Archive of Our Own

Wriothesley knows how close he’s come to succeeding in his one-man revolution when they drug his food.

He’s as average as average can get. He tinkers with children’s toys, with the resident farmer’s tools, and works odd jobs here and there without ever letting on that he knows anything outside of his expertise as a fixer-upper. He makes friends here and there, yes, but more often than not, he does his best to not leave much of an impression.

To be memorable is to be seen, and being seen isn’t exactly what you want when you intend to topple a long-standing hierarchy that allows the rich to become richer, while leaving the poor, well, poorer. And as if poverty wasn’t enough, the old bones standing at the top of the pyramid of privilege even sends out the most vulnerable people—be they elders, children, women, or those with disabilities—to be sacrificed to the so-called Dragon of Water.

Wriothesley has no problem with gods, or dragons, or other mythical beings.

But he has problems with people who abuse the literature of said beings to exploit the innocent and naive for their own selfish purposes.

He’s already had his fill of being gaslit by his foster parents into thinking they had a normal life, when all he’d been was a warm body to be sold. He’d been lucky enough to have just been exiled when they found him bloody and half-conscious near their lifeless bodies, and he doesn’t intend to abuse the fortune thrown his way by enacting violence once more on a village that doesn’t know any better.

He’s grown now. Stronger, smarter, and more mature—or so he hopes.

He’d believed he could change the tides with influence. With words, and wit, instead of more bloodshed. He’d already made good acquaintances in a variety of places—from the civilians who knew all the latest gossip, to the nobles that gave him more connections to people with money, or power (or, at times, even both). He's not so callow, however, that he'd believe all the nobles he knew had good intentions, and that those who are suffering in poverty would take just any helpful hand.

Life can be cruel, and can make even the gentlest hearts into brittle, bitter things. So he'd kept his guard up around most, playing the charming rogue so he wouldn't be played with so easily.

Then:

“Mr. Wriothesley, Mr. Wriothesley! Thank you so much for fixing my doll!”

Wriothesley smiles, amused by the enthusiastic hopping the kid makes around him. Short brown hair, dark brown eyes, chubby cheeks—just like most other children in town who seek out his expertise in fixing their little toys and trinkets. He puts a halt to the circle of hopping by placing a hand on the kid's head, and gives their hair a tiny ruffle as he kneels before them.

He doesn't mention how obvious it is that the kid is hiding something behind their back with one hand, because, well, why would he? It's their secret to reveal in their own time, if they'll reveal it at all.

“Now, now, you'll make yourself dizzy. And it's no trouble, really. I only sewed on one missing eye.”

“Still! Mom is so busy, and dad doesn't know how to sew, so I was scared they'd make me throw it away if they ever saw it was messed up,” the kid points out, blinking big, doe eyes at him. “You fixed it so fast! I didn't know it was that easy to sew stuff.”

“Ah, but that's only because I have years of experience,” he says. “You can learn too, if you'd like?”

“But, my dad…”

Wriothesley smiles wryly. Right. There are parents like that, who think their children should never touch such menial tasks. “Well, I'm here if you ever want to learn.”

“…Um…”

“Hm? Do you have something else you'd like me to fix?”

The kid shakes their head. “No! I, uh, I just…”

“Hmm?”

Wriothesley bites back a laugh when the kid shoves a paper bag in his face, almost hitting him in the nose had it not been for his fast reflexes. He carefully pries the package from nervous fingers with a gentle hand, and hums when he finds what seems to be a slice of pound cake. “What's this?” he asks, humoring the expectant look on the child's face. “You're giving it to me?”

“It's pound cake! I learned to make it with my nanny,” the kid explains, fidgeting as they look down at the floor and up at him in two second intervals. “I know you don't accept money from kids, so… I thought I could make you cake, as a gift. Or is that not okay...?”

He unwraps the pound cake from its paper container, then takes a big bite before the kid can sulk any further. Wriothesley closes his eyes as he savors it, making sure to take his time in chewing and giving little hums of pleasure to signal his enjoyment of the cake. He doesn't even have to pretend, either; the hints of orange in the slice tastes pretty good, just enough that he might consider eating something like it with his tea.

After finishing off that one slice, he opens his eyes and gives the kid a proud smile. “That was pretty good. A hobby of yours?”

