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Once there was a boy, a street rat whose fingers were only fit for snatching purses from the belts of others. He’d go hungry on his stolen, meager scraps. The cobblestones of the streets made the soles of his feet thick enough to weather wear and tear. He was a good boy save for the murder, but the blood streaking down his hands was worth the damnation he received.
My work is done, he’d thought while sitting in his cell.
A wicked-keen woman came to him with eyes the color of blood. “Your sentence has been commuted per Celestia’s orders,” she told him, her mouth curling around jagged teeth. “Welcome to the House of the Hearth. You can call me Father.”
Now, there is a knight in place of that boy, one who remembers those days only in his nightmares. That same woman sits across from him now, entertaining a cup of tea.
“Father,” he says, drawing his finger around the rim, “I feel like this is a fool’s errand.”
“Are you in a position to refuse?” Father’s head is cocked to the side, watching him with mild warmth. She is not uncaring. She is also right. Father sighs softly, placing her cup back upon its saucer. “The Heavenly Principles says that this dragon is a problem, so you will go.”
Other knights have gone before him never to return, this so-called dragon a plague upon Teyvat for generations.
“And so I will,” he says to her. “I will come back.”
Father’s expression is unreadable. Wriothesley answers with a mock salute of his cup.
***
Wriothesley knows a mission meant to fail when he sees one.
“Elynas,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers over the rumpled parchment of his map. “No one lives in Elynas.”
It doesn’t matter if there isn’t sense to it; Father handed him this job, and he is expected to carry it out or die trying. The other knights before him… Wriothesley sighs at the thought. This is not a merry hunt of a dragon—it truly is an errand of fools that has only led to a long line of death.
He travels light with only his sturdy boots, a cloak, and an old bag splitting around the seams. The fabric is so frayed, Wriothesley knows it isn’t salvageable. A needle will just part the threads instead, unraveling the fabric entirely. Any other time he would consider buying a new one but—
“Pessimistic,” he snorts. It’s quiet and dark, secluded enough that a fire is worth the risk. If he’s going to die, his bones should be warmed. The damp air sticks to his neck during the day and turns chilly when the sun falls.
The moon is bright in the sky and the stars twinkle. Wriothesley ignores them as he roasts a fish he caught bare-handed in a nearby pond.
“A dragon.” He talks to himself these days. “Ridiculous. Dragons are gone.” Wriothesley hunted most of them. Eyewitness accounts are fickle things, and Wriothesley was inclined to think those on the outskirts only see their nightmares.
But now that he’s here… there is a feel to Elynas that is unlike the rest of Fontaine. Wriothesley has traveled far, but here, there is a quiet that spells death, the calm before a storm. Everything is slick. The air smells like petrichor, and he suppresses a shiver.
“Old magic,” he says, even if he doesn’t believe in it, even if he isn’t superstitious. But even Meropide has its stories, and Wriothesley has learned to listen to his gut. Something is off. Otherworldly. “Makes my damn skin crawl,” he mutters as he yanks the fish from the fire to tear into it.
Later that night, sleep barely comes and Wriothesley's thoughts are lost to the dank solitude. Rest is fitful. He wakes in the morning to a dreary mist wetting his face.
This day is gray. The deeper into Elynas he treks, the darker it turns, with angry clouds brewing high in the sky.
Disaster—that’s what this storm spells. Wriothesley hisses when that mist turns into sharp, cold blades that bite at his face, and then a torrential downpour that makes it difficult to move forward.
Westward, according to the map, but the rain is unrelenting, and he can barely see half a foot in front of his face. Wriothesley's boot sinks with his next step. He yanks and only falls further, his leg trapped by marshland. He curses when he loses his balance.
This is it, he thinks. Didn’t even make it to the damned dragon. Wriothesley is going to die face down, drowning in a wet bog.
Elynas is beautiful. At least death won’t be so terrible against a backdrop of handsome greenery, and mountains that touch the sky.
***
Wriothesley awakens in a pile of warm furs.
