Chapter Text
The container was roughly the size of a young armored crab. It was a drab color, like rotten seagrass, stippled with rainbow rust and vibrant tendrils of interlocking silvers and golds that told of many decades of wear and tear in the deepest parts of the ocean. On its front hung a small padlock, no larger than many of the components that often broke free from Elynas’s cavernous bones and eventually resurfaced in the mud, but this lock was so crusted with many decades’ worth of rust that it could no longer be moved from its final resting place, extended out in a straight line, like it had spent its final years of mechanical rigor mortis suspended in still waters. It washed ashore in Merusea Village where it was promptly plucked from the suctioning mud by Iara, who did not claim to have procured it from the bottom of the shallow trenches where she often practiced fishing like some of the more discerning Melusines might have anticipated, but instead exclaimed, “A treasure! A treasure’s appeared for us!”
The container made clicking and clacking sounds as it passed between the hands of different Melusines. It wasn’t like a ticking clock or a bomb or The Duke’s handcuffs tinkering against his metal accessories as he walked, but instead resembled the sound of Mora coins jingling in a metal cash box, or the ores that Puca kept in neatly organized boxes that lined the walls of her tiny home.
The lid to the container was sunken in the middle, engraved with the stippled marks from a rock it must have knocked into especially hard on its journey into the Merusea Village cave mouth. Its edges were far too corroded to be pried up easily, and at its face, that troublesome lock refused to come loose no matter how many narrow needles and branches they attempted to slide into the keyhole.
The container eventually found its way to Mamere’s front porch, where every Melusine crowded around and watched as she turned it upward then downward, and inspected each of the colors that dotted its dented surface. Mamere, after all, tended to see things that even most Melusines could not decipher. They wondered if the “Father” she spoke of only occasionally anymore would whisper the answers to their prying questions in the back of her thoughts.
But she said simply, “It sounds like there’s something inside.”
And then, she asked, “Should we discuss this with Monsieur Neuvillette?”
This was the inevitable evolution of many conundrums that the Melusines faced, after all. A worldly and infinitely understanding man, Monsieur Neuvillette was a natural authority figure to whom they knew their plight would not only be listened to but appreciated for the curiosity that inspired it.
The container sat under Mamere’s bed for three days before Menthe visited to unload her many woes, and at the end of her heartfelt visit, it was entrusted into her care, as she excitedly considered the prospect of having a good excuse to converse with Monsieur Neuvillette. Such an idea could raise the spirits of even the most bereft Melusine, and thus, Menthe left the village in higher spirits than she’d embodied since she emerged in the surface world and began working among the humans.
The other Melusines waved her off with much hope that this mystery would soon be solved. Monsieur Neuvillette was amazing, after all. In all the time they’d known him, he’d never once failed to deliver on a promise he’d made to them, or to commit to the tasks their community decided were most necessary.
Monsieur Neuvillette had fingers, at least, and he must have understood the complicated inner workings of human locks with more desired depth than anyone in the village. He was also intelligent and patient and he knew what a rarity it was for any mystery to shake up the general monotony of the village. He’d answer their questions promptly, they knew. He might even visit them personally to commend them on their inquisitiveness and willingness to reach out and ask for help when they needed it.
This idea warmed the hearts of the Merusea Village Melusines as Menthe took the long journey back to land, her apartment, and the next day, carried the box with her throughout her shift, before beelining toward the Palais Mermonia the moment her work ended to catch Monsieur Neuvillette between court hearings.
When she arrived, she announced her presence with three light knocks on his office door. She listened with much anticipation as Monsieur Neuvillette’s gentle voice coaxed her inside. She shoved in, scuttled awkwardly with the box in her arms, then shut the door behind her and paced the long hall ahead.
At the end of it, Monsieur Neuvillette peered at her from over his desk, his tired frown growing laxer into an almost smile as he rose and called out to greet her.
“Miss Menthe,” he said softly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?”
Menthe held the box up, winded and drowsy already.
“This treasure washed up in the Merusea Village,” she said through huffs, relieved as Monsieur Neuvillette politely asked if he might take it from her and she obliged without hesitation. “They…the other Melusines…they couldn’t get it open, but…they—we—we all thought maybe you’d be able to help us.”