“Kinda,” the kid confirms, smiling shyly as they clasp their hands, the now-fixed doll pressed up against their chest. “Are you sure it's good...? You aren't lying?”

“Yes, of course.” He nods. “It's pretty good, maybe even too good for someone like me.”

“Eh, no way! You're even cooler than me…”

“Hm? But you're the one who can make something new from scratch. I can only fix something that's broken.”

The kid makes a face at him, nose scrunching up in blatant disbelief. “Ehh, still! You can do all kinds of things… you fix my toys, and you can fix stuff for adults too! That makes you even cooler than me!”

Wriothesley barks out a laugh. “Hah! How about we both agree that we're both cool, then?”

He raises a hand for a handshake as he says so, taking note of the excited gleam in the kid's eyes at the adult-like gesture.

And yet, he's barely even begun to reciprocate the gesture when a pale, adult hand gently tugs the child away by their shoulder. Looking up to the owner of said hand, he finds a middle-aged woman—austere in appearance, with dark brown hair and green eyes, wearing a seemingly plain yet bespoke dress—only evident given the perfect fit. She tells the child, “Young master, it's time to return home.”

“A-ah, but—”

“Your father is waiting for you,” the woman emphasizes, her sharp gaze glaring daggers at Wriothesley as she pulls the child further away from him. In a softer voice, she tells the kid, “It's time to say goodbye, alright?”

Those previously bright, brown eyes grow dim with disappointment. “… Alright.” To Wriothesley, they muster up a smile and wave goodbye, saying, “Bye-bye, Mr. Wriothesley! Let's talk more next time!”

“See you,” he agrees, giving a little wave of his own as he watches the child being ushered away by who he assumes to be their nanny. He watches as they ride in their carriage—a proper, luxurious one at that—with a thoughtful gaze, and wonders just how long it'll take for that nanny to completely forbid the child from meeting with him again.

He sighs.

“Well, that was something,” he murmurs to himself once the pair are gone, putting his hands to his knees as he makes to stand—

Throb.

“—ngh? What…”

Wriothesley instinctively slaps one hand to the wall at his side, bile rising up his throat as his vision swims before him. Not the kind of dizziness from blood rushing to your head after standing up too suddenly, no, but the kind of dizziness that—

“—get his arms—”

“—quickly, before anyone sees!”

—means he's been drugged.

A needle is pressed into his arm before he can put up a proper struggle, making his arms fall limp and useless as he's manoeuvred like a drunken man being helped off of the streets. In those short, meagre seconds right before he loses consciousness completely, he thinks,

Oh, no. There go my plans for tea.

When Wriothesley comes to, the first thing he tastes and smells is the unmistakable damp stench of the underground—thankfully, nothing as bad as the sewers, but more like the scent of wet soil and a room that's never felt fresh air in days, if not years.

The second thing he notices: he's bound.

Against his skin and clothing are chains—clean ones, at least, so nothing he'll get tetanus from. It's wrapped around his middle and against his back, where his wrists are similarly bound by heavy handcuffs. His legs are strapped together by his folded thighs with a wide, thick belt, and his ankles are strapped with a ball and chain each.

And, as if to further emphasize how questionable the binding methods are by his captors, he's been silenced by a muzzle, also attached to a chain.

How fun.

Wriothesley struggles with sluggish limbs to sit up, uncomfortable as he is with laying on his side on the cold, damp ground. And, just like that—

He notices draconic eyes the size of his head looking down at him.

Instantly, his heart is jump-started into a beating frenzy, pounding in overtime even as he does his best to keep as still as possible. The creature before him is beautiful, this much can't be denied; even with the age-old instinct to survive filling him with the urge to run, he can't ignore the ethereal quality of those amethyst eyes, those silvery-blue scales adorning that sleek, graceful body.

Part of him wants to say something—a witty greeting, perhaps?—just to catch the dragon off guard, but the muzzle certainly isn't helping with his attempts.

Then he hears the rumble of ancient grounds, sees the rising of a majestic set of claws, and thinks, What an honor it is, at least, to die from such a magnificent beast.

Wriothesley doesn't close his eyes. He watches, subdued apprehension and all, as those claws come down upon him, and…

Snaps his chains off?