His first thought is a sluggish one; it’s chilly and damp, like Meropide always is. He hunkers into those furs, pulling them closer, but he’s too tall for his bed, and his feet always stick out—
His feet do not stick out. These furs don’t carry the musty scent of Fortress air. He lies on hard, damp rock, not a dingy mattress past its prime.
This is wrong.
Wriothesley blinks to half-awareness, startled by a man leaning over him. He jerks, fumbling around for his knife—only to find that he is entirely bare and weaponless in these unknown furs. Exits, he thinks. Count the exits.
Only one, behind the man, who now sits on his haunches, watching him with a wry tilt to his mouth only an arm’s length away.
“I did not expect a warm reception, but perhaps some thanks for saving you would be nice.”
This must be a dream. Wriothesley's head pounds. Elynas is old magic, he’d thought, but perhaps there is something else in the air. Maybe the rain is poison. The man is far too beautiful to be real, all smooth, pale skin, and hair hanging down his front in silvery strands. Wriothesley must’ve dreamt this up. It would be par for the course, considering his appreciation of men with finely tapered waistlines and fair faces.
It still pours outside. The exit is a narrow mouth cut into the side of the mountain. Perhaps he fumbled his way to a cave, and—
Wriothesley's thoughts are cut off by a cold hand pressing against his temple. “Too warm,” murmurs the other man. “I do not pretend to know much about humans, but I don’t think you are supposed to carry such a temperature—”
“You’re real,” blurts Wriothesley, stupidly.
The man’s palm is still pressed against Wriothesley's sweaty forehead. “I… yes. The last time that I checked, at least.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “I saved you. You were nearly dead. Humans cannot breathe water.” He pauses and tilts his head. “Unless that has changed.”
What an absurd thing to say. Every alarm bell is going off in Wriothesley’s head.
“I apologize for…” The man clears his throat. “Your clothing is drying in the corner. Considering that the rain will not stop for a while yet, you should rest.”
“This feels like a trap.” The intrusive thought flies from Wriothesley's mouth before he can stop it and he cringes. “Ah. I—”
The man chuckles, unperturbed. “Your wariness is expected. I am a stranger. Rest easy. If I wished to hurt you, I would have left you there.”
Valid point. Wriothesley settles slightly but remains alert.
“A knight,” says the man then, gesturing to Wriothesley's weaponry in the corner. “Rare in these parts.”
Only they aren’t. This man must be a hermit. “We make our rounds.”
“Out here?”
“You’d be surprised where help is needed.”
The man is quiet for a too-long minute. His expression is amused, almost preternatural. “I rarely leave this cave,” he finally admits. “Perhaps there are now villages in these foothills that I am unaware of.”
Wriothesley has seen enough in his life to know there are many things inhuman and with this man, it is obvious. Had he wanted to hurt Wriothesley, he would have left him in the bog. So that begs the question— what does he want? Extortion? Food?
“Do you like tea?” The question comes as a surprise, and when Wriothesley pulls from his thoughts, he finds that the man has turned his back entirely and crossed the length of the cave. “I have meager offerings,” he continues. “Just a handful of berries and leaves.”
There is a small fire pit and an old, cast iron kettle. He moves with such subtle, pristine grace that Wriothesley cannot help but stare, watching the muscles of his back ripple through the thin cotton of his shirt.
“Tea is… good.”
How articulate.
“Wriothesley,” he says next. “I—um. My name. You should at least… know my name.”
The man pauses just as his hand curls around the handle of the tea kettle. The water is poured with a hiss. He looks back over his shoulder, the skin around his eyes wrinkling as he smiles. “I am Neuvillette.”
#
They have nothing in common.
Neuvillette is an odd duck with strange tendencies. He dresses to the nines despite living in a cave. He brushes his hair out with exactly one hundred brush strokes on each side. He dislikes tea, even though he offered it to Wriothesley that first day, preferring crystal clear water instead.
