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The invitation he sent out last was largely a matter of formality, on Neuvillette’s part. It wouldn’t be reasonable to exclude her from a gathering of close acquaintances, not when they’ve known each other for the longest time; even less so when one considers the matter of his calling, the birth of his existence’s purpose. No matter how things stand between them at present or how she would’ve felt about coming to such an intimate gathering, extending that hand was the bare minimum, a show of rightful respect.
When Furina shows up to the gathering, bottled spring water from the far north in tow, Neuvillette assumes this, too, must be a reciprocation of that respect. “Thank you for inviting me,” is the first thing she says, fashionably late to the function. Handing him her gift, Furina echoes: “A happiest birthday to you, Neuvillette.”
She flashes him that smile mirrored in all the posters of the Opera Epiclese. Dressed tidily in a blue cocktail dress that splits at her upper left thigh, a peacoat draped over her shoulders, her signature heeled boots and frilly socks combination, mismatched gloves that extend to her elbows. Furina cut her hair short a while back, sometime after she left the Palais; still, it’s like he’s seen this before. Like they are back at work, in the waiting room behind the court, before the trial, and the Hydro Archon, preparing for the “performance” that’s about to ensue.
Neuvillette takes the bottle, and does his best at mirroring her cordiality. It’s not an easy task. It’s hard to find a moment in the four, five centuries they had where he actually graced her with a smile that counts as genuine. Always found it performative, much to Furina’s own dismay. “Thank you for coming, Furina. Hors d’oeuvres are out—please help yourself to your heart’s content, and let me know if you need anything else.”
Furina was always inconsistent in her actions, intentions once indecipherable; some days she’d come right on time for the event, harking on respect, and sometimes it felt like she couldn’t be bothered to show up at all. Neuvillette can bet half his goblets that her late arrival to this party has to do with avoidance of the awkward situation that would transpire should she arrive before her other friends. It was a situation he was inclined to avoid himself—and though he hadn’t voiced the concern to anyone in particular, Clorinde spared no effort in arriving early to prevent such a thing from happening. She understands their situation best, having worked with them for a good while; Neuvillette considers it unfortunate, too, that she has to act in consideration for the tricky situation between them, even though she is under no obligation to do so.
But by this time, the rest of the party has arrived. It takes no time for her to assimilate with her group of friends, catching up with them on their recent updates, the usual conversations. Furina’s a star everyone’s always curious about, and too is a trained socialite; she has no trouble quickly getting into the flow of the evening’s cheer. It’s not a lot of people in the room—Clorinde, Wriothesley and Sigewinne, Navia, and after an extended deliberation, the twins from the House of the Hearth—and each of them are incredibly important people in their own rights. And yet, in this gathering that he arranged to commemorate this fictitious “birthday” of his, it’s unavoidable that he should be the center of attention most of the evening. It brings Neuvillette some relief, then, that there’s someone else they can set their eyes on, even if only for fifteen minutes or so.
The thought brings along a sense of wistfulness to it. It has always been this way, with Furina. She would draw the spotlight, playing the beacon of justice, garnering the people’s faith, and Neuvillette would sit in the beacon’s shadow, do whatever needs to be done. He wouldn’t be feeling half as guilty if she was ever happy about playing that role.
… Forget it. Neuvillette casts his eyes to the empty walls in the distance—he’ll never even come close to staring her way—taking a sip of his cold water. The golden hue of artificial lights, and the chorus of clinking glasses; it’s a gentle night filled with warm delights. No need to swim off the deep end.
Wriothesley, who’s lost his chatting partner, decides Neuvillette should be his new target. “Surely you’re not going to leave this night without talking to her at all?”
Neuvillette only arches his eyebrow in response.
“Oh, he’s trying his hand at putting up an act, now. Talk about being a star pupil,” Wriothesley snickers. “You know perfectly well what I mean. Or would you rather hear me say it anyway?”
“I certainly haven’t a clue. As far as I can recall, I’ve talked to every single person in this room.”
With a resigned expression, Wriothesley shakes his head. “It’s an embarrassment to be considered one of your close acquaintances. Well, you do you, Monsieur,” he relinquishes uncharacteristically. “I’m not going to pass up on this rare opportunity to talk to Fontaine’s idol, actually.”
He’s got a scheme in mind, Neuvillette’s sure of that. He’ll bet half of the remaining half of his goblets Clorinde is involved with this somehow. “I think you’re making too big a deal out of it. All that needs to be said has been said… tonight’s purpose is simply a place of gathering for friends old and new, a chance to chat with each other. It is nothing so profound, just as is the very idea of a ‘birthday’ for someone like myself.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t put it past you to say what needs to be said.” Wriothesley takes a sip of his ceylon tea, beckoning an extended pause. “And only what needs to be said.”
Neuvillette casts him a questioning glance, but Wriothesley’s eyes are directed towards Furina, laughing along to something Navia said. Gone is the restraint that came with the crown; she does not cover her mouth with her gloved hand, does not confine her movement to the width of her seat; she laughs with her mouth open wide, tears at the corners of her eyes.
Furina is a happier person than she ever was… and it’s a sight he does not recognize.
Is there really anything to talk about with someone you don’t know?
“Then again, with a long life ahead of you as the pinnacle of righteousness… can’t entirely blame you. Not that I would truly understand—I’m but an ex-convict, after all.” Wriothesley stands up, setting down the empty cup with a defined ‘clink’ that resonates even over the chatter. He barely spares Neuvillette a glance before making his way over to Clorinde on his other side, nudging her shoulder. “Can we switch?”
She gives him a very unimpressed look, then sees Neuvillette, then back to Wriothesley. “No.”
“Come on. You’ve had Lady Furina for long enough. I wanna talk to the star, too.”
“She’s been here for ten minutes,” retorts Clorinde, rolling her eyes. Now, this, is a scene Neuvillette’s gotten used to. He smiles behind his cup of water.
Wriothesley whines, almost like a toddler. “You’re friends with her and see her every other day. This is the only chance I’ve got!”
