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Fortress of Meropide – Lower Holding Cells
The metal door groaned shut behind the guards with a finality that made Diluc’s skin crawl. The clang echoed through the narrow corridor of stone and steel, sealing him into his new cage. His breath came in fast, ragged bursts—equal parts exhaustion, rage, and panic.
Another cell. Another cage. Another set of bars he couldn’t break.
He threw his shoulder into the wall with a snarl, ignoring the pain that lanced through his fractured collarbone. Blood from earlier skirmishes had already dried on his skin, crusting over his knuckles and smearing in dark patches across his coat. His eyes—fever-bright and furious—raked across every inch of the tiny, suffocating space, seeking weakness.
There was none.
He had already broken the bench. The sink was cracked. One of the bars was bent ever so slightly from where he’d thrown himself against it over and over, screaming for the man in charge, for anyone to come down and look him in the eye .
And when no one had, he had screamed louder.
His voice was wrecked now, hoarse and low. But he kept pacing, kept muttering under his breath like a lit fuse hissing toward a fire.
Then, finally, heavy footsteps. Purposeful. Slow. Not the rushed gait of a nervous guard—no, this was deliberate. Someone important.
Diluc’s head snapped up.
The tall, broad-shouldered man who stepped into view didn’t wear the standard Fontainean guard uniform. He moved with calm control, gloved hands at his sides, eyes sharp and assessing. His presence alone silenced the corridor. Authority clung to him like frost.
Wriothesley.
He stopped just short of the bars, glancing into the wrecked cell with an exasperated sigh.
“ You’re the one screaming your lungs out like a dying animal, huh? ” Wriothesley’s voice was low and smooth, tinged with unmistakable irritation. “ Half the lower levels heard you. Some of us were trying to get actual work done. ”
Diluc’s chest rose and fell as he glared at him from the shadows of the corner, eyes burning red under the flickering overhead lights. He didn’t respond with words—just moved.
Fast.
In two strides he was at the bars, fists clenched, face inches from Wriothesley’s. His teeth were bared like a wild dog.
“ Then get me out. Or kill me. Pick one. ”
Wriothesley didn’t even blink.
Instead, he raised an eyebrow and leaned slightly forward, voice dry. “ Trying to scare me? ” His mouth twitched into a scoff. “ That doesn’t work here. You can gnash your teeth all you like—it’s just noise. ”
Diluc’s lips curled. “ Then you’re deaf. I’m not making noise. I’m making a threat. ”
Wriothesley laughed. Actually laughed. Not loudly—but enough.
“ You’re not the first little firecracker who thought snarling would make someone flinch. ” He glanced at the busted bench. “ Though I’ll admit, you’ve got more energy than most of them. ”
Diluc shook the bars. “ You think I care what you’ve seen? Do you have any idea what they— ” He cut himself off, jaw clenching hard enough to ache.
Wriothesley narrowed his eyes. “ So what happened? You get caught playing hero with the wrong people? Dead Fatuus on the scene. Weapons drawn. You looked ready to kill again when they dragged you in. ” He tilted his head. “ Why? What’s someone your age doing spilling Fatui blood in Fontaine? ”
“ You don’t want to know. ” Diluc’s voice dropped, tight and dangerous.
“ Try me. ”
“ I said, you don’t want to know. ”
Wriothesley shrugged. “ Fine. Then let’s start simple. How old are you? ”
“ Twenty-six. ”
The lie came sharp and fast, like a snapped arrow. Diluc straightened, lifted his chin in defiance. His face was dirt-smudged, smeared with blood, but his jaw was set with an adult’s pride.
Wriothesley’s silence was almost worse than any mockery.
He took a long, slow look at Diluc. Not just the rage in his eyes, but the gauntness of his face. The too-long hair falling into his eyes. The way his hands trembled—not from weakness, but from being wound too tight for too long. Like a child who hadn’t slept in weeks but refused to cry.
Wriothesley smiled faintly. Not kindly.
“ Lucky you. Twenty-six with a baby face like that? Must be the water. ”
That was when Diluc spit on him .
A glob of blood-tinged saliva struck the collar of Wriothesley’s coat. The moment hung suspended in heavy silence.
Diluc didn’t flinch.
But Wriothesley didn’t reach for a weapon. Didn’t shout. Didn’t strike back.
He chuckled .
Low. Dark. Amused.
“ You’re going to fit right in. ”
He turned to leave.
Diluc watched the man’s back like a wolf behind a fence. And just as Wriothesley’s hand reached the edge of the corridor—
“ Wait. ”
The single word cracked like glass.