Reliably, Monsieur Neuvillette’s interest seemed piqued at the word “help”. He was a doting person, through and through, and he was nothing if not accommodating and supportive of the Melusines and their endeavors.
“Let me take a look at it,” he said pensively, setting it on his desk before winding around and taking his seat once more. “Please relax on the couch while I inspect it. I can fetch you a glass of water if you’d prefer refreshments as well.”
“It’s okay,” said Menthe, already feeling better as Monsieur Neuvillette’s attention spotlighted on her. “I just need to catch my breath.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” he said with equal softness. “Had I known that you were intending to carry such a heavy container here on your own, I would have met you at the entrance. My apologies for such a lack of foresight.”
She giggled, hoisting herself onto the couch and watching as the Monsieur rifled through his desk for some small tool he might be able to use to pick the lock.
“Monsieur, you’re so silly. How could you have known I was coming here?”
He didn’t respond, but his lips pressed flatter together. There was no convincing him not to feel guilty about this, even though realistically, she knew that he also understood how little a role he had in her immediate woes. But that was what she liked about him—what many of the other Melusines liked about him, too. Humans tended to behave strangely even if their hearts were in the right place. They couldn’t understand the full expanse of the Melusines’ plights. They couldn’t determine which tasks were truly difficult for a being so different from themselves, and therefore, often, their accommodations were well-meaning and good-natured but never managed to even the playing field in exactly the right way. Menthe felt seen and heard and understood when Monsieur Neuvillette looked at her and listened to her complaints. He didn’t ask why the other Melusines hadn’t been capable of picking that lock because he understood that such delicate tasks were difficult with a lack of fingers.
He was different from them, of course. She didn’t subscribe to that strange fringe theory that he was the world’s first and only male Melusine, but he was capable of transcending their differences and establishing himself as a comfortable and safe home away from home. It was difficult to enmesh herself properly in her usual homesick turmoil when this man before her tinkered so eagerly with a silly task that he had no reason to care for beyond his endless devotion to her people.
She watched passively as he continued testing the container, the colorful rust dotting the fingertips of his gloves but perhaps unnoticed by him, as she wasn’t certain that his eyes were capable of picking up all the shades contained within it. She and her sisters were never fully certain just how perceptive Monsieur Neuvillette really was. He wasn’t human, after all, that much had been apparent for many hundreds of years now, but he wasn’t a Melusine and he wasn’t an Oceanid or any other creature that felt native to Fontaine. She wondered if even he understood his biology, or if his latent skills and undiscovered abilities often came as a surprise even to himself.
His brows sat tightly together in concentration, his expression placid but subtly determined enough that Menthe knew he wouldn’t walk away from this task until he’d given her some meaningful answers.
“Hm.” He exhaled quietly. “It seems that time has done a spectacular job of sealing this container.”
“I wondered why the other Melusines didn’t break it open, but I didn’t ask…” Neuvillette’s eyes rose and watched her as she spoke. Humans would flush under these circumstances, but thankfully she lacked the blood vessel capabilities for such an embarrassing thing to take place. “B-but…when I got home, I shook it around a little. There’s something inside that sounds breakable.”
Neuvillette’s attention diverted to the container again. He traced the edges with the fingertips of both hands, tipping his head to the side and studying it as though he were seeing it for the first time.
“You can shake it too,” she said. “It goes fwip-fwip-fwip , then clack-clack-clack , and shing-shing-shing —like paper and metal and maybe even some glass or crystals.”
He lifted the container carefully, craning his head toward her and placing his ear just centimeters away from the lid. Then he jerked it once, so softly, listening closely to all the sounds of all the little things inside jostling about.
“I understand what you’re referring to,” he said soon after, setting the box on the desk once more. “Something inside might be fragile. It would be a shame to destroy it after it’s survived such an immense journey, and such a profound amount of time.”
Menthe nodded.
“Do you think you can open it?”
He allowed his eyes to fall closed, then steepled his fingers under his chin and dropped his head to rest atop them. She waited as he collected his thoughts, listening to the ticking of the clock, admiring the dutiful, intelligent grace with which Neuvillette handled even inconsequential mysteries such as this.
