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Longing flourishes on unattainable soil.
No one knows this better than the sovereign of the sea, whose favorite pastime is watching the Winged Ones fly.
His Melusines call surface-watching his ‘guilty pleasure’, and Neuvillette can't dispute that assessment. He has many duties to attend to, tasked as he is with maintaining balance in the undersea ecosystem, so leaving his domain to its own devices always imparts some level of guilt. Yet he can only endure so much clam-sorting and current-wrangling before he begins to go cross-eyed, and the overworld offers him a welcome respite from the monotony of his immortal life.
One particular sight on the surface holds a special place in his heart. On occasion, serrated shadows flit across his waters, cast by magnificent plumage that blocks out the blue of the sky.
The Winged Ones resemble him in many ways: two arms, two eyes, two ears, and a mouth for speaking and laughing. But differences in their physiology also abound, and those differences spark fascination. Where Neuvillette has one finned, snakelike tail made for coiling through the water, they have two stumpy appendages that propel them across the ground. And where Neuvillette has only the bare expanse of his back, they sport enormous, glorious wings that carry them in flight.
Their society has neighbored his shores for centuries, so he has learned much about them purely through observation. Although simplistic in their ways, they display intelligence far greater than that of the fish or the birds. They make and use tools like woven nets and fang-sharp spears. They fly over his waters to partake in the sea's bounty, hunting fish that venture too close to the surface and hauling them away, presumably to eat.
Neuvillette takes no issue with these activities. He’s a caretaker of balance, not of life, and the seafood the Winged Ones hunt is nothing compared to the gluttony of the sharks or the eels. He'll gladly allow them their pound of flesh if it means he can continue to spy on them for his own entertainment. His favorite observation spot lies among the semi-submerged rocks near the tide pools. The uneven terrain provides him with ample cover to see without being seen, and that stretch of beach is often used when the Winged Ones need to take flight in large numbers.
He enjoys those moments most of all. When many of them gather together and spiral into the heavens, they create a cacophony of feathers and freedom as they soar inland for destinations unknown. Sometimes, when the breeze is southwesterly and luck is on Neuvillette's side, a feather drifts into the water for him to keep.
What must it be like to sail so high, surrounded only by insubstantial air?
Neuvillette has been watching the Winged Ones for eons, but he's never had the courage to ask.
On a morning much like any other, Neuvillette lurks among the rocks with his silver eyes trained on the shore. Over a dozen Winged Ones have gathered there today, and the array of colors in this particular flock is awe-inspiring. A rich, deep purple stands alongside a golden ochre. Pink as soft as the inside of a scallop is highlighted against a trio of light, tawny browns. Blue-and-white mingles with white-and-red, and there's even a pair of rare black wings amongst the crowd.
When they fly, they'll leave behind feathers to be caught up in the surf. With such an array of bold colors present, one is bound to be suitable for Neuvillette's collection. His tail lashes in anticipation, churning up the water around his rock.
A countdown ends, and with a rush of wind the flock leaps airborne. The largest ones take the lead, wide wingspans propelling them further, faster, but they quickly even out to move as a unit. Enraptured by the show, Neuvillette watches until a wisp of motion catches his eye: a flutter of pink, twirling through the air to land on the crest of a foamy wave.
His eyes widen. What luck! A black feather would’ve been ideal, but his collection is also lacking this rosy hue. He's loath to take his gaze off it for long, lest it disappear on a wayward current, but he double-checks the sky to be safe.
Fortunately the Winged Ones are already becoming specks in the distance. Eager to claim his prize, he dives from behind his rock and streamlines for the shallows before the feather can float away. Just as his fingers wrap around the quill, he hears an unexpected voice.
“Woah. What do we have here?”
Neuvillette startles, launching a spray of saltwater into the air as he uses his tail fin to slam to a halt. He stares at the beach where the voice originated, and the massive winged male standing alone on the sand stares right back.
For a heartbeat, all they do is stare. Tension crackles like Electro along rigid sight lines until the male blinks, snapping the connection. Freed from this strange tether of eye contact, Neuvillette pumps his tail and begins retreating into deeper water.
“Hey, wait!” calls the male.
Hah! Not a chance. With that scarred chest and those muscled arms, the male on the beach must be a hunter. Any moment the beat of those mighty black wings will sound as he takes off to give chase. Neuvillette must reach the rocks to submerge out of range of any knife or spear. He has no desire to become anyone's fish dinner.
