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Winter lays a thick white blanket atop the peaks of Mont Esus, and few animals can be seen over stretches upon stretches of snow.
This frigid season is one that hunters dread the most, having little prey to catch. Some of them, at least, have a community to fall back on. They receive help in the form of relatives or neighbors willing to house them.
One particular hunter has no such thing. Unlike the blondes and brunettes of Fontaine, his hair is as black as ink with streaks of gray, and his eyes, though blue as the native skies and seas, possess gold-ringed pupils.
‘Foreigner’ is what they whisper behind closed doors.
Some may find him attractive enough to feel a shred of pity, but once they see the unsightly scars that line his throat underneath his layers of furs, they only feel fear and disgust. Only someone cursed by the gods may suffer such gruesome disfigurations, after all. It would be best to stay away, and avoid courting misfortune!
Every winter, other hunters find support from those in the village, but the blue-eyed hunter will not.
To survive, he goes up the mountain every day to check his traps, and if he's lucky, he may find some rabbits, which he can stew for a warm meal. Otherwise, he can only contend with the goods that he preserved during spring and autumn.
It is during one of his empty-handed trips down the mountain that he sees it—a majestic bird with a white, downy body, each feather giving a faint prismatic shine underneath the daylight. One can only imagine its complete, glorious luster under the sun.
Its wings, spanning at least twice the hunter's height, are tipped with dark blue feathers, which reveal a golden gleam at each tumultuous flap.
The hunter realizes that something is wrong when the bird fails to take flight.
Circled around one of its legs is a rope trap.
It catches sight of him, and lets out a mournful cry—or at least, it is a cry that rends the hunter's heart, even as it raises its wings to its full spread, feathers fanning out in a threatening display.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he says while crouching, putting down his basket, half-filled with wild roots and tubers. "I can help you."
He could not pinpoint the exact moment that he decided to free the bird, only that such a beautiful creature surely deserves to be free—to escape the macabre fate of prey and see the coming of spring.
It understood him.
He could tell as much, when the wings slowly lower into a more natural position, feathers smoothing out and folding loosely against its body. It cranes its long, graceful neck to peer down at him with intelligent, violet eyes when he inches forward.
The hunter works fast, skillfully prying apart the knot, and the second that it's loose enough, the bird slips out of the hoop and takes to the sky.
The force of its ascent is so strong, the hunter has to brace himself, shielding his eyes from the impromptu tempest.
By the time the winds have calmed, the bird is nowhere to be seen.
A blizzard consumes the mountain that night. Fierce winds howl through the range that is nothing but a whirl of gray.
Inside a log cabin, the hunter feeds the fireplace, stoking it to keep the interior warm, but even with his face hot against the proximity of the flames, there's still a chill he cannot combat.
Tonight, he spends a bit more firewood and goes to bed hungry, not for the lack of food, but to ration his supplies so he can outlast these harrowing months.
He wraps himself in thick furs, dozing lightly but not daring to fall into a deep sleep, lest the blaze goes out and he sleeps forever.
Some time later in the night, company arrives.
Knock, knock.
The hunter jolts awake, wondering if the storm is over, but frost still creeps at the corners of the glass, barely revealing the darkness outside.
He pulls himself away from his comfortable huddle and hurries to the door to let in whoever found shelter at his stoop of all places. He imagines it to be a villager caught unaware, but when he opens the door, it is a stranger.
A man cloaked in white stands at the doorway, skin as pale as his luxurious attire, but it is not an unhealthy kind of pale. Rather, it’s the paleness of the moon, or of a gemstone that gleams on his cheekbones.
The man pulls down his white hood, revealing a head of white hair, and it’s as if he is made out of snow itself.
“Come in,” the hunter says, ushering the man in after a moment of bewilderment. He closes the door behind the stranger to shut the wind out, brushing snow off of him. “What are you doing out so deep in the storm?”
“The villagers told me this is where I can find the hunter, Wriothesley.” His voice is soft but full of depth. It could be the long months of silence that the hunter endures, but the stranger’s words sound so pleasantly resonant…yet it could not distract him from a question.
“You know me?”
“I’ve heard of your kindness,” he says as Wriothesley helps him out of his cloak, hanging the water-like fabric upon the wall before leading him to the crackling hearth.