Wriothesley slowed, glanced over his shoulder—
And Diluc’s hand shot through the bars and grabbed his sleeve .
He gripped it with everything he had, shoulder shaking. Blood from his split knuckles smeared onto the fabric. His voice came out raw, thick with something he couldn’t shove down anymore.
“ Don’t leave. ”
Wriothesley turned fully, brows drawing together—not in alarm, but something quieter. Harder to read.
Diluc’s fingers tightened.
His lip trembled before he bared his teeth again, snarling through it.
“ I said don’t—don’t walk away. I’m not done. ”
His breath hitched. He looked furious to be unraveling, like his own body was betraying him. “ Don’t—don’t just— ” His voice broke. He tried to swallow it down. “ You wanted to know why I’m here? You came down like you care, right? Then look at me. I’m right here. Ask. Say something. Stop treating me like-“
Wriothesley looked at the bruised knuckles clinging to his sleeve.
Then he looked up. Calm. Quiet. Still unreadable.
“ You done? ”
Wriothesley didn’t budge.
But Diluc scoffed under his breath—furious, burning—and yanked him closer through the bars.
The motion wasn’t forceful enough to throw the Duke off balance, but it was unmistakably urgent , a clawing plea behind the aggression. He looked up into Wriothesley’s face with eyes too wide, too red-rimmed, too young for the weight they carried.
“ You won’t regret it. ” Diluc’s voice cracked but didn’t falter. His hands were trembling where they clutched his sleeve, but his tone sharpened with a mad edge of resolve. “ Just let me go. I’ll leave Fontaine—I swear it. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I got lost. I needed to get to Snezhnaya, and the damn border patrol caught me in the middle of— ” He cut himself off, breath short. “ It doesn’t matter. I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear from me again. ”
Wriothesley let out a soft laugh. Dry. Cold.
“ Oh, sure. Just ‘let you go.’ What kind of idiot do you take me for? ” He shook his head, amused. “ What would that make me? A joke? A duke with no spine? ”
Diluc tightened his grip.
He stepped closer to the bars until his forehead almost touched them, pulling Wriothesley’s sleeve with him. Desperation hung off him like a stormcloud.
“ Please. ” The word slipped out quieter this time. A crack in the stone.
Wriothesley narrowed his eyes. “ Let. Me. Go. ” His voice dipped, low and warning.
But Diluc didn’t let go.
Instead, with trembling fingers, he reached down—found Wriothesley’s gloved hand—and lifted it to his chest , pressing it flat over his heartbeat. A fast, frantic rhythm pounded beneath his ribs.
“ I can be of service. ” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the meaning was crystal clear. His eyes didn’t leave Wriothesley’s.
There was a long silence.
A breathless, frozen silence.
The kind that stretches between one heartbeat and the next, too sharp to ignore.
Wriothesley didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His jaw clenched just slightly. His gaze remained fixed on Diluc’s face—reading, searching. Not with lust. Not even disgust. But something colder. Sharper. A disappointment that came from knowing exactly what this meant.
“ I’m good, ” Diluc said softly. “ You can use me. The whole night, if you want. I don’t care. Just let me out. Let me leave. ”
The words were filthy. Not for their content—but for how hollow they sounded. Like they weren’t born of desire or cunning, but survival. Like he didn’t even fully understand what he was offering. Like he’d already decided it was the only thing he had left.
Wriothesley finally pulled his hand back.
Not fast. Not violently. Just… firmly.
His voice, when it came, was quiet—but it cut like steel. “ I’m not going to let a child sleep his way out of a prison sentence. ”
Diluc snapped .
“ I’m not a child! I’m not! ” he screamed, all the fury in his body tearing out of his throat. His fists slammed against the bars. “ You don’t get to call me that! You don’t know what I’ve done—what I’ve been through— ” His voice cracked again, breaking on its own weight. “ I’m not a kid… ”
Wriothesley stepped back slightly, giving him a look so unflinching it bordered on cruel.
“ You are. ” His eyes flicked down. “ That’s the sad part. ”
Diluc shook his head violently. “ Shut up. Just—shut up. ”
But Wriothesley only scoffed, voice low.
“ Is this really it? ” he asked. “ This is what you’d do to get out? Trade yourself for a night? Is that all you think you’re worth? ”
Diluc didn’t say anything. Just nodded. One, sharp, desperate nod.
He didn’t cry. Not properly. But his throat was so tight, it was a miracle he could breathe.
Wriothesley stared at him for a long time. His face was unreadable again. The silence twisted between them like a taut rope.