The other Melusines would surely be more curious about his condition today than they could ever be about the contents of the box, but Menthe didn’t mention that. Perhaps the grandest part of this mystery was its ability to grant her this opportunity, and similarly, to give her the chance to converse with their beloved Monsieur face-to-face and return to the village to report back to the adoring fans who lived there.
After all, any human probably could have opened the container just as deftly as Monsieur Neuvillette could. But any human was not so precious, and any human wouldn’t have invested this thought to figure out the best course of action, either.
“I have a meeting scheduled with the Duke of Meropide later tomorrow evening,” he said pensively. “I believe he might be more skilled at infiltrating locked containers than I am. If you would be so kind as to entrust this treasure to me for that duration, I could perhaps request his assistance in opening it.”
Menthe nodded again, emphatically this time.
“I don’t think the other Melusines would mind if you kept it. After all, we trust you! All that matters is that we find out what’s inside.”
Neuvillette nodded in return.
“I am deeply grateful for the trust you have in me. I assure you that I will do everything in my power to solve this mystery and report my findings to you as soon as possible.”
Menthe couldn’t help but smile, even in the face of Monsieur Neuvillette’s most earnest, determined frown.
He was just too cute to handle sometimes.
Her sisters would be positively tickled when she told them about this.
The container sat on Neuvillette’s desk late into the evening as he continued filing paperwork. He glanced at it frequently, feeling a curious frustration bubbling inside of him as he contemplated the consequences of failing to meet the Melusines’ expectations. Such “consequences” were, of course, primarily composed of a looming feeling that he’d be disappointed in himself if he let them down, but that possibility alone was so overbearing that he could feel the pressure mounting higher each second that ticked by on the clock and he failed to open the lid.
Once Menthe accepted his third offer for a glass of water and left shortly after, he’d taken a long moment to trace the edges of the box once more, attempting to press his fingernails against its lip, putting pressure on the bulging sides as though he could force it to explode by displacing the bloated, dead air inside. The metal groaned as he put stress on it and the rust popped in a few small places, but it seemed wholly disinterested in relenting so easily, and thus, he’d pushed it aside and promised himself that he’d consider his options as he finished the evening’s paperwork.
It loomed there just in the corner of his eye, watching him cross T’s and sign motions, watching as he took a sip of newly imported Sumeru spring water, watching as he stood and shuffled across the room to pluck a file from his shelf and thumb through it, to reference in another case that had just closed early that morning.
Impassive and wordless and ungiving, he understood the intrigue that it inspired in the Melusines when they’d first discovered it. Curiosity was not only a human emotion, of course, and perhaps it was one of the few feelings that he could understand intimately enough that he didn’t second-guess himself when he recognized it festering inside of him. Such an elusive mystery would naturally titillate the senses, and as he sat in his dimly lit office, elbows rested on the table, chin nestled atop his clasped fists, he wondered if Wriothesley would find its contents as intriguing as he and the Melusines did.
Of course, it felt silly and somewhat trite to even consider asking the Duke, who shouldered such immense responsibility already, to take even a moment out of his busy schedule to fiddle with something so mundane. However, the mortification that Neuvillette would regularly feel about making such an outlandish request was outpaced easily by his desire not to disappoint the Melusines, so even as he questioned why Wriothesley was the first person he considered to ask, he couldn’t deny that he would stoop to many lows if that meant seeing this through to the end.
Maybe he simply trusted Wriothesley enough to grant this task even the slightest amount of deference. Perhaps he also understood that trivialities such as this were a welcome reprieve from both the misery that he experienced day-to-day in the courtroom, and surely the even greater misery that Wriothesley steeped himself in at the Fortress of Meropide. Sigewinne believed that Wriothesley was capable of, what she liked to call, “occasional silliness”. Neuvillette couldn’t say for certain that he’d recognized it, had it ever happened in his presence, but he also trusted Sigewinne’s judgment, as the most impartial witness to Wriothesley’s mannerisms that he was aware of.