Clorinde sighs, but leaves her seat nevertheless. Neuvillette struggles to believe that such childish whining actually worked on her. The no-nonsense Clorinde, of all people. It seems he still has a long way to go when it comes to understanding humans, their relationships, and all the different nuances in between.
“Don’t say anything weird.”
“To the Lady Furina? I wouldn’t dare.”
Just like that, Wriothesley is now sitting to his left, Clorinde to his right. She shows not even the slightest interest in entertaining her work superior, immediately looking at Sigewinne, who’s excited to have a new chatting partner, to catch up with an old friend. Neuvillette stares at them blankly for a while, not particularly registering the words exchanged between them.
It’s but a moment, barely anything in the vast expanse of time. In the midst of that moment, their empty plates have been replaced with the main course, their drinks refilled, the twins switched places, conversations shifted. Neuvillette only notices all this when Clorinde snaps her fingers right before his eyes.
“What are you so deep in thought about? You’ve barely touched your food,” she points out.
Neuvillette blinks slowly. He takes his cold water, like that should refresh him a little. “I think… I just think it’s an unusually… peaceful night,” he admits.
“A foreign situation?”
He nods. “I find no reason to indulge upon meetings like these, not with my particular nature and identity. I simply hoped it provides a good opportunity for some of you to catch up after all this time. So really, don’t mind me too much.”
Clorinde keeps her gaze on him for a moment, before letting out a nod. “I’d say you don’t really need a reason to, but perhaps there’s no reason for you to act out of reason…”
“Is there a reason for anyone to act out of reason?”
Strangely, Clorinde lets out a scoff, one bordering on disbelief. And then, she turns to him with a tilt of her head. “Let me ask you this: as someone who’s observed humanity for a long time, do you think humans are reasonable beings?”
Neuvillette pauses. “They’re reasonable beings, yes.”
“Do they always act with reason?”
“Not always, no…”
“And why would that be?”
“Because they’re also… emotional beings.” It dawns on Neuvillette, gentle as the morning dew. And so the question becomes, is there a reason for someone like ‘me’ to act out of reason? Clorinde’s answer is, perhaps not. Perhaps entities like himself, ‘beings’ of a different ‘breed’, are wired to act primarily driven by reason, with little influence of such irrational emotions.
Who can say? He has never known one like himself, and when he tried to find that identity, the answer he was left with was the role of the Iudex, the impartial judge. Perhaps, indeed, there is no reason for him to act out of reason.
But it’s like the facts are misaligned, like the altering of a river’s course thanks to a pebble down its path. The tender beef gets caught between his teeth, and he cannot figure out where its hiding, nor how to get it out.
“In that case, do you mind if I excuse myself for a minute?” Neuvillette offers Clorinde a faint smile—if one can consider it a smile at all, pushing only the corners of his eyes and not his lips. “The chatter… has come to be a tad bit overwhelming.”
It’s an excuse, of course, even if it is not untrue in and of itself.
“It’s your day, your word holds absolute authority—though I guess that’s true everyday, anyway,” Clorinde notes, chuckling. “The point is, just do what you want to do, Neuvillette.”
Want is a strong word, a scalding rock he doesn’t know how to handle.
He tries not bother dwelling on that which is beyond himself. Amidst the sumptuous feast and the merry laughter, Neuvillette leaves his seat in the table. Perhaps it’s thanks to his stature, or maybe the simple fact that it is, indeed, his birthday commemoration—the twins’ eyes latch on to his moving figure, but only with innocent curiosity.
“The desserts might come out soon,” Lynette points out, speaking up before her brother in an untypical turn of events. “You wouldn’t want to miss them.”
Navia perks up at the mention of desserts. “Are the desserts coming out already?” This, naturally, catches Furina’s attention as well—she’s never been able to deny her love for sweets, even if she’s had to pass on them more often than not, on the days she had performances. Now she can eat all of it to her heart’s content—the thought brings Neuvillette a small satisfaction, lined with just the smallest regret.
And Furina sees this, sees him, in the brief instant before he forces himself to look away.
He doesn’t want to dwell on any of that. “I just need… some fresh air,” he reassures the twins. “I’ll be back in time for the cake.”
So he says, as he proceeds to step out of the hotel right into rain, greeted only by damp, suffocating air.
Neuvillette does well on his promise and returns just right before they bring in his birthday cake. It’s made by Escoffier, one of Furina’s favorite patissiers across Fontaine’s patisserie history; Navia happens to know her on a personal capacity and arranged this order, claiming that “the cake for Fontaine’s Iudex simply has to be the best of the best”. Not that Neuvillette himself is a huge fan of cake, but it would not do to have his guests have any cake less than distinguished, so he didn’t see the need to intervene with her arrangements.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Navia waved her hands over the cake, sending the flames on the candles flickering. She quickly stopped her hands, grinning sheepishly. “Right. You need to make a wish before blowing out the candles!”
“A… wish?”
“A human custom, like wishing upon the fountain,” Clorinde explains. Neuvillette gives her an unimpressed look.
“I do know the human custom of making birthday wishes. I’ve been around for quite a while, now.”
“Well, you made it sound like you didn’t know what a wish was,” Clorinde says, shrugging. “Anyone would’ve honestly thought the same. I wouldn’t mock you like that—I’m not Wriothesley.”
The man in question whips his head, faking offense with a gasp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Clorinde makes a fair statement. “It’s just…” Neuvillette stares at the swaying flames, the cream’s shadows waltzing lazily by the rim of the cake. “I don’t really have a wish of my own.”
“Come on,” Lyney goads, “centuries of living, and you haven’t had a single desire?”
“Or maybe it’s that he’s lived such a long life, he’s fulfilled every desire he could think of,” Lynette supplies.
Sigewinne nods. “Neuvillette is not a particularly materialistic character, after all.”
“Surely you haven’t tried all of the world’s waters?” Navia shrugs. “Isn’t that one wish you can make?”
Neuvillette gives it actual thought. “Hm… yes, I suppose that would work for a wish,” he concedes. Briefly, he glances around the room; he doesn’t fail to notice Wriothesley stifling his amusement, Clorinde’s apparent disappointment, and Furina’s… pity, perhaps. Not that he has ever managed to adequately read her expression, let alone know what emotion lies behind her eyes.