He blinks.

Then blinks again, watching as the creature snaps off his chains one by one, as if merely tearing apart pieces of paper instead of fetters as heavy as a grown man's limb (or two).

Once all of the chains have been broken off from the pillars they were attached to, the dragon speaks,

“Are you injured in any way?”

Huh?

The voice comes straight into his head, instead of echoing through the empty hall to enter his ears. It certainly answers how a dragon could speak without similar human anatomy that allows for vocalization.

With drug-addled fingers, Wriothesley gingerly reaches up to unbuckle the muzzle wrapped around his face. When the dragon makes no move to snap him into its maw, after he's set the muzzle aside, he answers, “Nothing… I can't deal with, to be honest. I'm, hah, mostly surprised that our dragon god would deign to speak to such an unworthy mortal such as myself.”

The dragon huffs. Given the size of such a creature, that small huff is enough to mess up Wriothesley's hair, even from the distance he's at.

Yeah, there's no way Wriothesley would survive had this dragon been a lot less friendly.

“There is no such thing as an unworthy mortal,” the dragon tells him. “But, that does not answer my question. Are you, or are you not, injured?”

Wriothesley smiles wryly, rubbing at his sore arms. “Is being sedated considered an injury? If so, then I'd say I'm mildly injured.”

The dragon hums. Instead of punishing him for his irreverent behavior, it—he?—closes his eyes, and gives a low rumbling growl, before leaning a large head down to—

“Um.”

Sniff at him?

“It is a strong sedative,” the dragon says after a moment of sniffling against Wriothesley’ss stomach, before pulling back to regard him properly. “I shall use my Hydro to remove it from your person, with your permission. May I?”

He shrugs. What harm could it do? “By all means, sir.”

“Neuvillette.”

“Pardon?”

“My name is Neuvillette,” the dragon clarifies. “You may call me so, instead of using such titles. What name shall I call you by?”

“Ah… Wriothesley.” He rubs at where the dragon had nuzzled against his stomach, and stifles a smile, thinking of how similar he'd been to a dog. It'd be blasphemy, wouldn't it, to compare your nation's god to a canine? Maybe he's going a little crazy from being knocked down by that pound cake. “Feel free to do as you wish with me, Neuvillette.”

“… Then, I shall begin.”

There is a glow in those amethyst eyes the moment the dragon finishes speaking, and the gradual appearance of water droplets. Instead of falling, they rise, before enveloping Wriothesley in a wet and cool embrace. He wonders idly if he'll be drowned, if the show of politeness was a farce after all, but…

“This feels nice,” he mumbles, watching as the water spreads over him like a coat, of sorts. It's so comfortable that he's tempted to close his eyes and allow exhaustion to take over his body, but he doesn't.

The water remains around his body like a protective cover for what feels like minutes, before gradually dissipating into thin air. For all that it felt like a whole load of nothing, his body feels strangely less sluggish than when he'd first woken up.

Wriothesley pushes himself to a stand, and breathes out a relief when he doesn't stumble. There's a tingle of numbness running down his legs, certainly, but it's nothing that can't be explained away by his earlier sleeping position.

He asks, “Did you make me sweat it out somehow?”

Neuvillette's large eyes fall half-lidded at his guess. “That is correct. My Hydro sped up the process, allowing your body to expel the sedative faster.”

“How convenient. Then, seeing as you've assisted me thus far… I'm assuming you don't plan to consume me as a meal?”

Draconic eyes grow wide at his words. “Pardon? I do not partake in meat.”

“Aha, I see,” Wriothesley says, nodding. He's not much of a trusting person, but his gut tells him that this dragon isn't lying. “Then, have I been offered to be your servant? I had thought I'd be killed, given how I'd been abducted.”

“You are, in fact, the first offering who has been sent here so crudely.” The dragon sits back on his haunches, looming ever-taller as he looks down at Wriothesley. “Everyone else who has been offered, I was able to safely escort to a neighboring village. Time and again, I have made it known that I require no offerings… and yet, you are here, and so callously delivered. This begs the question of why?”

“I suppose it doesn't help that the people who've abducted me are likely aware that I intend to, hm, overthrow the regime, to put it simply.”