His hair spills down his back like a luminous waterfall, ending in wispy curls near the thighs. He pulls the length over his shoulder before taking a seat in front of the fire.
“That’s a first,” Wriothesley says, disbelieving someone had regarded him so highly as to bring this stranger to him, and lamenting that he does not have a chair to offer. “Here, take this. You must’ve been out there for hours.”
He gives his furs instead, wrapping the man in thick swaths of gray and black stitched together to create one heavy blanket.
“Thank you…”
“What business do you have with me?”
The stranger hesitates, and it's no surprise that he does.
In the firelight, he must see Wriothesley without the dark curtain of night obscuring his disfigurements—the gnarled scars that peek through his collar, the rough skin all over, and age-lines that mark his face. Sometimes, a smile is enough to send the village children crying.
In contrast, the stranger is all tender youth and pearlescent allure. The orange glow of the room dances with the shadows on the planes of the stranger’s face, highlighting the delicate nose bridge and sharp jaw. Even with his sharp and stern brows, there is a gentleness about him that enraptures mortal eyes.
“I am here to marry you,” he says at last.
Wriothesley laughs, incredulous. “You must be joking.”
Amethyst eyes stare petulantly, but earnestly.
Wriothesley purses his lips. "... You're not joking."
"I am Neuvillette, from the village of Merusea. I'll be in your care, husband."
The storm passes, and although Wriothesley offers to arrange food and travel expenses for the nearest town, Neuvillette stays in the cabin. No matter how Wriothesley protests the so-called marriage, the stranger will not leave.
Sometimes, when Wriothesley goes up the mountain, the stranger ventures out as well. Wriothesley does not ask where he goes, or what he does. He always expects to come back to an empty house, but that is not the case.
Instead, he returns to a warm house, stoked fires, and freshly melted snow for a hot drink and bath.
Occasionally, there is even bread, which Neuvillette says he traded for in the village.
Wriothesley doesn’t partake in any of the things Neuvillette gives, not at first, but the firewood is already spent, and the bathwater will only go to waste once it cools. The bread too—Neuvillette claims it is too dry for him, so Wriothesley is the only one who can eat it before it grows mold.
He tells Neuvillette that he need not do such things, that he is a guest, but the ethereal man insists that he is Wriothesley’s spouse, and all of this is just par for the course.
Wriothesley lets Neuvillette be, thinking that once winter is over, surely he would find his way back to whence he came.
Fontaine does not have a strict marriage culture. Most people ‘marry’ upon discovering that they would like to build a home together. It is only the upper class—those who dwell within the Court itself—who have rituals and practices such as engagements and weddings. The villages’ marriages are more simple in nature, consisting of a dinner announcement to close family and friends.
With no one to announce such a wedding to, as the village couldn’t care less about Wriothesley, he could be married or single with no pomp or ceremony.
“Is marriage such a horrid thing?” Neuvillette asks one night as he’s wrapped up in the thick furs, while Wriothesley makes do with his cloak.
“It’s…permanent,” Wriothesley deliberates, facing away so he can’t see the forlorn expressions that Neuvillette has been prone to give. He knows, all it takes is one of those looks, and he will surrender to Neuvillette’s will.
“Do you not want me to stay?”
No, he doesn’t, but by the tone of Neuvillette’s question, a simple rejection would be hurtfully misleading.
“…it’s more like the other way around,” Wriothesley clarifies. “You shouldn’t want me when you can find better.”
Younger, richer, and more comely men would jump at the chance to serve Neuvillette, of this, Wriothesley is sure.
“But you are the one I wish to stay beside.”
“I can’t provide for you. We don’t have food, and even in spring, hunting isn’t a lucrative thing. I don’t even have a bed for you to sleep on—“
Thin, wiry arms wrap around him from behind, and Neuvillette’s words are muffled against the curve of his back.
“You are kind. That’s all I know. If there is no food, I can trade for it…and I don’t mind being without a bed. These furs are enough.”
Such genuine, simple affection—should he be grateful that he’s the subject of it, or should he find fault in how he has obtained it? What has he done to earn such a warm regard? A hundred questions plague Wriothesley, but he has no way of asking without Neuvillette’s deflection. He’s asked them before, and received no clear answer.