It would simply remain as one of his many old wishes, passed with the rain. He closes his eyes, letting his vision fall into that of familiar darkness.
Wishing for all the world’s water in his hands is, technically, not an unreasonable personal wish. But right then, he has a new, simple wish in mind: that his companions here, those who have helped him find meaning in his own long life, should live the rest of their days in Fontaine unplagued by worries, without uninvited deluges and thunder. Neuvillette blows out the candles, and the crowd erupts into claps and cheer, “Happy birthday”s echoing throughout the private room.
It is such a mundane thing, to celebrate a moment in time with friends of that era, friends you might never see in another. And it’s such a human charm, Neuvillette thinks, to enjoy the moment as it is—to never worry about the impending future, always closer than it appears, and fret about the rotten past, shackling them by the ankle.
He’s lived a longer life than anybody else, and yet, all that time only weaves itself with one another, unable to be disentangled from his present. The river blocked by pebbles and logs is still just a stream that flows to a sea, and that’s all he really ever has been.
They arrange to take a group picture—“Another human custom,” Clorinde whispers, and she is correct in assuming his nescience on this relatively modern matter. As the guests circle in on him from both sides of the round table, Clorinde and Wriothesley naturally find themselves awkwardly pressed against the Iudex.
“We’re kind of tall, we should probably move to the edges,” Wriothesley suggests, and Clorinde quickly agrees. Just as Neuvillette’s about to ask what relevance their heights hold and point out he is even taller than they are, they’ve gone, leaving the people next in line to stand by his sides.
To his right, where Wriothesley was, is Sigewinne, who has no trouble cuddling up to him.
To his left, having been seated next to Clorinde, is Furina.
They’ve taken pictures together plenty of times, enough to line several bulletin boards; in many of them, Furina was not at all reluctant to link their arms together, slide her arm across his back, press her side to his. There was never a need for the Hydro Archon and the Iudex to be in such close proximity, and it wasn’t like there was anything substantial underneath those titles. But this was Furina, the Hydro Archon—she never explained herself. All that was left was for him to guess, and Neuvillette was never quite wise on her antics to have come to a feasible answer.
Today, she stands with just the smallest space possible between them, with Navia continuously urging her to squeeze in closer. Not even the brush of her hair against him, only the poignant fragrance of Lakelight Lilies; Neuvillette realizes then that he doesn’t even know her usual scent, with how often she changes it per the occasion.
So there goes the answer: it’s all for the act. What else would it have been for?
Half of Furina’s body is behind his arm, having angled her body inwards to let more space for the others to her left. Though it brings him no great comfort to do so, Neuvillette casts her his full gaze, and clears his throat. “You should… stand up front. You’re entirely covered, between Navia and I.”
“What nonsense. You’re the birthday boy, here—it’s only right for you to be up front and center,” she says, her smile like a feather: breezy and ticklish, sending unnecessary gooseflesh up his skin and turning his ears red.
He’d argue that he’s no “boy” of the sort, but it is such a pedantic point to bring up with someone you barely talk to anymore. Neuvillette just shakes his head, and following a stale dilemma between conscience and pragmatism, brings Furina forward himself. He wears his gloves as always, covering those callous hands of his, so he only feels the structure of her shoulders through the thick of her gloves and that of her peacoat. Still, it’s glaringly apparent to him, the difference in their statures, and how easily the curve of her shoulders fit in his palms.
And if Furina’s little jerk of the head—just a tiny bit his way, not enough to see her face at all—tells him anything, it’s that it’s the last thing she would expect of him, too. Neuvillette has held her on occasion, out of necessity—even if some of that necessity involves indulging in her whimsy. But it’s the them of today that makes it all the more foreign.
Or perhaps he’s overthinking it, as she once suggested he does too often. He lets go of that stolen warmth, returning to the sight of the Kamera.
“Is everyone ready? I’m taking the picture in three—two—”
Neuvillette does his best to muster a smile that isn’t somewhere along awkward or unsettling. Just think of the Melusines, an ancient voice echoes in his head. Actually, think of the Melusine dolls, or Sigewinne’s little stickers of the Melusines on your teacup. Aren’t they the most adorable?!
The flash goes off, and a chorus of sighs erupt around him. The people around him relax, and it’s not unlike him leaving after a performance in the Opera Epiclese: the crowd parts just slightly, afraid to get in his way, and there’s the invisible barrier that sets him just apart from everyone else. Once, there was someone who was still above and beyond this barrier; now, she stands apart from him, just like everyone else.
Like the afterimage of the blinding flash, all that’s left is the shell of his smile, and the emptiness that follows.
Navia’s already arranging for the pictures to be printed in copies for each of the guests; Lyney’s handing plates down the table, stunning the waiters who are now left jobless. Wriothesley’s ordered a different kind of tea, Lynette picking out the candles from the cake before it is to be cut and eaten.
Clorinde passes him the knife. “Do the honors for the first slice; I’ll handle the rest.”
He does not need to ask to know this is another human custom. Neuvillette just does as told, moving one slice to an empty plate. Holding the plate in the air, he looks at Clorinde briefly, unsure.
“Well… it’s your birthday, so naturally you can have the first slice. But you can always give it to someone else…”
If this was one of their regular tea parties, it would have been a no-brainer; the first plate belongs to the Hydro Archon, highest in authority in the entire nation. His eyes drifts over to Furina, who is pointedly avoiding his gaze, staring at the center of the round table.
He turns to his other side, and hands the plate to Sigewinne. “Enjoy as much of it as you can,” Neuvillette says genuinely. “You might not get to eat such delicacies as often, down in the Fortress.”
Wriothesley wipes an invisible tear. “Oh, even his sense of humor has grown. I’m truly so proud of you.” The twins are not as amused by his terrible theatrics as Clorinde, who appears mildly surprised that no one else shares her opinion. Neuvillette shakes his head.
“I did tell you, the two of you have been blowing things out of proportion.”
“To me, it’s just a sign that they need to know more about your loser-isms.”