There is no shock to the dragon's tone when Wriothesley speaks, as if it is of no consequence that a mere mortal would try to destroy something established by tradition. “And, why do you wish to do such a thing?”

“Well now, this might be just the thing that offends you. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

That silvery head tilts in seeming bemusement. “You have my word that I will not harm you, regardless of the truth you wish to share.”

What is the word of a dragon to a mere mortal, really? It’s not as if he can verify that he’s incapable of lying, not like how the Dragon of Liyue is bound by his contracts and verbal promises.

But, what other choice does Wriothesley have, other than to offer the truth?

“I wanted to put a stop to the offerings,” he says honestly. “Not because I don't believe in you, nor because I believe you are not worthy of any gifts, but because the people being offered… they're not exactly people who could survive on their own. I wouldn't have minded being offered in their stead, if the people who made the offerings had good intentions in the first place.”

“I see.”

That large tail at the dragon's back sways from side to side in a rhythmic motion, like a pendulum. Again, those draconic eyes look down at him—not as if he is prey, exactly, but like a cat curious about the new guest in his home.

“You believe the current heads are corrupt, and you wish to do away with them.”

“I want them replaced, specifically,” he clarifies. “They're useless as corpses—pardon me for the bluntness.”

Neuvillette nods. “You are pardoned.”

Wriothesley chuckles, not having expected to be pardoned at all. “Thank you, Neuvillette. I’m… hm, a little surprised you’re taking my word for it. Can you sense truths against lies?”

Neuvillette tilts his large, draconic head like a confused pup. “I suppose I can, to an extent. I am able to taste emotions through water.”

“Ah. Moisture in the air?”

Neuvillette nods, seeming pleased by the purr that rumbles through him. The sound of it sends vibrations through the entirety of Wriothesley’s body, making him stumble and laugh. Just like a large cat too, huh? 

Neuvillette tells him, “Indeed, you are correct. Is this not uncomfortable for you?”

“If it were another human being, then perhaps,” Wriothesley says. “But seeing as you’re the Dragon of Water, I think I can handle a bit of peeping into my thoughts and feelings. You won’t hold anything you taste against me, will you?”

Neuvillette blinks slowly, eyes turning half-lidded for a moment, before opening in full once more.

Wriothesley wonders if it means the same thing as when a cat trusts you.

“That will depend on you, of course.”

He tugs at the back of his shirt, still feeling a bit wondrous that he doesn’t feel at all wet, or damp. If he needed any proof of this dragon being their God, then that little show of water magic was more than enough to confirm his identity. “Oh?” he says, perhaps a bit more irreverent than he should be. “How so?”

“It would depend on if you desire me to hold it against you.”

Wriothesley stares at him for a moment.

Then, he laughs.

“Is that so?” he says, his smile wide on his lips as he considers the double entendre that this dragon had just, likely unintentionally, spoken to him. He’s ancient, and noble; the chances are down to zero that he’d intentionally meant to flirt with a mortal like him. “I’ll hold you to that, then.”

Neuvillette nods.

“Seeing as you’re so agreeable so far,” Wriothesley drawls, folding one arm over his chest while the other rests perpendicular against his chin, “I take it you wouldn’t mind if I found a way to replace the current village heads?”

“Yes, I have no qualms against this. If anything…” That draconic head lowers itself to meet him down on the ground, just close enough that Wriothesley can feel that warm breath washing over his whole body. “... I would be more than happy to provide my assistance, as I trust that you only have the best of intentions.”

Wriothesly raises a brow. “That easy? Now I’m a little suspicious.”

Those wide, majestic wings on that silvery back droop, as does the long tail curled behind Neuvillette. Wriothesley almost feels bad. “Have I said something wrong?”

“No, no, not at all. Mostly trust issues on my end, seeing as I didn’t have that smooth of a life growing up,” Wriothesley explains. “It’s a little too good to be true, that I’d get a god’s help so easily.”

“It does not feel as though you’ve earned it,” Neuvillette guesses, receiving a nod from Wriothesley in reply. “Then, I suppose you will accept my assistance if I request something in return?”

Wriothesley finds himself breathing out a relieved exhale at those words. “Payment, I can work with. What would you like for me to offer? You’ve already said you don’t eat meat, so…did you want a servant?”