But, to his surprise, the shouting grows increasingly distant. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he sees the male wading through the waves with both feet planted on the ground. His wings remain unused, folded snugly against his back.
He chases… but he chooses not to fly?
Why?
Neuvillette's relief is tainted by disappointment as he dives. Now that he's safely underwater, he can admit he would've liked to see those wings extended to their full glory at least once.
But he mustn't be greedy. There may be another opportunity to see this male in flight. Perhaps in a few months… or a few years.
After all, Neuvillette has all the time in the world.
Neuvillette returns to the tide pools a scant week later.
He must be out of his mind, to engage in such folly. If the male informed his companions about the strange fish at the beach, they may still be searching for him. There’s no excuse for this risky behavior.
But, then again… why should he need to hide like a frightened minnow? The Winged Ones may own the land and the sky, but the sea is his domain. He wields Hydro with weaponized precision and can disappear in an instant so long as he doesn't venture into the shallows.
Still, he doesn't throw his caution entirely to the current. Only his eyes breach the water as he approaches in small increments, using the swell of the waves as cover until he reaches the ring of rocks surrounding the bay.
Another flock is out today, but they’re different from the last. This smaller group— colored in common shades of taupe, beige and mottled gray— doesn't appear to be hunting. Instead, they huddle close together and speak words inaudible over such a large distance. Neuvillette chooses another, closer rock and slithers forward with an emphasis on stealth. The flock shifts in place like feathered stalks of seagrass waving in an undertow, revealing a core of black in the center of the knot.
The dark-winged male is here.
But his stance is unexpectedly unbothered. He chats casually with his peers, making them laugh at some humorous quip he spouts. When they kick off the ground and twist into the air, he doesn't try to follow— only waves as he watches them go. Neuvillette shrinks behind his rock, but his caution proves unnecessary as the flock flies off in the opposite direction.
As soon as they're gone, the male's head swivels towards Neuvillette's hiding spot, like he'd known all along he was being watched. Neuvillette tightens his claws against the stone, gripping hard so that he can push into a quick retreat if necessary.
“Hey,” the male calls, his voice calm but loud enough to carry. “Don't be scared. I'm not gonna hurt you.”
What's this? A lie to lure Neuvillette in for the kill?
But no, that seems unlikely. The male is unarmed, wearing neither a knife nor spear on his person. When he moves across the sand, his steps are unhurried, and the path he takes is indirect. Instead of leaping into the air or diving into the water, he ambles towards the tide pools that create a land bridge out to the rocky reef.
Neuvillette should leave.
Having been spotted again, he has no reason to stay.
But the male is still talking in that calm, inviting voice, and it would be a shame to dive without first hearing what he has to say.
“You really spooked me the other day, popping out of the water like that. I thought someone had fallen during takeoff until I noticed you were wingless.” The male holds out his arms for balance as he wobbles across a slim section between two pools. “Not that that's your fault. I must've scared you even worse. Just a guy on the beach, suddenly shouting at you. I'm not even sure if you speak Fontainian. Maybe you can't speak at all. I guess I'm doing something right this time, since you're still here.”
From his gentle rambling, one might think he was trying to coax a skittish Blubberbeast into eating out of his hand. Even as Neuvillette dips everything but his eyes beneath the water, he chortles and sends a swarm of bubbles from his nose. He is no mindless beast. He learned the Winged Ones’ language long before this male was ever born.
The male reaches the border of the tide pools and begins to hop from rock to rock, continuing his soothing chatter all the while. A certain kindness radiates from this puzzling stranger who attempts to assuage the fears of a creature he knows nothing about.
Neuvillette should go.
Oh, he should. But he finds he doesn’t want to, and his extra time for internal debate evaporates. When the male plants his feet on Neuvillette's latching rock, his body dominates the entire field of view. If he were to stretch out his wings, he would surely engulf the sky.
“Hey,” he says, grinning down. “Nice to meet you. Name's Wriothesley.”
How strange it is to put a name to a Winged One's face. Compelled to test the weight of it on his tongue, Neuvillette pops the rest of his head above water to echo, “Wriothesley.”
“Yep, that's me.” The male nods and places a hand with exaggerated care on his chest. “I'm Wriothesley.”