The dignified Duke proceeds to share some lesser-than-fine moments Neuvillette’s had between the three of them, Clorinde occasionally chiming in with uselessly specific details he thought only he could remember, as she divides the cake for the rest of the party. Even Sigewinne’s brought out her stories from ages past, where he was even more rigid than he is today; before long, the twins’ impression of him has completely changed, and Navia’s laughing to the point of tears. Neuvillette doesn’t know whether to rue or embrace the fact that Furina seems to be enjoying this just as much as the next person, despite having not contributed any of her own stories—despite the fact that she would have the most to say about him, out of everyone in the room.
Perhaps he really has just been overthinking it. Perhaps Furina’s never been as conscious about him as he is of her, and that she doesn’t quite keep him in memory like he does, where she is a pervasive, inextricable existence of every experience he’s lived. Perhaps she truly is alright with all of this—in which case, none of this will bother nor gladden her, and Neuvillette really need not worry about setting up this arrangement.
It’s hard to say. He doesn’t know Furina, after all.
But here she’s laughing without the signs of regret, without the signs of an act, all while having delectable cake, and that is more than enough to Neuvillette. Perhaps, once, there was more he could have done. Now, with his capacity, this is all he can do—to ensure that she no longer has to hide behind a guise, and can live her life to her heart’s content. It could be responsibility, as her former co-leader. It could be mere guilt and belated accountability, having never noticed it despite his privilege as her right-hand.
None of that really matters. There is no need to dig deeper into tranquil waters, not at risk of a flood.
In the deepening night, Neuvillette lets down his guard, joining his friends in cheer and fondness.
So does the group eventually split their separate ways, returning for the night: the twins excused themselves first, citing the affairs of the Hotel Bouffes d’ete; Navia and Furina have decided to go for drinks in the Fleuve Cendre. Sigewinne wishes to return to the Fortress by the night, unwilling to leave the infirmary for long, so Clorinde is accompanying her and Wriothesley to the Opera Epiclese before going to catch up with her friends in the pub.
“… Though I have to say, I’m surprised you’re not headed straight back to the Palais Mermonia,” Wriothesley notes pointedly. “Aren’t you the infamous workaholic who never takes more than half a day off, even on his birthday? Including your trip to Merusea Village, it must have been about two-thirds of the day now that you’re out of work. That’s got to be some historic record.”
Clorinde tilts her head. “There’s got to be some days where Furina tried to make him not work for a period of time…” she mutters to herself.
“Do you want to bet on that?”
Sigewinne shakes his head. “You two and your gambling addiction…”
“Don’t phrase it like that; if you think about it, it’s really the world’s healthiest gamble,” Wriothesley argues.
“It’s not so healthy if boxes of tea is what you’re getting out of it.”
“Hey, I drink in moderation. It’s not me who’s going for more drinks after this. Like, actually harmful drinks.”
Clorinde clicks her tongue. “I haven’t had a single drop of booze, I don’t know who you’re alluding to as a harmful drunk. Anyways—back to you, Monsieur. Where exactly are you headed to? Or are you just accompanying them as well?”
Neuvillette shakes his head. He stares at the empty waterway as they wait for the public aquabus—it’s been a while since he’s had to take one meant for the civilians. Furina’s made it so he never has to, but now that she no longer takes it…
“I left some things in the waiting rooms that I need to take back with me.”
None of the three look like they buy that statement, but Neuvillette doesn’t explain himself. He’s first to hop on the aquabus, scooting over to the front to talk to Elphane, Sigewinne finding her seat just across him. “Monsieur,” she greets properly, simply. “A happy birthday to you too this year. I hope your birthday has been well spent outside of the office, with good company.”
“It has been, yes, thank you. How have you been yourself, Elphane?”
“It’s been alright. Busier times, with the year-end, but more of the same. No news is good news, as the humans would say.”
Sigewinne proceeds to bombard her about health maintenance. Neuvillette tunes in to the conversation the humans are having—which is still about him. “We’ve decided on the terms of our bet,” Wriothesley announces. “So? Have you taken a break longer than today in the history of your term as the Iudex?”
“… The Palais is technically closed on Furina’s birthday, under her strict orders.”
Clorinde raises an almost incredulous eyebrow, but does not comment on it. Wriothesley’s quick to notice: “But it’s never stopped you, has it?”
“It usually doesn’t,” Neuvillette agrees. “In fact, it’s only recently that I’ve decided to take the whole day off on her birthdays. So if the question is, ‘have I taken a break as long as I have today’, then the answer is, ‘yes’. But if the question is, ‘have I taken a break longer than I have today’, then the answer is ‘no’.”
“No, no,” Clorinde shakes her head. “On Furina’s birthday, you don’t come in the office the entire day, meaning it’s technically more than a day that you’re not doing work.”
“So what I’m hearing is, if I can keep Neuvillette from working until midday tomorrow, it will count as the longest time he’s gone without working.”
“But he’s already going to do work now, meaning you’ve already lost.”
That statement does not deter Wriothesley in the slightest. “That depends on whether he’s really here for work at all.”
Neuvillette blinks. “What reason do you have to doubt me?”
Wriothesley lets out a less-than-graceful snort. “Your hazy eyes, for one. The fact that it poured for no longer than fifteen minutes is another.” He shakes his head, popping a lollipop in his mouth and taking it out immediately like it’s a cigarette. “Do you really think we’d never notice the fact that the rain comes with your melancholy? Even with a single brain, it won’t take long; there’s two between us.”
“I shudder to think of how much the two of you discuss about me outside of my presence.”
“Not that much. Well, actually—maybe about a good third of our conversations are about you,” Clorinde immediately rectifies, much to Neuvillette’s astonishment. “You do make an entertaining topic of conversation, even more so for our bets.”
He just lets out a resigned sigh. “Such matters aside, I really did come to pick up those documents. I was thinking of returning to the Palais Mermonia to get some work done, before remembering that I’d left the files I need for the trial tomorrow in the courthouse.”
To Neuvillette’s surprise, they don’t immediately shoot him suspicious glances, taking his word with deep thought. Then, Clorinde asks genuinely, “… So you’re really just done for the day? Nothing else you want to do for yourself?”