Neuvillette shakes his head. “Nothing of the sort. I would merely like a companion, and you have thus far proven your worth with your wit and kind heart. Would such a request be acceptable?”

“Just companionship?”

“Companionship for eternity, if possible,” Neuvillette asks—almost shyly, by the way his head dips and his gaze flits to the side, away from Wriothesley. “But I will understand if that is too much to ask for.”

“Too much? Nonsense. If we manage to succeed in changing things for the better in the village, then I will give you all that I have to offer. Mind, body, spirit—you name it, it’s yours.”

Those amethyst eyes blink down at him.

“I swear it,” Wriothesley insists, looking up at Neuvillette with none of his earlier irreverence. This is a promise, a binding that he will gladly give himself to should his plans succeed. “With my life, and the family I had to leave behind. I’m all yours if we succeed, Neuvillette.”

There is a pregnant pause, leaving Wriothesley with his breath caught in his throat.

Then, with a low rumble in that draconic body, Neuvillette promises, “Then I shall ensure that you will have all that you desire and more, Wriothesley. This is my promise to you.”

Wriothesley breathes, and smiles. “Thank you.”

Just this once—with all the miraculousness of being wanted as a companion by a god of all beings—Wriothesley thinks it isn’t too bad, to have a little hope in something more powerful than him.

This once, he wants to believe.

“Would it not be more efficient if I were to make an appearance myself, and tell them of their wrong-doings?”

Wriothesley laughs. Not at Neuvillette, no, but at his innocent bemusement with the potential consequences of his own actions.

He’d been fed with warm soup before they began talking of possible plans, not to mention the coat he’d been provided, all so he could feel more comfortable with the cool temperature of Neuvillette’s underwater dominion. Though Wriothesley didn’t understand how Neuvillette was able to provide him soup served in a delicate porcelain bowl given his huge body, he’d just taken it as is, explaining it away as magic or some other draconic trick.

He didn’t bother to bring up the question niggling at the back of his mind, like an itch so badly wanting to be scratched, about how familiar the taste of the soup was. It was a vague thing, that familiarity, but it was notable enough that he couldn’t quite put it down to coincidence.

He’ll figure out the truth soon, he’s sure; Neuvillette did promise eternal companionship, after all.

To Neuvillette’s question, Wriothesley answers, “That might work, yes, but it could just as well be a trigger for the council to make you out to be their enemy instead of our god, Neuvillette. I’d rather you not dirty yourself with this.”

“Dirty...? I would only be doing what is proper. Your people have chosen me as your God—is it not my duty to pass judgment on what is cruel and unjust?”

“If that were truly the case, then why haven’t you taken action until I mentioned it?”

“...”

Wriothesley smiles wryly at the obvious droop to Neuvillette’s long, draconic body. He might not be a reptilian expert, but it seems some body language translates the same regardless of species. “It’s my responsibility, Neuvillette. I’ll use your help when I have to, but for now… I’ll find a way myself.”

“I see.”

“Speaking of help…”

Neuvillette’s drooping head perks up at his words. “Yes?”

“Are you capable of, hm… reducing your size? Transforming, perhaps? It feels mighty inconvenient to try for subtlety when you’re as large as you are.”

Neuvillette blinks. “That is… a reasonable inquiry,” he says. “I shall transform into my humanoid form, then.”

There’s a sudden torrent of water once he finishes speaking, building up into a giant wave that swallows Neuvillette’s draconic body whole and wraps around him like a twisting tornado.

Gradually, the mass of water reduces in size, until all that’s left is something just about Wriothesley’s height. In a blink, the water is replaced by someone pale, sharp-eared, with long, flowing hair adorned by the same blue rhinophores from his original form. He’s dressed, thankfully, which helps Wriothesley understand just where his borrowed coat had come from.

He’s a godly, ethereal beauty, and there is absolutely no doubt of his identity when Neuvillette blinks his eyes open to reveal draconic slits for pupils.

Wriothesley smiles. “Well, this certainly makes some things easier.”

Wriothesley expects nothing to have changed when he makes his return. He’s one man among the many that they’ve already done away with; what is one cog to the rest of the still-working machine?

