Work Text:
“So? What happened?”
“…Neuvillette?”
1 year ago
“Luka Ishkar is the name, sir. Entirely at your service,” the man declared, pride sharpening every syllable. His eyes remained fixed—at, or perhaps through—the space Neuvillette occupied, even as the curriculum vitae lay open upon the desk. “As you can see in my bio, I ha—”
Already, the newly appointed academic from Sumeru was attempting to stamp an impression upon the court by sheer force of presence alone—as though persistence might carve permanence where no weight had yet been earned.
“Oh my! I nearly missed my one and only chance to welcome you properly to our court!” chimed the Hydro Archon as she swept into the chamber, her steps brisk, her voice bright. “I do hope my dear Chief Justice proved more than welcoming during my absence.”
The man—no, Luka, now bound by title and hierarchy— did not miss the opportunity to indulge himself. His gaze lingered shamelessly, tracing the woman from the brim of her hat to the soles of her shoes, his interest sharpening with every passing second.
A long-lasting impression, it seemed—though not necessarily a wise one.
“He did manage, my Lady,” Luka replied smoothly. “However, it is only now, with your presence here, that I find myself truly at home.”
“Oh, that’s right! You are Fontainian by birth, aren’t you?” Furina continued, delightfully untroubled by the ma—Luka’s—transparent boldness. “Then tell me, what do you think of our very dear nation?”
For a fleeting moment, distaste flickered across his features before discipline reasserted itself.
“To be frank, my Lady, I had heard certain things regarding Fontainians—particularly their… social conduct, and their fondness for superstition.” He inclined his head. “Rest assured, however, in that respect I am far more Sumerian.”
“Is that so?” Neuvillette interposed at last, his voice calm, measured—polite to a fault, yet carrying the quiet weight of a verdict deferred. “Then pray enlighten us. What, precisely, do you believe you can contribute, armed with that Sumerian mind of yours, to the service of this nation?”
“Well,” Luka began, visibly pleased, straightening as though stepping onto a stage of his own design, “I consider myself a man of science—a man who solves. My expertise lies in crafting solutions that are as efficient as they are rigorously empirical. And as a man of many talents, even when my duties require something as unremarkable as tending to matters behind a desk, rest assured that I will excel at whatever task you assign—”
At last, he lifted his gaze fully to Neuvillette, his voice settling into pointed finality.
“And who knows? Perhaps one day I may even surprise you… and surpass the one above me.”
The astonishment that bloomed across Lady Furina’s face might have carried from the Palais to Poisson.
“Oh my, oh my! Replace my dear Chief Justice? What a daring thing to say!” she laughed. “What do you think, Monsieur—feeling threatened?”
Neuvillette met the unspoken challenge with a gaze both severe and serene. Years of service, of judgment rendered and burdens borne, did not so much as ripple beneath the provocation of a single human’s ambition.
“We shall see,” he replied.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Why the long face, my Chief Justice?” the Archon asked lightly. She leaned against the window of their private aquabus, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them as Fontaine unfurled beneath the glass. “Is something troubling you?”
Neuvillette answered with silence, choosing it carefully, and turned his gaze instead toward the distant horizon where water met sky in a seamless expanse.
“Or should I say…” she added, eyes gleaming with mischief as she caught the subtle shift in his posture, “…someone?”
“No one is troubling me, per se,” he replied at last. His brow knit, lending further severity to a face that rarely knew ease. “It is simply that… I do not trust that man.”
She hummed softly, unsurprised. This was not the first time the subject had surfaced between them. “My, my. Still? At first I thought it was mere caution—as Luka was finding his footing among us. But a month has passed…” Her voice tapered off as she turned her attention to the scenery below, fingers idly tracing the glass. “Very well, then. What arguments do you present in your favor?”
Amusement flickered—brief and restrained—behind Neuvillette’s composure. He inclined his head, indulging her.
“I submit to the court three points of concern.” He raised his gloved left hand, fingers folding with deliberate precision. “First: his colleagues report him as reclusive, and at times uncooperative in collaborative efforts. He has chosen to reside outside the Court entirely—in Elynas, no less.”
She tilted her head. “Could that not be attributed to shyness? A preference for solitude over the bustle of the capital?”
“With an ego such as his,” Neuvillette replied evenly, “I find that unlikely. Which leads me to my second point: he believes himself uniquely entitled to the truth. He challenges nearly every directive I issue—twice.”
She smiled, unfazed. “Objection. He has never once questioned my requests.”
Neuvillette glanced at her sidelong. “Am you the judge in this conversation—or his counsel?” The faintest curve touched his lips.
“Neuvillette,” she chided, laughter barely contained, “do not break character. Proceed.”