That’s the other thing—his control of Hydro—Wriothesley hasn’t seen a Vision anywhere in his abode, and his control of the element is so masterful that it cannot be ignored.
Despite these things, they get along immediately. Neuvillette is likable for these reasons. Days drag into weeks, and that storm outside the cave still rages in a downpour that would drown Wriothesley the moment he makes any attempt to leave. He’s thankful for the good company.
“Tell me about it again?” asks Neuvillette, pulling Wriothesley from his thoughts.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of him and he asked for Wriothesley's story. Wriothesley thought that Neuvillette might be able to smell a lie, so he told the truth. Since then, Neuvillette has asked for the story again, and again.
“There’s nothing fancy about a street boy and murder,” replies Wriothesley. Neuvillette hums softly and holds out a cup of tea, which Wriothesley takes. Berries and leaves, nothing fancy. But it’s for him. That warms his chest.
“Perhaps not.” Neuvillette settles onto the small stool opposite him. “To sell yourself so short, though… Wriothesley, you are more than just a knight.”
Wriothesley laughs bitterly. “More than that, huh? Neuvillette, I’m just a guard dog with a leash around its neck. Eventually, I’ll have to hunt that dragon, and it’s either go back home successful or…” He trails off. “Disposable,” he mutters. “I am.”
Neuvillette’s expression is cold. “Celestia,” he curses with a sharp, acrid tone, his distaste coming as a shock.
“Enough about that,” sighs Wriothesley. He sips his tea and lets loose a content sound. Then, he gives Neuvillette a curious look. “Back to guessing what you are. An oceanid?”
Neuvillette drinks plain water from the same type of stoneware cup. “Closer,” he says, “but no.”
Wriothesley's entire face heats at the sight of his smile.
***
“What is so special about this dragon?”
The question comes as a surprise, only because for all of Neuvillette’s curiosity, the exact nature of Wriothesley's mission is one of the few things he hasn’t pressed about. Neuvillette has only asked about Wriothesley himself, his history, even his wants and dreams. Wriothesley has spent nights whispering old confessions to Neuvillette, tucked together in his furs. For warmth, he tells himself. They cuddle because it’s bitter cold with the rain, and Neuvillette is convinced he’ll catch his death from it.
That storm rages and rages, howling outside the cavern. Wriothesley hopes that it won’t end, that he’ll be stuck here forever because Neuvillette is soft and cool, and treats him as something more than an object.
“I don’t know. Not my job to ask questions. Wherever Celestia tells me to go, I go.”
“Like a good dog,” muses Neuvillette. “Your words, not mine.”
The den falls quiet. It’s nighttime and several candles burn low around the space. It’s warm in the furs despite the chilly temperature of Neuvillette’s body. “Another guess,” says Wriothesley. “Are you a fish?”
Neuvillette laughs. “That is, perhaps, the closest you’ve gotten, but no.”
“You’re old, though,” continues Wriothesley. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re old. Your clothes… the books you have… Neuvillette, those are from centuries ago.”
“I do not care to keep track of the years. My clothing remains functional, so there is no need to replace it.”
Wriothesley snorts. “Not even to woo pretty ladies?”
“Why would I want to woo pretty ladies?”
“So not a selkie either, then. Noted.”
Neuvillette makes a gentle churring sound that Wriothesley has become fond of. “Wriothesley, you could just ask what I am.”
“Would you be honest?”
Neuvillette tilts his head and gives him a strange stare that sears right through him. His pale eyes are enchanting, as is the subtle quirk of his mouth. Wriothesley has come to ache for this man, and that look doesn’t help one bit. “Have I been anything but since we met?”
Neuvillette has been careful with what he’s shared, regardless of his friendliness. And Wriothesley wants to ask, but… He has not kept track of the time that has passed, he’s just accepted that the storm outside is and will be an ever-present thing. Still, a dream is only a dream.
“Neuvillette, I—”
“You can be honest too,” says Neuvillette. “Celestia has no eyes here, not under my watch.”