He finds out how very wrong he is when he comes to town and finds banners everywhere with his name on it—searching for him, asking for justice, calling for blood.

He’s a hooded figure in the heart of the town, and it’s far, far too easy to blend in when there are crowds upon crowds of people yelling.

“Where is Wriothesley!”

“Enough with the silence, enough with the non-answers!”

“Justice! Justice! Justice for Wriothesley!”

Wriothesley can only laugh, baffled  by the number of torches alight both with fire and fury. He wants to believe that he had enough influence that people could remember his name, but to cry out for him like this?

“...it seems the revolution you wanted has already begun, Wriothesley.”

Neuvillette is smiling when Wriothesley looks at him.

Wriothesley, with all the relief and sweet, sweet satisfaction settling in his heart, smiles back. He says, “It seems so, doesn’t it?”

But the beginning is just that: like a fledgling in flight, it still hasn’t grasped the true weight and power of its wings. The people may scream for justice, but it will never be truly over if the man up top won’t take them seriously.

And who is Wriothesley to incite such a change in the people, without pulling through and coming forward to represent them?

So he pushes through the crowd, making sure to be careful so he doesn’t cause actual harm, and stops only when he’s already at the very front with the jeering masses yelling up at the cowardly man they call Chief.

Wriothesley lowers his hood, and has to hide a pleased little smile when a sudden hush settles over the crowd around him. This silence extends further and further along the sea of people until they slowly, gradually, come to understand that the man they’re looking for has finally appeared.

The Chief looks like he’s seen a ghost, all pale-faced and wide-eyed as he grips onto his windowsill with taut hands.

“Why don’t we settle this fair and square, Chief?” Wriothesley’s voice booms through the square, reaching both the man watching them from above, and the crowds of people behind him.

“The people are calling for your blood, but wouldn’t it be better to settle this through a duel with me? In the name of fairness, justice, and order,” he recites, a lazy smile settling on his lips as he rests a hand against his waist. “I’m the one you threw away to be sacrificed, after all.”

There is silence after his words.

Not one guard stops him. Not one citizen gasps, or mutters, or mocks his daring challenge to the man they call leader.

They only wait, watching with Wriothesley as their Chief, old man that he is, stumbles away from the window and runs. Wriothesley need only look at the guards with a nod for them to understand: that man will not stand for a duel, and there will be no justice if he is not caught along with his equally morally corrupt subordinates.

No one other than the guards move to capture the people in the office. There is an order here that Wriothesley would never have witnessed had Neuvillette not allowed his return, and so he looks to his companion, and says, “Thank you, for bringing me back.”

It’s then that the whispers make a return, many curious eyes gazing up at the tall man that stands at Wriothesley’s side. It’s no wonder; he’s an otherworldly vision, and a companion of the man who’d come back seemingly from the dead.

Neuvillette, somehow, takes no notice of the stares he receives.

He just smiles at Wriothesley. With that soft, gentle tone of his, he tells him, “It is my pleasure to witness the change you have brought to this town with your righteous heart, Wriothesley. This Dragon of Water is honored that you would give me your companionship for such a virtuous goal.”

He holds out a gloved hand then. The murmurs have gotten louder now, people gasping and yelping at each other in disbelief over what they’ve heard. He’s sure the people are wondering:

Surely, the Dragon of Water wouldn’t look so human?

There’s certainly no way that such an honorable being would come here so easily?

Wriothesley understands, really. He’d been equally shocked when this Sovereign Dragon of Water chose to grace him with the choice of companionship instead of being served as a meal on a plate, or bound to slavery.

So he reaches out, places his hand in Neuvillette’s own, and gives the draconic man a little chuckle with his smile. “I’m just as honored that you’d choose me for such a highly esteemed role, Neuvillette.”

Later, someone will have to answer the questions people will inevitably want to ask on Neuvillette’s identity. There will likely be many changes in the current government, some of which he’ll have to take responsibility for, and he’ll have to field many, many questions on just what it is that happened while he was away.

For now, though…

He gives Neuvillette’s hand a squeeze.

He’d just like to appreciate the sun and fresh air, his new lease on life, and the man at his side who chose to support him wordlessly—never overpowering Wriothesley despite his own Sovereign status, yet ever supportive with his unshakeable presence.