He cleared his throat, composure restored. “Which brings me to my third—and final—concern.” A pause, measured. “He harbors a peculiar… hyperfixation upon you.”
“Oh?” Her brows lifted. “Now that is new.”
“You cannot tell me you have not observed it,” he continued quietly. “You are not as oblivious as you sometimes allow yourself to appear. In your presence, it is as though nothing else exists to him. No duty, no decorum. It borders on something… unhealthy.”
She laughed outright then, delighted. “Sweet Archons, look at you. For someone who claims not to fully grasp human emotion, you’ve just delivered an analysis worthy of a seasoned psychologist.”
“I am merely stating what is evident,” Neuvillette replied, closing his eyes as if to shield himself from her mirth.
“Mmm. Evident indeed,” she teased. “To me, it almost sounded like jealou—”
“Furina.”
“I’m joking, my dearest!” she cut in swiftly, laughter spilling warm and bright from her chest. “Truly. But…” She leaned closer, eyes alight with playful promise. “If my Chief Justice believes this matter warrants a more… refined scrutiny on my part, then I suppose I could spare him a little attention.”
Her smile lingered.
His expression eased, if only slightly.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mécanique d’Analyse Cardinale, Monsieur Hubert is… guilty,” declared the resonant voice of the Chief Justice before the assembled court. “Guards, take the subject into custody in accordance with court protocol. All others are dismissed.”
With one final, resounding tap of his cane against the marble floor, he withdrew to his private office within the opera house.
At last, entirely alone, he braced his hands against the edge of his desk and leaned forward, head bowed. In that solitude, he permitted his anger to surge—unrestrained, relentless—like the pull of a swollen river against its banks.
The unease that coiled through his body, the memory of discovering a man lurking upon his lady’s balcony at such an unholy hour, and the sight of that same depraved face upon realizing that Furina lay mere steps away—peaceful, vulnerable, asleep—stirred something ancient within him. Something old, primordial, and profoundly enraged began to awaken.
Then—unexpectedly—calm threaded its way back into his body as slender arms wrapped gently, yet firmly, around his waist from behind.
“Please, do not torment yourself over this,” Furina murmured softly, resting her forehead against his back. “Thanks to you—and to Luka—divine justice was carried out. It will not happen again.”
Unable to trust his voice—not without unleashing the bitterness and suspicion that had fermented over four long months towards that man—he chose silence. Even if Luka’s conveniently timed testimony had allowed him to consign the trespasser to imprisonment for as long as the law would permit, the distaste lingered, unresolved.
Instead, he placed one gloved hand over hers, a restrained gesture—an afterthought, almost.
Yet within his mind, it settled as something far heavier.
A vow.
And I will make certain of it.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Again, Neuvillette? How many more months must pass before you accept him? It’s been nearly a year!” Furina snapped, her voice sharp with frustration. The lack of sleep showed plainly now, etched into her expression despite her best efforts to conceal it.
“I am merely reminding you—once more—to keep a watchful eye on that man, should you have forgotten,” the judge replied, his tone controlled yet edged with quiet insistence as he lifted his glass of water. “The sense of ill omen I harbor has not diminished.”
“Why should I waste my attention on an employee who performs his duties efficiently and without fault,” she retorted, rising abruptly to her feet, palms striking the table, “when I—may I remind you—the Hydro Archon, ought to be devoting every waking moment to managing the prophecy’s image?” For an instant, her balance faltered; dizziness crept in before she steadied herself.
“Have you been sleeping at all?” Neuvillette asked, abandoning the argument at once. The concern in his voice betrayed him, no matter how calmly it was delivered.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, turning away as though to flee her own office. “I just need to—”
“Come here,” he said simply.
The command was quiet, but absolute.
After a moment’s hesitation—and quiet surrender—she obeyed, already aware of what would follow.
With meticulous gentleness, he removed her hat, her vest, her coat, then her shoes, setting each aside with care. He guided her down beside him, easing her head against his shoulder.
“Just for a minute…” she murmured.
“Whatever you require,” he answered.
Time blurred. Five minutes, perhaps. Or two hours.
He awoke with a sudden start.
Unintentionally, he too had succumbed to sleep. In their slumber, they had shifted—he now reclined along the couch, Furina resting atop him, her head nestled against his chest, one of her hands clasped firmly in his own.
With his free hand—having chosen to remain exactly where he was so as not to wake her—he began to stroke her hair, slow and unhurried.
Drawing in a measured breath, a thought surfaced unbidden: If only you would confide in me. Whatever burden you carry, I would unmake the world itself, if only to let you rest as you do now.