Those words hold power. Something about them raises the hair on the back of his neck. Wriothesley's mouth is dry, his lips chapped. He licks at them and says, “I can’t stay here forever.” Neuvillette doesn’t look disappointed, he just gives a slow blink, and a soft huff. “That storm out there won’t last forever—”
“The storm will last as long as I wish for it to.”
Wriothesley stills in those furs, looking at Neuvillette through fresh eyes. Elynas is old magic; that’d been his first thought when stepping into this part of Fontaine. There was something that lurked beyond the veil of that soft, green grass.
“Neuvillette, what are you?”
“You asked,” purrs Neuvillette, pleased. He leans closer until he’s hanging over Wriothesley, just like that first day he woke up dazed and confused. “I am a dragon, Wriothesley.”
Oh. Oh. “You’re… the...?”
“I have seen many knights cross into my lands and all have perished. And no—I did nothing. They alone fell to their fate in the same way you nearly did.”
“But you saved me.”
Neuvillette’s expression softens. “I did,” he replies. “I have craved you since I first saw you. You were different and like the dragon I am, I wanted you for my hoard, so I’ve let this storm rage to keep you here for as long as you wish.”
As long as he wishes.
“I could leave,” says Wriothesley.
The sound that Neuvillette lets loose is a soft and reedy thing. “You can. I would not like it, but you can. I am not like Celestia. I have no desire to leash you.”
Wriothesley is no fool, he knows that sweet look that creases the skin around Neuvillette’s eyes. And he, too—his chest clenches at the thought because he doesn’t want this to end badly. “I can’t. Neuvillette, I can’t leave. I want to stay. I love you—”
“Shh, beloved.” Neuvillette cups his cheek with a cool hand. He presses their foreheads together and Wriothesley settles, taking in his ocean-salt scent. “It’s alright.”
Wriothesley kisses him, closing the distance. Neuvillette makes a sound that Wriothesley swallows. He responds eagerly, ill-practiced and unsure, but he tries. It is not a good kiss, all tongues and teeth, but Wriothesley chuckles against his mouth, guiding Neuvillette in how it's done.
And, oh, it's done, a grand and sweeping gesture that swells through him. Wriothesley has never had a home, but this den, these furs, and Neuvillette hanging over him and laughing against his mouth; this is a home if he’s ever imagined one.
“A dragon,” he says. “The dragon.” A pause. “What have you done to terrorize Celestia so?”
“Nothing,” murmurs Neuvillette. He pets Wriothesley's face, tracing the arch of his cheekbones with clawed fingers. “I merely exist in opposition to them. They stole my powers, my entire being, but still I persist.”
Wriothesley's mouth falls open as realization dawns on him.
“Ah, that look.” Neuvillette’s face crinkles with affection. “Have you realized, then?”
“The Hydro Sovereign?”
Neuvillette hums softly, leaving Wriothesley to process this. He could fight back with the power of ten thousand men, but he… chooses to live in a cave. Neuvillette laughs, knowing what he thinks. “Perhaps one day, my little knight. My days of judging others are gone. I enjoy the quiet solitude of my den.” A pause. “And now you, if you wish to stay.”
It should be obvious. Wriothesley laughs against Neuvillette’s mouth. “I have nothing else except you.”
Neuvillette’s chest rumbles as they kiss again, and maybe Wriothesley imagines it, but he thinks it might be hailing outside.
#
Once there was a knight sent on a dead-end mission of chasing an ancient dragon. The stories say that Elynas is a mystery, formed by a magic unknown to most, and that this knight, like all those before him, disappeared on his quest without a trace. No one searched for him, and his memory was mostly lost to time, penned in only a handful of books.
This knight, though, found a home in Elynas; in cups of tea and a handsome man with hair the color of moonlight.
“Sweetheart,” he says as Neuvillette sits beside him to watch that ever-present storm, “I think we should take a picnic today.”
With a wave of Neuvillette’s hand, and a kiss to Wriothesley's cheek, that rain parts. “Of course, beloved.”