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“My, my. If it isn’t the esteemed Chief Justice, in the flesh, honoring me with a visit…!”
What was once a booming, powerful sing-song of a voice has softened and scratched with the decades. Here, laying in sheets of white, it is now barely more than a whisper.
Nevertheless, the theatrics are never-ending. Even with her years of performance far behind her – whether as an archon or a professional actress – her flair for the dramatic is etched into her core, a century-old coping mechanism turned personality trait.
The ever-present air of neutrality etched upon Neuvillette’s features doesn’t flicker. Impassive, he lays down the bouquet of lakelight lilies on the desk near the entrance of the room - right next to the newest basket of bottled water he’s taken to send as an occasional gift.
Her eyes crinkle. “And you brought me flowers? What a gentleman you are.” She pauses, dramatically, before continuing what she expects to be a monologue. “If I didn’t know better–”
“Sigewinne sent me a letter.”
The words are sharp, no-nonsense, and they cut through her own with the swiftness of a sword. It startles her — and the rest of her sentence withers on her tongue.
Neuvillette listens. He always has. Speech after speech, decree after decree - or simply on a random Thursday afternoon, as she waltzed into his office, sitting on the edge of his desk with yet another tasteful anecdote to share with her colleague ― he stayed still in his chair, silent, eyes rarely ( if ever ) straying from the ever-growing piles of paper, and let her speak every word. Whether he actually listened or simply tuned her out depended on the day, but his own input was very rare, and always impeccably timed with the pauses where she ran out of breath. Never did he interrupt her – perhaps simply a question of respect, since the very few exceptions happened during the last years of her reign as tensions from the threat of the prophecy ran high.
But that was a very long time ago, and after mending the chasm of their severed bond, he went back to being her only constant, her favorite audience member. Although she would see him much less often, and always on a voluntary basis, he still preferred to let her handle the reins of their conversations – for that was, and would always be, their dynamic.
( The Chief Justice of Fontaine – tall, rigid, unmoving. Still as an unperturbed body of water. The Hydro Archon – short, talkative, bursting with energy, overflowing with words. The waves of the seas crashing over the shore in a lacy edge of bubbles. Perfect opposites of each other. )
Silence fills the room for a few seconds that stretch impossibly long ― until she sighs, soft and defeated.
“...Of course she did.”
She expected that to happen; after all, he was the one who had assigned the Melusine to her bedside as her health started to deteriorate. She has suspected he was getting updates ; his visits have been getting more and more frequent, with no reason to justify them outside of her further deteriorating health.
Furina nods toward the plush ornate chair occupying the corner of her bedchambers – wordlessly. The Iudex leaves the doorway, finally steps into the room and toward the targeted furniture. Its legs whine against the wooden floor as he drags it to her bedside before taking a seat, one leg instinctively coming to cross over the other in a fashion she knows he has inherited from her own mannerisms. His eyes never stray from her face, reptilian lilac irises piercing her to the very core. Anyone else would be intimidated – but she spent centuries ruling Fontaine with him by her side. The familiarity only brings a soft smile to her face.
“How is work?”
“The usual”, he replies - short, clipped.
He doesn’t look a day older than he did last month, the last time he’d freed his schedule for a visit. Or three years ago, when Navia and Clorinde’s daughter got married. Or five years prior, at Wriothesley’s funeral – although that time, he had been uncommonly dressed in black, standing ramrod straight next to the coffin as rain splattered across his face. Or at her wedding, and at her children’s – or when she left the Palais Mermonia long, long, long ago. Still as frozen in time as the day he arrived at the Court of Fontaine, but oh so, so very old – just like her.
She, for her part, has lost the youthful look they once shared – but she doesn’t mourn it, not in the slightest. Perhaps no one had ever been so enthusiastic as her at the sight of a wrinkle, at the feel of aching joints. Gods speak of erosion with fear and apprehension, but she celebrated it - found euphoria in the picture the tall mirrors of her chambers reflected back to her. Although she doesn’t have the strength to get up and twirl in front of them as she did in her youth, one of those very mirrors still stands, right in front of her bed – where, with her recent lack of mobility, she can still gaze upon the passage of time finally, physically catching up to what has been a very, very long life. Such a positive outlook on ageing drew astonishment from many colleagues and friends, who viewed it through their human lenses – but most were not privy to her tale, kept under wraps for the sake of an avoided prophecy.
People in the know met her excitement with tenderness – all but one. Neuvillette had always expertly dodged the subject. For she – the one omnipresent figure of his life, just like he is to hers – was suddenly under the same rules of the hourglass as any other. She has not simply packed her suitcases and left the Palais: she settled down, found love, had children – one of whom was just there, and would come back tonight with his siblings.