Then—abruptly—the fragile stillness fractured.
Though the workday had long since ended, his senses tingled as if there was another presence somewhere within the building.
Instinct guided him. His gaze fixed upon the door, left ever so slightly ajar, and remained there until the tension eased from his body.
How strange.
For a fleeting moment, it had almost felt as though they were being watched.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dun dun.
Dun dun.
His true nature had never—had never felt—like such a burden as it did now.
Now, with his full authority restored, it seemed his ability to govern his own actions and reactions was slipping through his fingers like rainwater, impossible to grasp. Control, once absolute, had begun to erode.
The world had grown louder. The people he—they—had saved felt more irritating, more intrusive. And the morality honed over five centuries had begun, slowly but unmistakably, to fracture.
Dun dun.
Dun dun.
His nights now passed in a blur of motion and sharpened sensation. His dreams had grown vivid—too vivid. Real in ways that unsettled him.
The places he traversed, the figures he encountered, even the sensations themselves had become disturbingly tangible. At times, it was almost pleasant. At others, it bordered on torture.
He dreamed of running. Of flying. Of plunging into deep waters. Each movement came with the certainty of inexhaustible stamina, as though his body had been altered for the dream—or as though the body he inhabited was not entirely his own.
And yet, upon waking, he was left restless. Sometimes drenched in sweat, sometimes chilled to the bone. He remembered little beyond fragments—sensations, fleeting impressions, the occasional déjà vu. Enough to unsettle him. Never enough to explain why.
Dun dun.
Dun dun.
Now, as he made his way toward the Palais after another long day spent attempting to restore some semblance of normalcy to Fontaine, one sound rose above all others.
A rhythm.
And with each step closer to the Palais, the more clearly he perceived it.
A heartbeat—fast. Far too fast for any ordinary human, especially at such an hour.
But it was already past noon. There should have been no one there.
Unless—
Before his questions—and his hopes—could take form, the door flew open.
At the mere sight of him, the owner of that frantic heartbeat froze completely, body locking in place as though seized by instinct alone.
The sound intensified.
Dun dun dun dun.
Dun dun dun dun dun dun.
“M-Monsieur Neuvillette! What a surprise—I—I’m terribly sorry, I wasn’t expecting—” the man stammered, nearly slamming the door shut in his haste.
Of course, Neuvillette thought grimly, such an irritating sound could only belong to you.
“There is no need to apologize, Luka,” he replied evenly. “However, may I ask what you were doing here at such an hour—and leaving in such evident haste?”
Only now did he fully register the man’s appearance.
Disheveled. Breathless. Hair in disarray. Pallid skin. Wide, frightened eyes. And clutched against his chest—documents, papers, objects disturbingly familiar. The same items Neuvillette recalled seeing upon Luka’s desk, gathered as though—
“I resigned, sir,” Luka said suddenly, regaining both breath and composure with unsettling speed. “I intended to inform you personally, but my boat departs before opening hours. As you were occupied, I left my resignation letter and all relevant documents upon your desk, under Sedene’s supervision.”
“You resigned…” Neuvillette echoed. “Forgive my intrusion, but you performed your duties competently. Why depart now? Did something occur?”
Suspicion began to seep in, drowning the fleeting relief the news had brought.
Breaking eye contact, Luka fixed his gaze upon some distant point beyond the Court. “An unexpected opportunity arose in my former nation of residence—one I could not refuse. And given recent developments, with the Archon’s absence, I no longer see a place for myself here.”
“I see…” Neuvillette replied, his expression unreadable as he weighed the man before him. “If you wish, I could convey a farewell message to Lady Furina. I am aware you hold her in particularly high regard. It would be the least I could do.”
To his surprise, Luka’s demeanor shifted instantly—like an actor slipping into role upon hearing his cue.
“There is no need,” he said flatly. “There’s no need for that. I already gave her my goodbyes—properly, and in person—when I passed by her residence on my way here.” A blank expression settled over his features, strained—as though containing frustration, anger, or something far less definable. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am in a hurry.”
He stepped past Neuvillette, brushing his shoulder in a touch so brief it might have been accidental.
Almost.
“Farewell, Neuvillette,” Luka added softly, head turning just enough. “It was a… pleasure working with you.”
And then he was gone—departing with a finality that felt irrevocable.
Minutes later, alone in his office, Neuvillette stared down at the resignation letter and documents left neatly upon his desk. The unease would not release him.
Sip after sip from the goblet of Snezhnayan water—left untouched since before the trial—did nothing to clear his thoughts.
If anything, it dulled them.
Then realization struck.
The water bore an acidic aftertaste. Subtle. Lingering. A faint numbness creeping along his tongue, his throat, his senses.