He lays there for a long time, watching the shadows dance on the walls until the fire dims to embers.
There’s no need to add more wood. Daylight is but hours away.
However, the person behind him begins to shake. It had been a faint quiver at first, but as the air cools more and more, allowing nips of cold to bite into the remnants of warmth, the faint quivers become tight and severe tremors.
The hunter, once resistant, now relents. There is no fairness or justice in rejecting an open heart.
He turns around, wrapping his arms around the other, and then rewraps the furs around them both, allowing no leak of body heat. The other is startlingly thin in his arms, and Wriothesley thinks to himself that he must catch some prey tomorrow, so the other can gain some meat on those bones…
When the sun rises, the stranger, who is a stranger no longer, wakes and peers up with sparkling eyes.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.” He sighs when Neuvillette gives him expectant eyes. “Just…wait until spring. After spring, you can do whatever you want.”
When spring comes, should Neuvillette want to leave, Wriothesley will offer his assistance in travel expenses once again.
For now, he indulges in the fire that warms the heart.
Spring comes with the melting of snow, revealing green shoots of grass underneath winter’s thinning shroud. Rivers run again, carrying the last vestiges of ice downstream until they melt in the lakes.
The weather becomes temperate, the roads are safe to traverse, and birdsong makes for good company.
Still, Neuvillette does not leave.
When Wriothesley loosens the soil for next winter’s corn and barley, Neuvillette works with him, dropping the seedlings into the carefully tilled land.
Every morning, they go down to the river together and fetch the water for the crops.
After a few days, Wriothesley realizes how much easier the workload is with two sets of hands, and plants another square of crops, tripling the yield.
With Neuvillette watching the field, Wriothesley no longer has to worry about birds and rodents stealing the crops when he’s off hunting, and with an unburdened mind, he manages to catch a surplus of fat rabbits, some of which he sells to the village down below, most of which he uses to make stew after discovering Neuvillette’s love for soup.
It’s especially helpful when summer comes with the intensity of a Sumpter Beast, hitting Neuvillette’s appetite full force.
He had already been thin, but he quickly became thinner, and Wriothesley does everything he can to fatten him up.
They spend increasing amounts of time by the river to cool down.
During one foray into the water, Wriothesley notices that some strands of Neuvillette’s hair seem to fan out like feathers, their fibers too strong and smooth to be split ends.
“It’s special to the people of Merusea,” Neuvillette explains as Wriothesley watches him comb through the wet hair.
His fingers pinch some thicker strands, which then burst out of thin shells like roasted peanut skins. More fibers branch out of it in the wake of the shell’s removal, and when they dry, they truly look like feathers, soft and plumose.
After seeing the process a few times, Wriothesley offers to help.
It’s the first time he sees Neuvillette flush so red.
He knows his hands are coarse, so he handles the hair with a lightness he reserves for smaller, exquisite things. He reaches the base of Neuvillette’s neck, massaging away all the shells, delighting in the soft silky feel of it, and Neuvillette looks so happy when all of his hair flares out.
It’s the first time he sees Neuvillette smile so wide.
“It’s the first time someone has helped me preen,” he says, mistaking Wriothesley’s stunned silence for judgment instead of the enamored gawking that it had been.
“I’ll do it again,” Wriothesley thinks aloud. “Anytime you want me to.”
Neuvillette’s smile reaches his eyes, the curve of his cheeks plumping up with joy. “Alright. I shall hold you to it.”
By the time summer becomes less intense, the corn and barley have grown tall and golden, ready for harvest on the cusp of autumn. They work together to cut the stalks of corn and sheaves of grain, grinding most of it into flour for the oncoming winter. Again, two sets of hands prove to be more fruitful than a single set.
With excess time before winter’s arrival, Wriothesley chops down some trees and makes a bed for the two of them. It can’t be too big, otherwise it won’t fit inside, so it will be a cozy fit, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor.
When the first snow falls once more, Wriothesley knows Neuvillette is here to stay.
The topic of marriage does not return, but they live like they’re married, and seasons pass one after another in peaceful harmony.
Winter, spring, summer, autumn, and then winter again.
God be willing and kind, this could have been it. Their happy ending, till death do they part.