“All that’s there for me to do is work,” Neuvillette says plainly. He’s never been particularly bothered by this fact, even though he acknowledges it can be very bleak to the mortal eye. Then again, he’s long since learned not to judge inhuman experiences through human standards, and vice versa. A difficult but necessary lesson to learn.
The silence that dawns on them is just as bleak, as pale as the stagnant waters. Thankfully, the aquabus arrives not long after, Elphane more than ready to return to her solitude after indulging Sigewinne’s endless chatter. Neuvillette doesn’t blame either of them; Sigewinne hardly sees the other Melusines, working in the isolated prison, while Elphane could socialize less after all the work she does. He smiles, and gives Elphane a good pat.
“Let me know if you need anything, Elphane. Thank you for guiding us tonight.”
“See you again, Elphane!”
“… See you, and good luck down there.”
Far from the city, the walk from the station to the fountain is an undisturbed one, with the rush of fountains and scurrying critters filling the air. Only halfway along their path does Wriothesley speak up once more: “So I guess you win this time, Clorinde. Even though it was obviously not very fair of you to make a bet on something you knew for a fact.”
“Nor was it wise of you to make a bet on this with someone who works closely with the Iudex.” Clorinde shrugs her shoulders. Neuvillette and Sigewinne chuckle in unison.
“I’m not making back-and-forth trips today, so I’ll hand you over the vintage next time. You’ll have to have whatever the Fleuve has for tonight.”
“Sure. You might want to prepare the stuff for the other bet, too, at this rate.”
Sigewinne perks up to her. “The other bet?”
Wriothesley grins. “I’ll tell you about that on our way down,” he whispers, as though they can’t all hear it.
“… Is this about me, still?”
Neither of the two say anything, but they fail to stifle their laughter. Neuvillette shakes his head.
“I don’t get it. You bet in front of me on occasion; on others, you can’t say it. What sets these bets apart? Are you worried I’ll take offense from them?”
“Of course not. It’s the pragmatics,” Clorinde explains. “We’re sure you’re not particularly biased to either one of us, nor do we think our choice bets will influence your decisions at all. But essentially, we’ve decided not to reveal our bets to the person we’re betting for and against, if the matter has yet to happen—if the outcome is still subject to change.”
“We’re waiting on you to do something, or nothing. That’s all you need to know,” Wriothesley concludes.
Neuvillette doesn’t want to dwell on it too much. He has a nagging feeling about what it concerne, judging from the way they’ve been behaving over dinner; at the end of the day, though, it’s just one of the little ways they keep their companionship alive, nothing he should be concerned about. In any case, it’s the Iudex’s fate to be subject to the topic of many such conversations and bets—at present, anyway. Wriothesley’s right—there’s virtue in the dark, where he’s not pressured to act a certain way or another, just to indulge them in a betting game.
… He’s overthinking it again, even when there’s nothing to think about. Even when he’s just trying to convince himself not to think about it.
As Clorinde and Sigewinne fall into a long-winded discussion about the recent development of Fontaine’s cosmetics scene, they find themselves on the footsteps of the Opera Epiclese. The two men don’t exchange much, but before the descent to the Fortress, Wriothesley says just one thing: “Assuming you won’t be doing anything festive for the year end, I do suggest you make the most of the rest of the night. It’s the last excuse you’ll have for a while; might as well make good use of it.”
In a show of good faith, Neuvillette nods. “I’ll think about it,” he promises the very least.
They bid their goodbyes for the night, and potentially for the year’s end. The Champion Duelist does not stay around for long, quickly making her way back to the city to join her friends in libation. There are a few more hours to midnight, to when the moon hangs highest in the sky, and the designated day of his “birth”, of commemorating his existence, ends.
… Not that there’s much of his existence to really commemorate. What much has he really done in his post as the Iudex?
He takes Wriothesley’s advice, echoing that of an old companion’s, and stores it in the back corner of his mind as he hides himself in the court’s waiting room, burying himself in these cold, callous files.
Yet there is one thing he can never deny, and needs no excuse for: to watch the rain fall into the sea, its home.
… It’s just an old pastime. There’s no significance to it, nothing to wax poetry over.
When he sees Furina huddled by the walls of Marcotte Station, Neuvillette wonders if he should have just swum back to the city by sea. He catches her gaze right before he can make a U-turn for the Opera Epiclese.
Furina doesn’t seem all too surprised to see him there.
Against his better judgment—not that he could have done anything else, really—he walks up to the station, acknowledging his former leader, the once-Hydro Archon. “What are you doing here this late?” Neuvillette asks, not masking his concern. Drenched in rain, too—surely she hasn’t had too much to drink?
It’s like she reads his mind, because Furina shakes her head before he even says anything. “They wouldn’t let me drink tonight,” she chuckles with a lot more reservation than he’s ever seen her show. “Said I can be sad or be stupid, but that I can’t afford to be both at once—Navia did. And she’s not wrong, really.”
The question is obvious, resting on the tip of his tongue, but he dares not ask it—
“It’s the rain,” Furina says, again without having to ask. She gives him a wistful smile, yet another unfamiliar face. “I don’t—the rain… it saddens me.”
… Of course. If nothing else, the silhouette of Furina, her hand reaching out to the rain pensively, is not an unfamiliar one.
“I fear I don’t happen to have an umbrella with me,” says Neuvillette, casting his head to the skies. “Ah, well… I can always—”
Furina holds out a hand, just like she’s about to grab his extended hand, stopping short. Her wide, mismatched eyes flickering, she folds her fingers into her palm, drawing a step back. “You—you don’t have to.” And then, after a moment’s pause: “I know you like to bask in the rain.”
And that’s the thing about them, right? Neuvillette loves the rain, and Furina fears it. The Hydro Archon is his compass, but it is her very shackle. All the memories that are real to him are all a facade on her part—nothing between them is congruent, is in harmony. They are both water, but they are just as far apart as the sea is to the clouds, never to meet—not unless one breaks.
So there is no real point in asking, the answer clear as the Lakelight Lily. “It isn’t raining outside of Erinnyes,” Neuvillette says anyway. “Why are you here, Furina?”