“― Any fun trials to tell me about?”
“Justice is not fun , Lady Furina.”
And to anyone else, it would look like he hasn’t changed either. But few had the privilege of knowing Neuvillette as closely as she has, and none through such a long period of time.
She hums, looks toward the window. “If you say so”, she muses, with a knowing lilt, and waits. The sun glows warmly in the sky, of a beautiful cyan. A few clouds in sight – but none obstructing the light cast upon her bed.The hatch is open, at her request. She likes to hear the birds chirping.
It is a beautiful day. For now.
It takes a few minutes. They spend those in silence, Furina with a patience she has only acquired through years of motherhood. She waits, and waits, and then –
“There was this one case… it was a dispute between neighbors.” – and then she smiles.
Changed a lot, he has. She drinks his words as he tells her a few tales of the court. Fondness blooms inside her at the way he hesitates, trips slightly over his words, for he definitely doesn’t make a habit of doing this. He does not have her skills of storytelling, but there is still an attempt – one she can tell draws inspiration from her own expert approach.
Because he knows it makes her happy, makes her laugh – in a way her vocal chords may not be able to handle anymore, from the alarmed look he sends her way at the cough that tears its way through her throat. She appeases him with more giggles, with a fragile, frail hand upon his arm and with a gaze full of warmth and softness.
It had been a key part of Focalors’ scheme to get the Hydro Dragon Sovereign to welcome humans into his heart. By all means, it had succeeded - perhaps more than first anticipated. What a privilege it has been, to watch Neuvillette learn how to love - in all its shapes.
The band of gold sitting on his ring finger catches the sunlight - and her eyes at the same time. Her old friend has taken a risk through this lifetime, has offered a piece of himself to another like never before. Such a leap of faith – which she had greatly encouraged, when he first came to her with reddened cheeks and an anecdote that made her squeal – was one that bet on the bliss of happiness of the present ( past ) outweighing the agony of a future ( present ) of grief. And while she knows he feels no regret, Neuvillette is still very much paying the price. Fontaine has rarely known a rainy season as long and torrid as the one that followed the Duke of Meropide’s passing – and while the skies are mostly clear nowadays, the man next to her is still picking up the fragments of his broken heart.
The sun is setting; there’s a knock. Kiara appears in the doorway, a flash of pink against the white surroundings. There is an apologetic look in her eyes when she tells Neuvillette that there is an urgent matter to attend, that his presence is required at the court in the shortest delays. Furina sees the Iudex’s face fall, a rare sight of distress glimpsed upon his features. He glances between his agent and her, his old colleague - old, frail and wrinkled.
“Surely it can be delegated to the staff currently present? I was very adamant to Sedene about taking the day off.” There is an attempt at delivering the words with the usual cool so heavily associated with the head of Fontaine’s court, to no avail. Furina’s weary heart aches at the uncharacteristic tremor in the syllables, a rare emotional glimpse into Neuvillette’s guarded emotional state.
The Chief Justice is a very diligent man, with a century-long reputation of taking his duties with the utmost dedication. His breaks are sparse, but they are important . Rare of him it is to insist on delaying the work to which he is so publicly and undeniably devoted.
Kiara hesitates. Furina feels her violet gaze shift upon her form, watches as understanding dawns upon her features - ( Melusines have always seen things differently than humans, haven't they? ) - opens her mouth, what is most likely an apology on her tongue -
But Furina is quicker. “You should go, Neuvillette. Don’t keep your subjects waiting for little ol’ me.”
The dragon doesn’t make the motion to get up - stays put, hands clenching the hem of his robes. And this is when she hears the first droplets hitting the window pane.
She coos, eyes swelling with tears when she glimpses his own. “Iudex, my dear Iudex –”, she beckons him closer, raises frail fingers to wipe at the pearls of water caught on his eyelids. “Please don’t cry for me. At last, this is freedom. Yes?”
Neuvillette’s gloved hand raises to lay upon hers against his cheek. He closes his eyes, releases a shuddering breath – nuzzles against her wrinkled palm, like a wounded animal. This is how they remain for the next few minutes, silent and still like a painting – one last moment to commit to memory. The tambourine of the rain only gets quicker, louder, more erratic – tambourines setting the rhythm for the last few measures, a rush toward the grand finale of her song.
She knows this is cruel – leaving him so soon after his lover had. But she simply couldn’t spare him - had no desire to, either, beyond a surface worry for the impact it will have on him. Selfishness was not the word for it - for Furina de Fontaine had sacrificed heart, body and soul to uphold a kingdom that would never know enough to recognize it.
Eternity has long stretched her thin. The curtain fall is imminent – but Death will be welcomed with a grateful curtsy.