Then, finally:
“ No. ” Wriothesley’s voice was flat. Final. “ You’re staying. ”
He turned.
And again— again —Diluc lunged forward.
“ Don’t walk away! ” he snarled, grabbing Wriothesley’s arm harder this time, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeve, holding on with a strength that was all panic and fire. “ Don’t you dare walk away! ”
Before Wriothesley could react, Diluc’s trembling hand tore his own shirt aside—roughly, recklessly—exposing the pale skin beneath the collarbone, the bruises already forming across his chest from the earlier struggle. His breath hitched, shallow and rapid.
“ I’m good, ” Diluc gasped, his voice rising to a sob. “I swear I’m good—I can do it— I’m not a kid! ” He banged the bars again. “ I can do this! Just—just get it over with, let me go, please, please just— ”
Wriothesley’s expression changed.
The sharp line of his mouth softened. His brows pulled in, not with anger, not even with frustration, but with something worse.
Pity.
That look— that look—was enough to send Diluc into a spiral.
“ Don’t look at me like that! ” he shouted, voice hoarse. “ I don’t need your pity! I didn’t ask for it! Just—just take what you want and let me go— ”
And then—desperate, breaking, wild—he grabbed Wriothesley’s hand and forced it toward his bare skin, shoving it against his chest again. He tried to pull him even closer, shaking, not with strength but with frantic need.
But Wriothesley didn’t move.
He didn’t budge.
“ Please! ” Diluc choked, teeth gritted, sobs breaking through. “ Just get it over with! I—I can’t do this anymore, I can’t—I’ll give you whatever you want—just please— ”
Wriothesley pulled back. Hard.
So hard that Diluc’s grip snapped—and he stumbled forward, falling to his knees , a pathetic, crumpled figure on the cold stone floor. His torn shirt hung open. His arms wrapped around himself. His whole body shook as the sobs poured out of him, raw and unstoppable.
He wasn’t even trying to be quiet anymore.
Wriothesley turned, paused, his hand flexing uselessly at his side.
He exhaled—a long, quiet sigh—and turned back around, walking slowly to the bars again.
“ Hey, ” he said, voice low, steady. “ You need to calm down. ”
Diluc just shook his head, sobbing harder. His forehead dropped against the floor.
“ Breathe. ”
Another sob. Another shuddering inhale. Still, no words.
Wriothesley stepped closer, crouching down slightly, his tone gentler this time. “ How old are you, really? ”
There was a beat of silence. And then, in the softest voice Wriothesley had heard from him yet—
“ Nineteen. ”
It was barely audible. Just a whisper between hiccupped breaths. Diluc held his own arms like they were the only thing holding him together. He sniffled and didn’t lift his head.
Wriothesley closed his eyes for a long moment.
“ Shit, ” he murmured under his breath. Then he reached through the bars again, slowly—carefully. He didn’t pull this time. He didn’t shove.
He just fixed the collar of Diluc’s shirt, tucking it back over his shoulder. Then, with a deep sigh, he opened the cell door.
Diluc didn’t flinch when he entered. Didn’t move. He just kept holding himself, still kneeling, red hair falling like a curtain over his face.
Wriothesley knelt in front of him.
Gently—without force—he reached out and cupped Diluc’s face in his hands.
His gloves were rough, but his touch was steady.
“ You’re not going to rot in here, alright? ” he said quietly. “ I’m going to figure something out. I promise. But not like this. ”
Diluc sniffled again, eyes swollen, lips trembling. “ I’m sorry, ” he whispered, barely coherent.
“ I know. ”
“ I just— ” His voice cracked. “ I didn’t know what else to do. I thought—I thought maybe if I gave you a reason— ”
“ You don’t have to give me anything. ” Wriothesley’s voice was firm, but kind. “ You’re not some thing I can bargain with. You’re a nineteen-year-old kid who’s clearly been through hell. ”
Diluc looked up at him finally—eyes wide, wet, and full of exhaustion.
“ You believe me? That I didn’t mean to be here? That I didn’t— ”
“ Doesn’t matter right now. What matters is getting you out of this cell in one piece. ”
Wriothesley helped him up—guided him to sit on the small cot in the corner. It was hardly comfortable, but better than the floor.
He stood over him for a moment, watching the way Diluc still clutched his arms like armor.
Then, after a pause, he crouched again and looked him in the eye.
“ You’re not worthless. You hear me? You’re not a weapon. You’re not a bribe. And you sure as hell aren’t someone’s toy. ”
Diluc nodded slowly, as if it hurt to believe him.