Unfortunately, the gods are rarely kind.
One day, Neuvillette went into the village to trade one of Wriothesley’s rabbits for tomato seeds. He had originally been planning on trading for extra batting to fill a pillow, but the seeds had been tempting.
“I hear they’re best planted upside down,” Wriothesley says over dinner, when Neuvillette shows the seeds. “Something about how the fruits are heavy, but the vines are soft… I’ll go to the forest and look for something we can make into a planter.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Wriothesley coughs. “No, it’s okay. I’ll be back before you know it.”
He set out the next day, bright and early, but had yet to return even when the sun set.
Neuvillette, feeling that something had gone wrong, takes a lantern to search the forest.
He follows the trails that Wriothesley would have taken, calling out his name, but all that responds are owls and wolves, hooting and howling to the moon.
Pensive, he transforms, hair melting into feathers until a tall crane stands where a man had once occupied. One mighty flap of his wings, and he’s airborne, soaring over the forest.
His eyes as a crane are no better than that of a human, but the overhead view gives him an advantage that humans lack, and his wings take him far and fast, allowing him to comb through the forest again and again until, hours before dawn, he sees a figure collapsed in the snow.
He lands, heedless of secrecy, legs skidding through the thick snow unsteadily as he transforms again. His sudden change has him tumbling until he’s right next to the prone body.
It’s unmistakably Wriothesley. Even face down, Neuvillette would recognize him.
He pulls the hunter by his shoulders, only to see blood dripping from his nose and mouth, staining the snow below crimson. Frost sticks to his cheeks and lashes, giving him a sickly pallor.
“Wriothesley… Wriothesley!”
The hunter’s eyelids tremble, and sky blue eyes peek through, releasing the abhorrent grip of fear on Neuvillette’s heart.
“Neuvillette…? What are…?”
“I found you collapsed here after you failed to return home,” he says, words hushed by a litany of relieved thoughts. He brushes away the snow on Wriothesley’s face, as well as the blood that’s half-dried on his chin. “Can you stand?”
Wriothesley gathers his strength to sit up, but Neuvillette can tell he’s not wholly capable of standing.
He takes one of Wriothesley’s arms over his shoulder, supporting his bulky weight one step at a time, all the while listening to the cough that rattles Wriothesley’s lungs, and the smell of iron with each shaky, sticky exhale.
By the time they arrive at the cabin, the sun is at its apex, visible through a gap in the clouds, and Wriothesley is paler than Neuvillette’s feathers.
He barely manages a step into the threshold before he has a coughing fit.
Dark red, almost black blood dribbles down, and the fear that had abated takes hold of Neuvillette once again.
“What is wrong with you?” he asks, dragging Wriothesley to the bed. He gets no answer, and he expects none as he strips Wriothesley down to his shirt and pants.
“Thought it was—ghk…thought it was a cold…” he wheezes out, and Neuvillette bites the inside of his cheek to suppress the overwhelming emotion he is feeling. Wriothesley pats him on the hand, sensing the disturbance in his peace of mind. “I’ll be…fine.”
“You’re coughing up blood. Let me fetch a doctor. I cannot rest easy unless we discover what ails you.”
He doesn’t know why Wriothesley doesn’t agree immediately. There is nothing more important than saving one’s life.
Just as he’s about to take off, regardless of Wriothesley’s answer, the calloused hand squeezes his, and Wriothesley acquiesces.
“...okay. There’s Mora behind the fireplace. Take some to pay for the doctor.”
Neuvillette finds the hidden cache of Mora, more than enough for a doctor. He takes just enough for a consultation fee, and gives Wriothesley a soft farewell, promising to return soon. Wriothesley clings for a bit, and Neuvillette feels his reluctance.
“Maybe I should go with you,” he says, rising from his reclining position, but Neuvillette pushes him back down with one hand on his chest.
“No, you need rest. I won’t be long.”
It takes a bit more coaxing, but in the end, Wriothesley succumbs to sleep, and Neuvillette leaves.
However, instead of heading to the village at the base of the mountain, Neuvillette transforms into a crane and flies to Merusea Village, where he knows a trusted doctor. He brings her to Wriothesley, who stays asleep the entire time, but she shakes her head, forlorn.