Ah, that's right. He believes their ability to communicate is limited. That misunderstanding should be corrected before it gets out of hand. “Yes, I understood you the first time,” Neuvillette says in perfectly enunciated, slightly accented Fontainian.
“Wow. You actually can speak.” Fascinated by this revelation, Wriothesley settles into a deep crouch, resting his hands on his knees. The tips of his feathers drape off his perch to skim the crests of the waves. “That'll make this easier. I've got so many questions. Who are you? What are you? What are you doing here?”
Neuvillette sees no need to answer any of Wriothesley's questions. Instead, he counters with one of his own— the only one of importance. “Wriothesley, why do you never fly away with the others?”
An unreadable emotion twists Wriothesley's expression before it settles back into curious consideration. He ruffles his wings against his back but keeps them tightly folded. “Not gonna lie, that's a weird opener for the genesis of interspecies communication. Why do you ask?”
“Because I lack understanding. If I could fly, I would do so at every given opportunity.”
“Huh. I guess we have that in common.”
Neuvillette frowns. “I don't understand,” he reiterates with a touch of frustration. He’s never had the opportunity to have one of his questions about the Winged Ones answered, and now this male— Wriothesley— is making it more difficult than necessary with his vague non sequiturs.
“Tell you what,” Wriothesley says with a smirk. “You tell me your name, and I'll answer your question.”
This exchange has no apparent drawbacks, so Neuvillette hastily accepts the offer. “I am called Neuvillette,” he says, placing a hand to his chest just as Wriothesley did before.
Wriothesley's lopsided smile widens. “A pretty name for a pretty sea-dweller.”
Neuvillette ignores the empty flattery, no doubt designed to distract him. His gaze stays serious as he bobs in place, waiting for Wriothesley to uphold his end of the bargain.
Wriothesley's smirk fades out on a sigh. “You wanna know that badly, huh? Honestly, it might be easier to show you than to explain.”
“What do you mean?”
“You'll see.”
Wriothesley shuffles his heels outward to reinforce his balance, and with a ripple of his wide set shoulders he unfurls his wings.
Air slices the back of Neuvillette's throat as he gasps.
What was before concealed among the bundle of feathers is now obvious: Wriothesley isn't flightless by choice.
His underlying anatomy is intact. The bones that stretch out from his shoulder blades are sturdy and straight, and the short, ruffled feathers closer to his torso are lush and well-groomed. Only at the tips of his wings does the issue become apparent; Wriothesley's primary feathers are missing, leaving a gaping hole where his wingspan should be at its widest. The few tufts that remain in the gap have grown in stunted and bent, incapable of keeping anyone airborne.
Neuvillette scans the damage in stunned silence. While it's certainly distressing to see a symbol of freedom in tatters, that isn't the source of his shock. No, the real tragedy stems from the intentionality of the mutilation. The cutouts are perfectly balanced on both of Wriothesley's wings, and the harsh straightness proves that whatever befell him wasn't accidental.
Unaware of the horror his plight has inspired, Wriothesley motions to his mangled plumage and begins a matter-of-fact explanation of the obvious. “Normally there's these longer feathers out here. Those are important for flight. Since I'm missing them, I can't get off the ground. But I've gotten pretty good at gliding down from—”
“Who?”
Wriothesley pauses his exposition. “Who what?”
“Who did this to you?” Neuvillette asks, voice thunderous in his fury.
“Ah.” Wriothesley's eyes crinkle with gentle amusement at the corners. “It was a long time ago, when I was just a fledgling. Don't worry; they've been dead for years.”
“But… why?” Chunks of brittle shale flake into the sea as Neuvillette's claws gouge grooves down to the waterline. “Why would anyone do such a thing to a hatchling?” Glimpses of the little Winged Ones had always been so precious. They were full of innocent joy and laughter, just like his Melusines.
“To keep me from flying away, of course,” Wriothesley says with unsettling resignation. “Clipped feathers normally grow back, but they were overzealous with the scissors.”
That level of cruelty is unfathomable. What sort of monster would take the gift of flight away from their own young? Neuvillette would sooner believe that Wriothesley is indulging in a misguided jest. Perhaps the missing feathers are invisible or camouflaged, and if Neuvillette reaches out he will find them hidden but whole. His hands rise of their own accord, inching towards the left wing, but he hesitates when Wriothesley flinches.