He wondered if said “silliness” extended to things like this. Could this task be described as “silly”? Could his curiosity about a waterlogged container’s contents fall within the purview of Wriothesley’s proclivity for said silliness?
He sat and listened to the gradual ticking of the clock, watched as the night shadows moved across his desk and the moon bathed his office in a luminescent glow that almost reminded him of peering at the sky from the deep ocean floor.
He stared at the container and thought about the crowd of Melusines that must have collected around it, of their tiny paws grasping at it and wrenching at the lid, and their little hopes crushing as realization set in that they just were not capable of unmasking the contents locked so snugly inside.
Then he thought about Wriothesley, miles beneath him in the depths of the water.
He considered that alleged silliness, the trust he had in him, the contents of their meeting tomorrow halted momentarily as he attempted to cobble together an explanation for this request, and…
Uncertainty, suddenly, as he questioned himself yet again.
The moonlight and the box were silent spectators as he sighed and massaged his fingers over his eyes, working away a growing headache that bundled there.
He’d worry about his idiocy tomorrow, he decided. For now, it was getting late, and he needed to finish his work so he could return to his living quarters and get some rest.
Considering the way Wriothesley carried himself, it would surprise most people to know that he wouldn’t prop his feet on a table and stretch back in an offered chair. He wasn’t the type of man to track his dirt onto other people’s belongings. He was courteous, and always accepted a glass of water when Neuvillette offered it, humming as though his palate could decipher any of the flavors that Neuvillette described as he was allowed a brief moment to emphasize that passion.
Today, the water was imported from a small spring in northern Dragonspine. There was a crispness to the flavor, something earthy and full-bodied about its contents that lingered on the tongue for an extended period and filled the body with a jittery sort of energy that rivaled the effects of caffeine.
“Can you recognize the difference between this and Fontaine’s usual water supply?”
Wriothesley drew his tongue between his lips, his eyes flicking back and forth momentarily as though he truly was attempting to map out a flavor profile based on whatever the limited capacity of a human tongue could provide him.
“It’s not as cold as I’d have expected.”
Neuvillette suspected that this was supposed to be a joke. He was unsure, however, so he neither laughed nor explained that Dragonspine’s waters would naturally become warmer during exportation.
“That’s disappointing,” he said instead, settling back in his seat with a sigh building in his lungs that he knew it would be rude to exhale. “It seems that most people will never be capable of appreciating the different flavor profiles of water.”
Wriothesley breathed a laugh, swirling the remaining water in the bottom of his glass like it was some precious wine—something a human would appreciate, Neuvillette knew.
“You’ve had those fancy water-tasting parties before, right? Do the people there tell you that they get what you’re talking about when you explain these flavor profiles to them?”
Neuvillette pondered that, drawing in a slow breath as he recalled the rare occasion in which he’d willingly hosted any such get-together.
“Some have,” he confessed, extending a hand and ghosting his fingers over the narrow neck of his glass. “I’m not fully convinced that they weren’t simply hoping to appease me, however.”
Wriothesley breathed another laugh.
“Sycophancy, you mean.”
Neuvillette squared him with a look.
“That is a less charitable way to describe it, I suppose.”
“Well,” said Wriothesley, side-stepping the more awkward places that this conversation would inevitably go. “These documents are all pretty cut and dry. You should look over them before you sign, which I know you will, but our production increased by 12% since last quarter. We’ll be able to import a larger capacity of the new Meks you ordered once we’ve secured reliable transport.”
Neuvillette hummed, watching as Wriothesley procured the necessary documents from a briefcase he’d arrived with. He took them with a small “thank you” as Wriothesley passed them over, studying the paragraphs dotted on the front briefly before setting them down on the desk in front of him.
For a while, they chatted about business only, until, after many minutes had passed, Wriothesley paused, took a sip of his drink, and asked, “Forgive my prying, but…what’s the deal with that rusty old box on your desk? Evidence for a case, or…?”
Neuvillette’s eyes slid toward the container. He stared at it briefly, surprised, for whatever reason, by its presence between them. He hadn’t forgotten about it, of course, but he’d spent so long considering the best moment to broach the subject that it almost startled him when Wriothesley drew the conversation there first.