“He doesn’t have long left. There’s an infection in his lungs. Humans with this ailment die within the year.”
“Is there no medicine that can cure him?”
“...there are rumors of people getting better in Liyue, but whether it is the medicine or the weather, is anyone’s guess. Regardless, he is in no condition to travel, and the medicine…it uses extremely rare herbs, so it’s very expensive.”
“We can afford it. Please let me know how to obtain it,” Neuvillette says without hesitation.
“... If you’re sure… I will request it for you. You need only pick it up from me.”
“Alright. Allow me to send you back—”
“No need. Stay with your husband,” the doctor says, her smile full of pity. “I know the way.”
She leaves Neuvillette alone, and he stands at the closed door for a long moment, lost.
He doesn’t know how long it had been when Wriothesley calls out to him faintly.
“Neuvillette?”
He rushes over, trying to contain the unpleasantness he feels, but it’s like Wriothesley sees through him.
“Why the long face?”
“...”
“The doctor already came?”
“Mm.”
“I see.”
He doesn’t ask. He only pulls Neuvillette down into the bed and onto his chest, where Neuvillette can hear his heartbeat, still strong, still there. A hand roughened by strife brushes through his hair with comfort he couldn’t find when alone.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get better,” Wriothesley says.
That’s right. Wriothesley will get better.
Neuvillette closes his eyes, and believes.
There are good days when it seems like Wriothesley gets better, but it’s followed by days of relapse.
His medication burns through whatever savings they have. Wriothesley tries to tell Neuvillette that he’s fine, but Neuvillette won’t hear of it.
He sells his cloak; the water-like fabric is exquisite and luxurious, fetching quite the price, but it’s not enough.
A few days later, the village leader’s daughter is to be wed, and having seen the cloak, inquired whether Neuvillette has another article of the same material so they could make a wedding dress.
After a night of debate, he asks the bride’s family if they have a loom where he can weave a pure bolt of cloth for it. They eagerly allow him to use their loom, and even allow him to borrow it after the wedding.
By day, he tends to the field, making sure that Wriothesley doesn’t leave the bed, no matter how much he insists he’s alright. By night, he descends the mountain to weave, plucking the most beautiful strands of his hair to recreate a cloth with the exceptional quality of his cloak.
The end result is a fabric so white, it glows gold, shimmering in the light like reflections on the sea.
While they marvel at its beauty, Neuvillette takes the heavy pouch of Mora, clutching it tightly to his chest.
Another few seasons pass, and winter approaches once more. What little effect the medicine had is quickly suppressed by the chill of snow, keeping Wriothesley bedridden.
“You don’t have to do this anymore,” Wriothesley whispers, his words more air than voice. His hand passes through the wisps of Neuvillette’s hair, not quite touching, but enough to feel. “Your hair has gotten thinner…”
Neuvillette wipes away the medicine left over on the corner of Wriothesley’s chapped lips.
No one knows better than himself the state of his hair now. Not only is it thinner, it is shorter, duller, and not as soft anymore.
“You can help me when you get better,” he says quietly.
“There’s no guarantee I’ll get better.”
“I have hope.”
Wriothesley coughs and holds his hand up, halting Neuvillette from telling him to rest or save his strength. “Kuh, hmm…! Don’t…worry about me. You should find out how to survive the coming winter…if you need to settle in the village, the wolf pelt should be worth a good amount…”
Neuvillette grips the medicine bowl so tightly that the veins on the back of his hands pop out. Wriothesley trails off, and notices that although Neuvillette does not have much of an expression, there is something anguished in his eyes.
“Don’t say any more,” Neuvillette whispers. “You will get better. You must.”
“Sometimes things happen…” Wriothesley returns, equally soft. “...and we can’t do anything to change it…but we can make the best out of it and move on…”
“You are telling me to leave you to die.”
“I am telling you to leave yourself a way out. Don’t tie yourself down to me…” Wriothesley smiles softly. “You’ve done your best, but you need to treat yourself better. Don’t just sacrifice everything for a dying man.”
“I love you,” Neuvillette declares.
Wriothesley freezes.
“I love you, and this is no sacrifice. Even if it is, it is a forbearance I am willing to shoulder. In my thoughts, I have wondered the possibility of your demise…but even then—” Neuvillette’s eyes turn glassy, and he sheds tears so thick that they drop straight down into his lap instead of trailing down his cheeks. “Even then… I think it is worth it.”