“ I’ll come back. Soon. ” Wriothesley rose. “ You just sit tight. Don’t break anything. Try not to scream your head off again. And… sleep. If you can. ”
Diluc wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “ Okay. ” He sniffled. “ Thank you. ”
Wriothesley paused at the door.
He looked back once more. Just once.
And then he left.
Wriothesley returned to the holding cells five hours later, boots echoing down the corridor with a quick, steady rhythm. The air still smelled of rust and stone and the faint traces of sweat and desperation. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he turned the corner, weary from paperwork and legal negotiations—but at least he had made progress. He had options. The kid wasn’t going to rot here.
But when he came into view of the cell…
He stopped.
Empty.
The door was ajar.
And outside, leaning lazily against the wall with a satisfied, smug look on his face, was Joan—the old guard assigned to this section.
Wriothesley’s heart dropped. “Where is he?”
Joan looked up slowly, like he hadn’t heard the urgency. He shrugged.
“Gone.”
Wriothesley’s fists clenched. “ Gone ?” he barked, stepping forward. “What the hell do you mean gone ? He was in custody—he was under your watch—where the fuck is he?”
Joan’s grin widened.
“Easy, easy,” he said, holding up his hands, far too casual. “The kid earned his way out.”
Silence.
Wriothesley blinked, the words not computing fast enough. “What the hell does that mean?”
Joan chuckled, amused by the confusion. “Oh, come on,” he said. “You’re not that dense, are you?”
Wriothesley’s eyes sharpened. “ Explain it. Clearly.”
Joan pushed off the wall, arms folded across his chest like this was just another conversation at a tavern. “He offered, I accepted. Simple. Said he’d do whatever it took to leave. Thought I might as well get something out of it. Didn’t even have to push him—kid came crawling.”
His grin curled in amusement, as if it were a joke.
“He let me use him. Easiest favor I’ve had in months.”
Wriothesley’s breath left him in a slow, seething exhale. For a second, the world tunneled around him—just the sound of Joan’s words echoing over and over again.
“Say that again,” Wriothesley said, voice flat. Too flat.
Joan raised an eyebrow. “Why? You want details?”
And that’s when Wriothesley hit him.
One punch, clean across the face.
It knocked Joan sideways into the wall. Blood splattered against the stone, his head snapping back. He grunted and staggered, dazed, a hand rising to his nose.
“ You fucking— ” Wriothesley grabbed his collar and slammed him against the bars. “ He’s nineteen. Barely a man. A kid. And you— ”
Joan laughed through his split lip. “Yeah. I know.”
The words were so casual, so nonchalant, that it made Wriothesley freeze.
He stared at the man in front of him, stunned. Sick. His fists trembled.
“You knew,” Wriothesley said, low. “You knew . And you still—”
“I didn’t force him,” Joan spat, almost smug. “Don’t go pinning your guilt on me. The boy begged. Said he was good for it. Said he’d be worth it.”
Wriothesley’s hands were still clenched in Joan’s uniform, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His mouth was dry.
“I told him it’d only be a minute,” Joan went on, laughing bitterly. “But the way he clung to me? Felt like he’d done it before. He knew what he was doing.”
That broke something in Wriothesley.
“You son of a—”
He slammed Joan into the bars again. “You think that makes it better? You think consent means anything when someone’s on their knees begging to escape a cell? Begging not to rot in a foreign country, alone, with no help?!”
Joan groaned, spitting blood onto the stone floor. “Not my fault the world chewed him up before I got there.”
Wriothesley let him go— shoved him to the floor.
Joan coughed and wiped his mouth again, muttering under his breath.
Wriothesley stepped back, chest heaving, heart pounding with something far too close to fury.
He could still see Diluc—kneeling, shirt torn, voice cracking from how hard he’d cried. “ I’m good—I can do it—I’m not a kid…”
And then he was gone.
Gone.
“Where is he now?” Wriothesley asked quietly.
Joan blinked up at him, still dazed.
“Where. Is. He.”
Joan shrugged. “Said he wanted out. He left. Walked out the back like nothing happened.”
“ Alone? ”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Wriothesley turned, furious, his voice shaking with restraint.
He stormed out of the corridor, slamming open the door at the end of the hall and yelling for backup. Orders came fast—search teams, perimeter checks, anything to find a red-haired nineteen-year-old boy wandering Fontaine’s streets without so much as a name to protect him.
But deep down…
Wriothesley already knew.
Diluc was gone.
And whatever hope Wriothesley had tried to give him—
The system had stolen it first.