“May I?” Neuvillette asks, unsure.
Wriothesley's face flushes a shade of deep, angry red. Is he offended by the invasion of his personal space? But when he replies, he doesn’t sound angered— only flustered and a little gruff. “You actually want to touch my wings?”
“Is that acceptable?” In all Neuvillette's years of spying, he never heard any mention of a wing-touching taboo, but perhaps his ignorance caused him to commit a cross-cultural faux pas.
Wriothesley covers his eyes with one hand, making his already confusing expression nigh impossible to decipher. “I mean... Yeah. Go for it.”
Granted permission, Neuvillette hurriedly closes the remaining gap— because when will he ever have the opportunity to examine a Winged One up close again? He brushes along the downy feathers near Wriothesley's torso, then trails outward across the secondaries, noting they grow stiffer as they lengthen. Unlike the waterlogged feathers he's scavenged, these dry barbs produce a pleasant susurration when they tickle against his skin.
Halfway through his inspection, a narrow cylinder nestled among the shafts catches on his nails. Curious, he rolls it between his forefinger and thumb, and to his delight the casing crumbles away to reveal a new, pristine feather within. When freed from its confines it fluffs out to full volume, every bit as magnificent as its older brethren.
Wriothesley lets out an odd, vibrating chirrup, then hastily clears his throat.
Neuvillette stalls in place. “My apologies; did that hurt?”
“Not at all. Don't stop on my account.”
“Ah, well… if you are sure,” Neuvillette murmurs, not in need of much convincing. As his hands resume their exploration, he drifts away from the rock to better reach the furthest feathers. “I must say, you have beautiful wings.”
“You don’t need to lie,” Wriothesley says with a soft snort.
“No, truly. They radiate strength— and in such a distinctive color. They suit you well.” Up close, the illusion of unbroken black is peppered with flecks of light gray, like sea salt dashed across volcanic rock. The color perfectly matches Wriothesley's short, spiked hair.
Neuvillette could happily examine those wings for hours, but his journey of discovery ends in dissatisfaction as his fingers drop off into nothingness. He knew it was foolish to hope there were feathers hidden in that barren space, but his heart squeezes all over again.
“Such a shame,” he mutters to himself.
“It's not so bad,” Wriothesley says. “I was pissy about it as a kid, but by now I've gotten used to the idea of spending my life looking at the soles of everyone else's feet.”
He frames that as a joke, delivered alongside a self-deprecating smile, but Neuvillette doesn't find it humorous. Not one bit.
There’s no joy in being bound to the ground.
There's no levity in being left behind.
Neuvillette is— and always will be— a creature of the sea. Flight was never within his realm of possibilities. He made peace with that fact long ago.
But the sky is Wriothesley's birthright. It was stolen from him, and what was taken can never be recovered. Where is the justice in that? Why should Wriothesley have to accept these foisted limitations? It’s completely intolerable— especially when there may be something Neuvillette can do to help.
“Perhaps this is forward of me,” he says. “But might I have permission to use my Hydro on your wings?”
Wriothesley thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Sure, but don't get your hopes up. I've discussed this with plenty of healers, and they've all said it was too late to undo the damage.”
“That isn't precisely what I meant,” Neuvillette says. “I do not possess healing abilities. My power lies in creation and control.”
Wriothesley raises an eyebrow, but Neuvillette's attention is already focused elsewhere. He summons a sphere of Hydro and smears it through the gap in Wriothesley's left wing, willing it to float in place while he works. Tiny globules hover in suspended animation around the main mass as he uses his claws to begin sculpting.
His obsession with collecting feathers is finally coming in handy; he doubts there are any more knowledgeable than he about their structure. There's the hollow central shaft that flares at the quill, the countless barbed branches, and the tip that tapers to a rounded point. How hard could it be to manifest an accurate facsimile? He pours his garnered knowledge into his Hydro to imbue it with new purpose, and sleek, semi-transparent feathers take shape beneath his fingertips. When he's satisfied with their accuracy, he paddles to Wriothesley's other wing to repeat the process.
This only takes him a few minutes. All the while, Wriothesley watches him in unmoving silence. As Neuvillette flicks the last of the Hydro off his fingers and retreats to inspect his handiwork, Wriothesley scrubs a hand over his mouth.