Why, when you can be anywhere but?
Furina doesn’t keep up the smile in her face, looking just as lost as she did the day the prophecy came to pass—like an overwhelming wave of lethargy has washed over her, and all that awaits her is a walk home in her drenched clothes. For a moment, her gaze wanders, her thoughts distant. But when she refocuses her sights onto him, they are determined, like she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.
“It won’t do for the birthday boy to be wallowing in his lonesome, would it?”
Back at it with the birthday excuse. Neuvillette lets out a soft sigh.
“All this ‘birthday’ affair started off as one of your whims, never as something that was truly mine,” he reminds. “It’s what you wanted of me, which is why I upheld it—why I still uphold this tradition. There’s nothing more to it.”
“So it is, which is why I have to take some responsibility for it. Don’t you think?”
Neuvillette shakes his head. “You’ve rightfully freed yourself from any obligation you could have had in the past. This… creed of yours, like many more, I can maintain myself without you having to worry about it.”
Again, she tears her eyes off him briefly, forcing out a strangled exhale, her lips pressed shut. This is not so foreign, and yet it feels realer than any of the fights they’ve had in the past five centuries, where it was mostly him demanding something out of her, and her feigning ignorance and oblivion to everything in blasé. Neuvillette cannot bear to look at her for long, only doing so when she speaks up once more: “If you see no point in any of these rules, why maintain them at all? Fontaine is no longer under my rule—your word is absolute. No pragmatism goes into celebrating one’s birthday, and no sense behind disallowing the harvest for Lumitoiles on certain days. Why not just clean up all those ridiculous laws? Why not get rid of these holidays, these useless excuses?”
He’s thought of it so many times, and fallen into the spiral of endless rumination. Yet here, he answers almost immediately: “Because they’re yours. How can I…”
“They’re all lies,” Furina’s voice cuts through the damp air, cold as ice. “Wake up, Neuvillette. They’re all lies. None of it… none of it was real.”
Neuvillette knows it’s not merely the rain that stains her cheeks. The waters whisper, although they sound more like hisses to his ears: Everything was a lie. Everything was an excuse. Why are you holding on to these ghosts of me? Let them go, if…
Did it ever matter that none of it was real? Did he ever question if any of it was true? Even from the very beginning, when all he needed was a reason for his existence—he never thought if it was a reasonable thing to do. He just needed some reason, something to hold on to. Something to live for. Someone, perhaps, to live for.
“But I know nothing else.”
All I’ve ever known is all that you’ve shown.
If everything Neuvillette believed in was a lie—if humanity, if justice, if love was all a lie—then he’ll learn to fall for the act again and again, and believe in the lie again and again. He’ll twist every excuse into something real, something he can hold, if it means keeping whatever’s left of her—whatever’s left of himself.
“This is all I have left.”
Furina bites down on her lip like she’s holding back a sob, a yell, something, and it pains Neuvillette to watch, because she should never hold herself back for him. But he says nothing. He does not dare say anything, not in front of her. Not when he’s always been so utterly clueless.
Five hundred years of being by her side, and nothing to make of it.
“Furina,” Neuvillette pleads quietly, barely louder than the downpour. “Tell me. Please—just tell me what you want from me. You did not come here for no reason.” He squeezes his eyes shut, letting the drum of rain against limestone flood his ears. “And I… I just need a reason. Any reason.”
“Why do I have to come up with that reason for you, Neuvillette?” His eyes fly open in surprise, meeting Furina’s shaky irises, her lips trembling, chest heaving heavily. “Do you not have a reason of your own to—to see me? To talk to me?”
Is this anger? Is this her fear, or some inexplicable desperation? “I—” The words are tangled in his throat, and the mighty dragon struggles to even breathe. “But I—”
“If you were just going to stare at me from the sidelines, why not just go watch a show of mine, or something? Why invite me to your dinner in the first place? Why—” A gasp for air breaks the hurried cascade of her thoughts, and they continue to tumble like debris: “Why have me watch while you mingle with the others like regular people—show that you can live without—”
Neuvillette lowers himself, pressing his lips against hers. An utterly irreverent act to be had between the goddess and her priest, yet he crumbles, not a single thought of consequence to be had. Furina reaches for him with as much urgency—hands looping around his neck, underneath his hair, arm against bare skin; her head angled, lips parted just wide enough. It happens in rapid succession: her upper lip between his lips—her lower lip between his teeth—sucking on it with his tongue, drawing out a small gasp from the back of her throat. Her eyes are in a daze, but the grip she has on his shirt is unyielding, like an anchor to port. Like she can never let go.
And Neuvillette thinks, too, he will never know how to let go of her. He never did—even when he had to deny the Hydro Archon to force her hand, he was still praying for her to stay, to prove him wrong. Even when Furina herself has turned her back on the throne, he keeps it empty, polished and adorned only with everything she’s left behind in the Palais. And even though she’s chosen her own path, he makes his excuses, excuses disguised as legitimate reasons, to see her again, to keep her within his sight, within his life, selfish and inconsiderate as it is.
What is he to do, when she, in all her forms and guises, is all he’s ever known?
Whatever comment Furina has in mind, she swallows with another kiss. Neuvillette nibbles on her lips for a good while, until Furina herself slides her tongue across his. The friction burns like stew fresh off the stove, a high he can’t get enough of, that gets him coming back for more. And Furina might have underestimated the uniqueness of his tongue, losing her footing briefly as he continues to taste her desperately, but he catches her in time, hand dropping to her back. He freezes when he feels the dint of her lower back, bare skin through his glove—a shudder shoots up her spine, rocking her whole body into a jolt, and Neuvillette feels all this against him.
There’s the undeniable pang of hunger that lurches somewhere beneath his ribs, the image of her bare back coming to mind. Neuvillette’s grateful Furina has her face buried in the crook of his neck—he would not want her to see him so utterly shameful, his daze in his eyes so primal in nature, even if he is truly nothing more than a beast in a fancy suit.