A precisely diluted horse sedative—masked just well enough to evade even his refined palate.
He rose abruptly, intent on reaching the door, but his foot caught on the carpet. He collapsed to his knees, the world tilting violently.
Something within him resisted—fought—the drug’s advance with ferocity.
But it was not enough.
As consciousness slipped away, one final thought pierced the haze.
He knows.
He knows where Furina lives.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
When he woke up, he was not staring at the familiar carpet of his office.
Instead, the pale ceiling of the Fortress’s nursery came into view.
“Monsieur? Are you awake?”
Sigewinne’s voice reached him—gentle, yet unmistakably worried. Hearing that note from someone usually so cheerful unsettled him more than the unfamiliar surroundings.
“Goodness…you gave us quite a scare. Arriving so breathless, demanding to be heard—only to collapse moments later. Care to tell your dearest nurse what you were thinking?”
“I…” Neuvillette began, lifting a hand to his forehead as a sharp headache settled in, bringing with it flashes—disjointed, vivid—of what could only have been a long dream.
He did not remember swimming—freer, faster than he ever had before—nor barking orders at guards receiving news that seemed to confound them.
He did not remember running through a vast forest awash in green and violet, nor reading a strange book whose lines refused to stay clear.
Least of all did he remember entering the Duke’s office uninvited while he shared tea with Sigewinne… or cradling Furina’s face as she slept soundly in her bed.
But one thing did not feel like a dream at all.
The body.
The body left in a forest clearing.
“Did we find the—” he asked urgently, lowering his hand as his thoughts finally settled, ignoring her earlier question.
“You mean the body? Or what little remained of it,” Sigewinne supplied gently, moving toward a box nearly twice her size. “Yes. It’s already been transferred to forensics. Your guards brought him in shortly after you fainted. I must admit, I never took you for the squeamish sort, hehe.”
“That box…” Neuvillette said quietly, his attention fixed upon it, once again choosing silence over correction. “Is that the evidence?”
“That’s right. A squad delivered it just before you woke. Knowing how devoted you are to your work—and how serious this case is—I thought you’d want to see it immediately.”
She pushed the box toward him, and he stood at once to assist her, ever the gentleman.
“Thank you, Sigewinne. Do they—”
“No, sir. No one besides you, the Duke, and myself knows you collapsed. Your moment of vulnerability is safe with us,” she said, patting his hand lightly. “Now then, while you review that, I’ll return to finishing the reports we were working on before you appeared. Please take better care of yourself—and do give Lady Furina my regards!”
Once she left, the room fell silent.
Neuvillette opened the box.
Resting atop the carefully arranged contents lay a notebook.
Vaguely familiar. Unsettlingly so.
And as he read—as revulsion and long-suppressed fury rose in his chest like a returning tide—understanding settled at last, heavy and inescapable.
He had been right.
He had been right all along.
Present time
“Neuvillette? What happened?” asked the white-haired lady as she adjusted her robe, the chill of the night slipping in through the open doorway of her apartment. “Why did you wake me at such an hour?”
At the threshold stood a tall figure already making himself at home—shoes removed, coat hung neatly in place. He regarded her with a solemnity that needed no words.
“There was a… murder,” the judge replied carefully. “One of our employees.”
He moved to the couch and sat heavily, elbows resting on his knees as he rubbed at his weary eyes.
Startled, yet unable to remain still in the face of his distress, she crossed the room at once and gathered his head against her chest, fingers threading gently through his hair.
“What happened, Neuvillette?” she asked again, her gaze briefly drifting to the window as a faint drizzle tapped against the glass. “Who was it?”
Without a word, he drew a small diary from his pocket—marked with five colored bookmarks—and offered it to her. As she took it and began to read, he returned the embrace, this time tighter, more possessive than before—a silent mirror of the turmoil within him.
“Luka Ishkar,” he began, his voice slightly muffled against her. “Somehow, right beneath our noses, he developed a complete psychotic fixation—placing himself where I stood, rewriting moments he neither lived nor could have witnessed. He coerced a man into trespassing on federal property, aggravated burglary, trafficking… and had been planning a kidnapping for months.”
His grip tightened.
“Had I not followed my instincts, he might have succeeded. He might have taken—”
“Me,” she finished quietly, having reached the final entry.
“…Yes.”
He exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry I didn’t act sooner. I could have prevented—”
“Oh, stop that,” she interrupted firmly, pulling back just enough to cradle his face in her hands. “I’m here. Safe and sound, am I not?”
Her confidence barely masked the tremor beneath it.