“They're very pretty,” he says on a shallow breath, as if he's afraid too much movement might shatter the spell. “But at the end of the day, it’s just water. Do you really think it'll hold up?”
Neuvillette clucks his tongue. “I am no paltry peddler of magic tricks. If I command my Hydro to behave as feathers, then so it shall. However, if you harbor doubts…” He lifts one finger towards the sky. “...there is only one surefire way to dispel them.”
“Fair enough,” Wriothesley concedes as he pushes to his feet with a throaty laugh. The Hydro imitations follow along, clinging to his frame as any homegrown feathers would.
Neuvillette's finger curls. “But perhaps you should arc your initial trajectory over the water as an extra precaution.”
“Hopefully this won't end in an unplanned swim,” Wriothesley says. “Ironically, I don't really like getting my feathers wet.”
He flexes his wing joints, and his new plumage contracts and expands exactly as it should— an encouraging sign. He flashes one final smile, and then, without any warning or fanfare, he bends his knees, sweeps his wings down, and launches off the rock.
Neuvillette holds his breath as Wriothesley shoots upwards. There comes a precarious moment where his ascent falters— a parabolic climb about to reverse into a plummet— but then he beats his wings again and gains another fifty feet.
Up…
And up…
And up he goes, until he's nothing but a spot of black against a backdrop of cerulean blue.
Neuvillette's farewell dies on his lips.
Wriothesley is too far away to hear it now.
That’s a good thing, of course. A grievous wrong has been righted today. Wriothesley is leaving to rejoin his flock. That's an achievement worthy of celebration.
Yet as Neuvillette turns to dive back into the oh-so-familiar depths of the sea, his heart sits heavy in his chest, and he isn't entirely sure why.
Before he can submerge, his pointed ears twitch.
Thuum.
Thuum.
Thuum.
He feels it in his eardrums before he hears it: a bass beat reemerging from the silence. He looks up to find the dot of Wriothesley's figure is growing instead of shrinking.
Is Wriothesley… returning?
But why? Is something wrong with the Hydro constructs?
It certainly doesn't appear that way during his descent; he carves the water on either side of the perch into choppy waves as he sticks his landing. Before Neuvillette can voice any questions, Wriothesley drops to one knee and holds out his arms with an enthusiastic grin on his face.
Does he believe the enchantment will break without continued contact? Neuvillette paddles back with a shake of his head. “You don't require my assistance any longer. My Hydro will remain in place in perpetuity.”
“I know,” Wriothesley says, making a come-hither motion with his fingers against his palms.
Perhaps he’s worried Neuvillette will allow him a taste of freedom before dropping him out of the sky. Disappointing, but understandable; trust must not come easily to a male who’d been wronged in his formative years. Neuvillette shakes his head with more urgency. “I swear on my sovereignty, I won't harm you. You are free to go.”
“I know that too,” Wriothesley says with an easy laugh.
Neuvillette looks from Wriothesley’s open hands to his unguarded face. “Then why did you return?”
“You didn't think I was going to leave you behind, did you?” Wriothesley cocks his head, eyes twinkling with empathetic perception. “You said you'd fly whenever you could, if given the chance. So let me take you flying.”
Oh.
That's—
…
Truly? Would Wriothesley be willing to let Neuvillette tag along on his maiden voyage?
Should he?
Could he?
How can Neuvillette possibly resist the temptation to find out? His reservations disintegrate with a dawning smile and a propelling flick of his tail.
As soon as he's within range, Wriothesley hooks beneath his armpits and hoists him up. Being lifted from the water feels so unnatural that Neuvillette lets out a discomforted hiss and winds his tail around Wriothesley's waist for balance.
“You're lighter than I expected,” Wriothesley chuckles as he settles his hold. One arm wraps behind Neuvillette's back, and the other supports the widest portion of his tail.
“What is your reference point for that?” Neuvillette asks as he secures his own arms around the convenient pillar of Wriothesley's neck. He's already further from the sea than he's ever been before, and he isn't sure he likes it. “Do you make a habit of picking up every draconic male you happen across?”
“Nah. Just the beautiful ones.”