He tries to refocus his sights to the bushes swaying behind her, tracing the outline of leaves in the dark as he catches his breath. Furina’s breathing is painfully tangible against his bare neck, hot and damp. Like being left out in the Girdle of the Sands, he feels the threads of his sanity unraveling, all structure of consciousness and intelligent thought fading away, giving away to these raw, unsightly impulses.
Everything turns black when Furina presses her open mouth, her tongue, against his neck, sucking like he’s the last source of provenance in a barren land.
Neuvillette knows not how it happens—at some point, Furina’s back is to the wall, and it is his mouth against her neck. She gasps every time his cold teeth grazes her skin, and whenever his tongue traces the contours of her bones, the taste of sweet rain and soft skin rendering him intoxicated. There’s the frayed threads of his conscience whispering, reminding him that she is not some piece of meat to feast upon, that she is human and fragile, that he can hurt her—that he has hurt her—Furina’s gloved fingers caress his pointed ears, and he should be listening—
But whatever sense Neuvillette had left is lying in the depths of the waters behind him. He bites just above her collarbone—gently at first, drawing a honeyed whine out of her throat, its vibrations palpable against his lips. Furina has not performed on stage in a while, and there is no other way he could have heard her sing with the distance between them; the mere sound of her pleasure is enough to set him ablaze, and it is all the catalyst he needs to dig his teeth deeper into her skin.
The moan Furina lets out comes from the depths of her chest—raw, strained, galvanizing. Her hand shoots out from his ear to the back of his head, grabbing—whether intentionally or otherwise—both his hair and his left horn, tugging on it with a force he never would have imagined her to have. The sensation of that is hard enough to resist, but when she starts stroking his horn with her thumb—
Neuvillette’s knees buckle. For the first time over the course of that night does he feel like something’s right—what can be more appropriate than him on his knees before the very god he devotes his entire life’s existence to? This is gratitude, he reasons as he takes Furina’s hand, kissing her palm over those thin gloves, breathing in her scent like it’s the last bubble of air in the sea. This is worship, he justifies as he lifts her leg and rests it over his shoulder, leaving a trail of his hot desire across her succulent thighs, working his way up along the hem of her dress, up to where it splits. His hands find her hips, his thumbs tracing the edges of her pelvis, and—
“Neuvillette,” Furina exhales shakily.
He forces himself to look up to her face, wanton shame laid bare before her. The back of her right hand is pressed against her mouth, and he sees the force of her restraint in how her nails dig into her palm. Her long and thick eyelashes flicker restlessly, and when his eyes meet hers, she tears her gaze away from him.
He wants to beg. Plead for her to call him by the name again. To open her doors for him, and let him in—even if just this once. That the night can truly be his.
“You…”
The rain is still pouring, and although Furina is partially covered by the shade above her, it hits Neuvillette all the same. The wind blows through the leaves of trees and bushes behind them, and the water runs down the waterways to the fountains in the distance.
Behind him is the Opera Epiclese, and on the other hand, the Palais Mermonia. He is still Fontaine’s Iudex, living for the late Hydro Archon’s justice, for her ultimate ideal.
His eyelids fall. Suddenly, it feels like winter again.
“It’s getting late. I should…”
Furina doesn’t finish her sentence, rushing straight into the station, leaving behind only the echo of her heels.
Neuvillette crumbles against the walls of the station, praying only that the cold rain would wash his sins away—that, and nothing more.
“So how was the rest of your birthday?”
“Whatever do you mean? You were with me to the end.”
Clorinde hums, her hands polishing her blade with muscle memory as she falls into deep thought. “Was that really the end? Was I the last person you saw that day?”
Neuvillette doesn’t immediately answer her, gaze drifting into the distance, the peaks at the north.
Clorinde doesn’t even give him a chance to rectify his alibi: “Where did Furina go, then? She said she was going to the Opera Epiclese, and although she said she’d come back to us afterward, she never did—” She stabbed her rapier into the ground, earning both Neuvillette’s ire and caution. “Did she get into trouble somehow? I must check her premises to see if she’s around…”
“Need I remind you, we have an upcoming trial to attend?”
“Is anything more important than our Lady Furina?”
“I always thought you were a fairly professional member of our entourage, though it seems I’ve misjudged you—or that your lack of duels lately has made you unenthusiastic about your job as when you started,” Neuvillette comments. He lets out a resigned sigh. “If you really must know, I did see her in Erinnyes. She was drenched in rainwater, so it’s possible that she’s fallen under the weather. You can go check on her after the trial has concluded—I doubt it should make much of a difference on her condition whether you go now or later.”
Clorinde doesn’t sound half as surprised to hear this story, as though she’s already heard it from someone else. “… Huh. Is that it?”
A minute passes in silence. Then, “So who won the bet?”
“Hm?”
“I thought you and Wriothesley had some unresolved bet. I assumed that’s why you were asking.”
Clorinde sighs. “Well, of course I did. Arguably, between the two of us, I’ve worked with you longer, so I’m not sure why he’s so confident about his assessment of you. But admittedly, it feels like a bitter victory,” she admits, sheathing her blade just as the aquabus comes into view. “Like I’ve won the bet, but lost the game, you know?”
Neuvillette gives her a look that shows her exactly just how little he understands.
“I just didn’t expect you to care so little about her.”
That catches him by surprise. “What do you mean, care so little?”
“You think she may be sick, and all you say is ‘you can go check on her later’? That’s not the Chief Justice I know—that’s not Neuvillette. Neuvillette would have run up to her first thing in the morning and ensured she was not in poor health, before doing anything else.”
Neuvillette sighs. “Perhaps, in my capacity as a Chief Justice working under the Hydro Archon, I would’ve.” They hopped on the aquabus, heading down the Navia line for the upcoming trial. “In any case, I only said that because I’m sure you would have gone to see her. I would even say you had waited for her to return home last night—I don’t suspect someone of your conscience would let a friend run off in the middle of the night alone without some sort of contingency measure for her safety.”