“If anyone should apologize, it’s me—for not trusting you back then. I could have spared you all of this had I listened. So please, don’t torture yourself with useless what ifs, alright?”
“Alright,” he murmured, drawing her back into the embrace. “But for the record, it was not your fault either. Not even I could have foreseen this.”
Breathing in her familiar scent to steady his racing heart, he continued.
“I encountered him leaving the Palais in great haste at noon—speaking of resignation, abandoning a position he once clung to with ambition. I admit, I felt a momentary relief. But the instant he mentioned stopping by your residence to say his goodbyes, every alarm within me sounded.”
His jaw tightened.
“And when I tasted a sedative in my water, I knew.”
She gasped softly. At the sound, he paused, gathering the scattered impressions his waking mind had left him with, and chose to share the only truth he truly possessed.
“Unfortunately for him,” Neuvillette went on after a pause, “putting a dragon to sleep requires a far greater dosage. I summoned a guard squad to accompany me for his arrest and immediate trial. What none of us expected was to find him… brutally assaulted—by a beast or perhaps a group of hilichurls—in a forest clearing near his home. Presumably on his way… to you.”
His arms tightened around her.
“We dispatched a rescue unit to bring him to Sigewinne, while another confiscated his belongings for further evidence. But by the time we reached the Fortress…”
He drew a slow breath.
“…his condition had worsened. At present, I believe Wriothesley is overseeing the mortuary arrangements.”
After a final pause, he added quietly, “I’m sorry for disturbing your rest with such grim news, my lady.”
“Oh, hush, Neuvi…” she said softly. “In an ideal world, he would have stood trial like any other criminal, but…”
Her voice lowered, steady yet fragile.
“Am I terrible for feeling relieved? I’m no longer under threat. And don’t think I didn’t notice—a page is missing from his diary. What if he intended more than kidnapping? Am I selfish for thinking of my own safety first?”
Sensing her distress, Neuvillette straightened, keeping her close as he studied her conflicted expression.
“Furina,” he said gently, “if there is anyone in all of Teyvat entitled to be selfish for once, it is you. You surrendered everything for your people and only now reclaimed your freedom. In this matter, no judgment—mine or anyone else’s—outweighs your right to feel safe.”
He brushed away a lone tear from her cheek.
“And if anything… I would ask you to be more selfish.”
She leaned into his touch, meeting his gaze with a quiet, knowing smile.
“But you forget something, my dear Iudex,” she murmured. “I was selfish. Even as Archon… I didn’t give everything away.”
Understanding her instantly—as one does after five centuries—he smiled faintly.
“And for that,” he replied, “I am profoundly grateful. Now, please—let us not remain awake any longer. Tomorrow already threatens me with paperwork I am dreading.”
“My, my,” she teased as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms, “is my tireless Chief Justice truly complaining about work? Am I trapped in some elaborate illusion?”
And with that, he carried her away to a rest long overdue.
Beneath the half-light of the night, a couple lies resting upon a bed. The woman is deeply asleep, lying face down. From the angle of her posture and the fall of her hair, a luminous mark of pale cerulean gleams at the nape of her neck—an emblem formed by three interlocking rings at its heart, encircled by four precise geometric points and traced through with three fluid, almost liquid flourishes, as though the symbol itself were quietly breathing.
At her side, a man remains fully awake, leaning against the headboard, watching with inhuman eyes—eyes heavy with pride and something perilously close to obsessive possession—the radiant, steady pulse at the woman’s neck. In his hand, on a torn and crumpled scrap of paper, an erratic and desperate handwriting can be seen, upon which one may read—
Date: #####
Entry: #???
GOD PLEASE SAVE ME
GOD PLEASE SAVE ME
GOD PLEASE SAVE ME
GOD PLEASE SAVE ME
GOD PLEASE SAVE ME
GOD PLEASE SAVE ME
I’M BEING FOLLOWED. I’M BEING HAUNTED.
I CAN FEEL HIM COMING.
I HAVE BEEN RUNNING AND HIDING FOR THE ENTIRE NIGHT BUT HE ALWAYS FINDS ME.
IT’S A DEMON. OF THAT I AM SURE.
SERPENTINE EYES WATCH ME FROM THE SHADOWS.
HE’S GOING TO END ME.
HE’S GOING TO END ME.
HE’S GOING TO END ME.
IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE HE FINDS ME AGAIN.
I NEED TO STATE THIS CLEARLY—MY DEATH WAS NO CASUALTY.
HE’S GOING TO END ME.
HE’S GOING TO END ME.
HE’S GOING TO END ME.
FOR ATTEMPTING TO CALM MY THIRST.
FOR ATTEMPTING TO CLAIM HIS TREASUR—-__