Neuvillette is too consumed by pre-flight jitters to entertain that joke. He tightens his arms, causing the hair at the nape of Wriothesley's neck to tickle the inside of his elbows. His own long hair is dripping seawater down Wriothesley's chest, but Wriothesley doesn't appear to mind.
“I am prepared,” Neuvillette announces, hoping that won't prove to be a lie.
“Great,” Wriothesley says. “Hold on tight.”
Neuvillette means to keep his eyes open during takeoff; he doesn't want to miss a single detail of this once-in-a-eternity opportunity. But as Wriothesley quakes the world with a flap of his wings, some ingrained instinct slams Neuvillette's eyelids shut. His stomach drops into his tail as a gale assaults his face, and he barely swallows a dignity-destroying yelp.
The embrace of air is nothing like that of water. Water wraps him in comfort, providing support from all angles. Air, despite its insistent tugging of his hair and battering of his face, offers no buoyancy or substance. Its blowing remains relentless even as their climb levels out. Were it not for the arms wrapped around him and the wings sounding a steady rhythm in his ears, Neuvillette would be nothing but a dragon-flavored kelp cake splattered across the ground.
What was he thinking, accepting Wriothesley's offer? Creatures of the sea belong in the sea. The sky wasn’t made for him. He shouldn't be here—
Something soft nudges his cheek.
“Open your eyes, Neuvillette,” Wriothesley coaxes into his ear. “The view is the best part.”
Easier said than done. Every time Neuvillette tries, the wind stings his eyes to tears, but he achieves marginal success testing one eye first, then the other. Eventually he manages to flutter both open at once, and the blurry turquoise picture spread beneath them clarifies.
“Oh,” he says.
And then, again. “Oh.” Just a soft exhalation, because despite the abundance of air, his breath has been taken away.
The world has grown smaller in some ways and so much bigger in others. Who knew Teyvat was home to so much land? The canals of his sea wind like shimmering snakes between emerald islands he has only ever seen the beaches of. Some of the landmasses even have water within them. Sparkling puddles the size of his pinky claw wink up at him from their cradles among the rolling hills and rocky crags.
“Incredible,” he whispers.
“It is,” Wriothesley agrees, but he seems more focused on examining Neuvillette’s face than taking in the scenery. “And thanks to you, we can see it.”
Neuvillette shakes his head. “I cannot take credit. Feathers alone do not make one capable of flight.” The musculature of Wriothesley's back is stretched taut between the proud branches of his wings, holding their position in a smooth glide. Neuvillette could replicate a mountain of feathers, but they'd be useless without the underlying support of that strength. “You were born for this, while I am only a temporary passenger.”
Wriothesley’s fingers tighten, pressing into the skin beneath Neuvillette's ribs. “This doesn't have to be a one-time thing. I'd be happy to take you up whenever you want.”
“I appreciate your kindness, but you need not trouble yourself. It is enough that I'll have these memories to cherish.”
“It's no trouble,” Wriothesley insists. “There are plenty of good reasons to bring you along. Flying for two is great exercise. Plus, it's handy to have you around in case something happens to the feathers—”
“Those sound more like excuses than reasons, Wriothesley.”
“Damn. Am I that easy to read?” Wriothesley laughs as he banks into a lazy turn, rotating the vista beneath them. “Then how about this for a reason: I've spent my whole life alone on the ground. Why would I want to be lonely up here too?”
“But you have your flock, do you not?”
Wriothesley's thumb rubs absentminded circles against the scales of Neuvillette's tail as he gazes towards the horizon. “The members of my flock are varying degrees of sympathetic, but none of them understand what it's like to be stuck watching others go where you can never follow.” He pauses, then reestablishes eye contact. “Not you though. You did this for me because you know how it feels to be flightless in an aerial world. You gave me back my wings, so I'd like to be yours.”
Neuvillette tilts his head to the side.
Wriothesley's face flushes that same odd shade of red as before. “Be your wings, I mean. Not yours. We just met, so that would be inappropriate of me to—”
“I would like that,” Neuvillette interrupts with a soft smile. “Flying with you again. Perhaps we could pay a visit to those inland waters?”
Wriothesley's eyes shine so brightly blue they could pass for small portals into the sky beyond. “Just say the word. I'll take you anywhere you want to go.”
“Let's save that for next time,” Neuvillette says, turning his attention back towards the vast, wonderful world. “For now, all I want is to enjoy this view together.”