“I hadn’t, actually. I expected the both of you to return together, especially knowing you were in the area—I didn’t suspect someone of your conscience and position would let an old friend run off in the middle of the night, amidst the pouring rain, without providing some sort of respite from the rain, or at the very least, company.” Clorinde scoffs. “Imagine my surprise this morning when I saw her bedridden, and hearing that not only nothing happened, but you didn’t even do the bare minimum of taking her home, after all her efforts to see you.”
Having heard that does make him sound rather insensitive, even as the Chief Justice. “In all fairness, she left before I could catch up with her,” he defended weakly. “… Is she actually sick? Is it bad?”
“As the person responsible, maybe you should check up on her yourself, Monsieur,” says the Champion Duelist, glaring at him. Perhaps he deserves that.
“… But it would make her—”
“She’ll tell you if she doesn’t want you to come around. The least you can do—the least you should do is show her your sincerity, instead of assuming things of her.”
Neuvillette feels a surge of déjà vu in the back of his head—Wriothesley’s said almost the same thing when he’s finalizing the guest list for his birthday dinner: “If you want to respect her wishes, then you have to give her the power to make a choice in the first place. That’s the least you can do—you should do, for her, don’t you think?” It’s almost suspicious, he thinks, the degree to which they’re like-minded. Almost unbelievable, that they should find so many things to bet against.
But he cannot argue against their logic, and if nothing else, he operates on logic. “I’ll… check on her once I’m done with work.”
“Don’t make it too late. Medicine has to be taken along with dinner.”
It’s not until they step off the aquabus and have some distance between them does Clorinde say under her breath: “Seems like you still have a shot at winning, Duke.”
These two, and their incomprehensible betting culture.
One of these days, he might just have to get them some compensation for all the losses that have been incurred under his name.
No response came, the first two times he knocked. On the third knock, the door finally opens, revealing Furina in her plain clothes. She doesn’t appear so sickly, corroborated by the fact that she’s still able to open the door at all—but she does look rather flushed. Her eyes widen at the sight of him, an uninvited stranger, an uncomfortable character.
Under the door light, her blue eyes glimmer warmly. It has been a while since they’ve stood face-to-face in such clear view—the thought takes Neuvillette back, back to a time where watching her came with the job, and nothing he needed an excuse to do. He’s taken it for granted just how beautiful she is, even in her plainest forms. He sighs.
“N-Neuvillette? Why are you here?”
“… I was worried you might have caught a cold,” he admits plainly, “from the rain.”
“Oh,” she says softly, then shakes her head. “Not at all, no.” Though her cheeks are still tinted in rose. “Thanks for worrying, though.”
Neuvillette nods, his hands restless behind his back. Furina’s constantly shuffling feet suggests she feels about the same. If she’s not truly sick—even if she is, if she does not want to bother him with that, then he doesn’t really have a reason to be here.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
She pauses just briefly, almost imperceptibly, before she looks back up to him, shaking and tilting her head. “I think that’s what I should be asking you,” Furina says, chuckling. Neuvillette knows she means that in the context of formality. Perhaps she knows not that he means it in a different context, perhaps she does. Even if she does, it’s not like she will indulge him—
Why do I have to come up with that reason for you, Neuvillette? Do you not have a reason of your own to see me? To talk to me?
“I…”
His eyes dart all over the place, unable to meet Furina’s.
I don’t have a reason, he thinks, and dares not speak. I just want to see you. That itself is the reason. It sounds almost like sacrilege. I need you.
“What are you doing for the new year?”
‘The new year?” Furina echoes, humming in thought. “I think Navia’s organizing something on the eve of the new year, over in Poisson. We’re thinking about maybe setting off fireworks by the sea…”
Neuvillette smiles at the brief image that flickers past his mind. Furina’s almost always spent the new year’s eve either out by the Fountain of Lucine, in celebration with the people, or in her room in the Palais Mermonia, watching everyone from the distance—from her high and lonely throne. It’s a relief, if nothing else, to hear that she can spend these new years—markers in time which are infinitely more valuable with her shortened lifespan—with precious friends, fellow human friends. “That does sound like an apt celebration for the new year.”
“And you? I better not hear that you’ll just be working like any other day…”
He actually chuckles, because for a second, it’s like they’re old friends who have come to banter. Surprise flashes past Furina’s gaze; it is just that infrequent that they should ever laugh together.
“That is probably what I will be doing, yes.” A little more quietly, a little more withdrawn: “The passing of time… is not an eventful matter in my life.”
Is it really not? When it is each and every one of those five-hundred years that has made him the person he is today, driven him to his decision that fateful day the Hydro Archon ceased to be? And is it not so that he will have to bear the weight of this decision for the coming ages to pass, while everything he’s known and loved will begin to fade from his reality?
Furina doesn’t seem particularly impressed by his answer, to no one’s surprise. “I hear Sigewinne and the Duke will stay in the Fortress for the new year,” she remarks. “You should join us—Clorinde will be there too, so you won’t be entirely deserted while Navia goes on to entertain her gang and do her boss duties…”
Neuvillette shakes his head. “Thank you for the offer, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable with the setting, either. You should enjoy the time with your close friends.” Seeing Furina’s unsettled face, he adds, “I might come down to Merusea Village and celebrate it with the Melusines.”
“Will you?”
It’s an empty promise, of course. He’s seen the Melusines for his birthday, and hasn’t planned on going back anytime soon—they are not scarce on time. It is not the same for humans. It is not the same for her.
And if it’s not for Furina, Neuvillette doesn’t really have any reason to do anything else.
“If I don’t see you again, I wish you a happy new year, Furina,” he says, offering her a smile as gentle and fond as he can manage—this time, genuinely. “May the coming year introduce you to a wider range of sweets and songs, and that you will get to see more sights and meet more like-hearted friends along the way.”
“Thank you,” Furina says softly, mirroring his smile weakly.
Only when he turns to leave does she call out: “Neuvillette—
—I’ll be here. On new year’s night… please, come see me.”
When Neuvillette whips around, the door is already shut. And it is fortunately so, because otherwise, Furina would have caught him crumbling like a folded house of cards, with none of that dignity he so tried hard to preserve. He is but a boat without a rudder, a worshipper that needs his goddess—he will take any excuse, any chance he can, if it means seeing her again.