Wriothesley’s serene mask begins to crack. His face crumples, and his body wars with itself, coughing and crying in equal measure.
Neuvillette helps him through it, even as his own tears refuse to cease.
Winter settles cruelly, but the cabin is warmer than ever.
The feelings that Neuvillette confessed have broken down the last barrier between the two, and although they have seen better days, it is arguably their happiest winter.
Everything gets worse before it gets better.
Wriothesley can’t hold down food, not even soup. He sleeps more than not. At one point, Neuvillette really thinks Wriothesley will die.
He was so pale and cold.
However, against all odds, Wriothesley finds himself coughing less as the last wintry storm peters off into the first spring rain. He finds himself extremely hungry, and cognizant again.
He doesn’t dare hope, and neither does Neuvillette, but he can breathe freely.
He can walk.
He can talk.
The timeframe for relapse passes, and Neuvillette brings the witch doctor back for a checkup.
“Amazing…so that medicine really does work!” she cheers, clapping her hands together. “This is excellent news. Keep yourself warm though, we don’t want the sickness to return.”
“Aye aye,” Wriothesley says with a serious salute, swaddled tightly in bed.
“Is there anything that he needs to be careful of?” Neuvillette asks, still worried.
“Other than the cold, no, he is in perfect health.”
Wriothesley wraps an arm around Neuvillette, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m all better now. Things will get better.”
Neuvillette melts into his embrace for a bit, humming in agreement.
“Thank you for your help,” he says to the doctor. “Let me send you back.”
“I’ll go with you—”
“No, there’s still a draft. Stay at home,” Neuvillette says, patting Wriothesley on the chest.
Used to obeying, Wriothesley nods with a sigh. “Come back quickly.”
“I will.”
He doesn’t come back quickly. Or at all.
Wriothesley watches as the sun goes down, anticipating Neuvillette’s silhouette when there is no more light.
He had known that something was wrong, but he didn’t want to bring it up in front of an outsider. He thought Neuvillette would return, and they could talk about it then. He had seen the bitterness and relief in equal measure. At times, he thought that Neuvillette regretted it, but didn’t want to insult his conviction. He of all people knew the suffering Neuvillette went through alongside him. He thought he would make it up to Neuvillette, whether it was after his recovery, or in the next life.
He didn’t expect that he wouldn’t see Neuvillette at all anymore.
At dawn, he sets off with an extra cloak, but instead of going down the mountain, he goes up to where they first met—the slope on that one mid-winter day he freed a crane from a hunter’s trap.
There, in a patch of newly-sprouted grass, is the crane, its feathers molted and bare. The white of its body is no longer pristine, and the blues and golds are nowhere to be found. One might even mistake it for a common dove from afar.
But Wriothesley recognizes Neuvillette.
He had his suspicions, but when he saw those soulful eyes, he knew they’re his husband’s.
Neuvillette tries to rise as Wriothesley approaches, but his legs wobble weakly before he’s falling back down, and Wriothesley rushes to catch him.
Without his wingspan, he’s small enough for Wriothesley to carry, so Wriothesley wraps him up in a cloak and holds him securely, all while being watched so guardedly.
“You’ve gotten so thin,” he says with heartache.
He doesn’t expect Neuvillette to be able to talk in this form, but he does, in a voice far more resonant than when he is human. More reminiscent of that first night, when he appeared on his doorstep, all ethereal and otherworldly.
You knew all along?
“Maybe not all along. But you weren’t trying to hide it either, were you?”
No… I suppose not. Where are you taking me?
“Home. Aren’t you my spouse?”
I can’t weave anymore. I can’t fly. I can’t even turn into a human anymore.
“And why does that matter?” Wriothesley lifts Neuvillette’s head gently. “Weren’t you the one who told me you loved me? If you love me, you won’t leave.”
He presses a kiss on the sparsely-feathered head. “Whether you’re human or crane, I love you too.”
Years later, the villagers will talk about the hunter in the mountains who is accompanied by a crane.
Claimed by the gods, they would say.
In truth, he’s just very loved, and loves dearly in return.