckless,” he said, his tone deliberate. “Completely reckless. You could have died many times over, and then to end up on the lakebed like that…” He cut himself off, his words trailing into a low rumble of thunder that echoed ominously overhead.
Wriothesley felt his ire rise, his wounded pride now stung further. Worse was that Neuvillette was right. He lowered his head, guilt and regret drowning his retort.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Neuvillette’s eyes softened for a brief moment.
“...I know,” he said, not denying that he'd been afraid. His voice wavered, just a fraction, as he added, “To think I had to ask the vishaps to find you. Everyone told me that you must be dead.”
Wriothesley heard the slight hitch in Neuvillette’s voice and glanced out the window just as the thunder rumbled again, the sound joined by distant echoes of children’s voices chanting for the Hydro Dragon not to cry.
"Your medical staff has remanded you to my care for the foreseeable future," Neuvillette said, as if it was one more point of business. "Lunch will be served in an hour, or earlier if you ask. Until then, you will rest."
Wriothesley lay still. Recovering under Neuvillette's stern order was an easy price to pay for nearly dying, for having Neuvillette as his nursemaid.
“I am your loyal subject,” he said with a wry, resigned smile. "As you wish."
Neuvillette gave a curt nod, his expression returning to its usual composed state. “Of course,” he replied, as though it was only natural for his will to be obeyed.
Wriothesley lay still for a long while, watching the last embers in the hearth glow and flicker. Smoke drifted lazily up the chimney, following the breeze like water—
Water.
Darkness.
Silence.
He closed his eyes. No. Focus on the birds singing outside, the roll of distant thunder. Peoples' voices far below. The pen scratching on paper once again. Neuvillette's voice…he wanted to hear him, needed to hear him.
Breaking the silence, Wriothesley tilted his head with a faint smirk. “You could have given me clothes, you know.”
“You can stay like that for the time being,” Neuvillette continued, his voice steady despite the storm brewing outside. “As punishment. To reflect on what you did.”
And to keep him from leaving, as if he could even think of moving.
Neuvillette didn’t look up from his work, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice. “And I’m enjoying the view.”
Wriothesley couldn’t help his laugh. He relaxed, listening to Neuvillette work, listening to the storm moving by, watching the sunlight slowly move the shadows away.