“It was delivered to me by a Melusine, Menthe.”
“I’ve heard of her,” said Wriothesley, tipping his head sideways and looking at the container with evident curiosity. “She visits the Fortress sometimes to vent to Sigewinne—guess she’s not too fond of life on land. Can’t say I blame her.”
Neuvillette did not confirm that he, too, could relate to her woes. Instead, he sat straighter in his seat, carefully setting Wriothesley’s documents to the side and replacing them with the container, just in front of him on the desk.
“This container washed ashore within Merusea Village. The Melusines attempted to open it, but much time in the water has eroded it to such an extent that it may well be impossible to open. Regrettably, I failed to open it as well, but I thought…”
He didn’t know what he thought. Even after he’d given himself so much time to mull it over, he’d failed to gather any conclusive reasoning as to why he believed that Wriothesley would be any more capable of opening the box than he was.
“You needed help?” Wriothesley asked, perking up in a way that made little sense to Neuvillette, but was appreciated by him all the same. “I could give it a look. I’m pretty good at lockpicking, actually. Just…coincidentally. For no reason.”
Neuvillette’s brows furrowed. Wriothesley cracked a smile as he extended his hands in a silent request for the container.
Neuvillette passed it without argument, watching Wriothesley’s slowly changing expression as he turned the box over gingerly in his hands.
“Ah,” he breathed, setting it in his lap and tugging at the lid a few times to no avail. “It’s practically rusted shut. I’ve got some tools at the Fortress that could probably cut it open without damaging whatever’s inside.”
“You’d be willing to do that?”
Wriothesley lifted his gaze, their eyes meeting momentarily before, for nebulous reasons, they both quickly looked away. Wriothesley cleared his throat.
“If you’ll come have a cup of tea with me. I just got a new brand from Inazuma—made from Sakura blooms. Haven’t even steeped a single cup yet.”
Neuvillette didn’t exactly understand his affinity for tea, but he supposed that Wriothesley didn’t understand his affinity for water, either. And Neuvillette didn’t understand how imposing such a burden on Wriothesley could be worth something so trivial in exchange. That confusion swirled inside of him. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Wriothesley to say only what he meant, but…were things supposed to be that easy? Why, he questioned mentally, did Wriothesley always make things so easy?
He sighed nonetheless, nodding solemnly as his emotions fluttered inside of him and he felt helpless, yet again, to assign any of them a proper name.
“I accept your proposal,” he said softly, unsure, but just as gently apathetic as he knew that he often came across. “And I extend my sincerest gratitude. This will mean a lot to the Melusines.”
Wriothesley breathed a final laugh.
“Of course, it’s no problem,” he said, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck, his ears a dark enough red that Neuvillette wondered if the warmth of his office was too much, compared to the biting cold of the underground. “I’d do anything to make the Melusines happy.”
The Fortress of Meropide was somehow simultaneously frigid and humid at all times. Neuvillette was often surprised not to find small icicles suspended from the cracks in the pipes, or to find exiles huddling in each dark corner, desperate to preserve whatever warmth they could find in each other.
He wasn’t completely averse to the cold and had, at times, enjoyed the occasional snowfall and how that blanket of white emphasized the ornate beauty of the sprawling cityscape that was his home above land, but he didn’t understand why Wriothesley refused to tuck his arms into the sleeves of his coat or why it seemed like he was unaffected by the damp chill that crawled up every gap in Neuvillette’s clothing. He couldn’t fathom how anyone could prefer the frozen hell of this underground prison to the often far more pleasant atmosphere of the world above ground that had the privilege of seeing the sun.
Beyond that, the whispers were distracting.
“Wow, did you see that? Is that really Monsieur Neuvillette?”
“The Iudex is here?”
“Yikes, if the Judge is here with His Grace, something serious must be going down at the Fortress of Meropide…”
Neuvillette tended to be somewhat asocial during his time off regardless of where he spent those hours away from work, but he specifically avoided making too many trips to the Fortress of Meropide for this exact reason. He couldn’t say that the energy he felt emanating from the exiles could be aptly defined as “vindictive” or even “hateful”, but he didn’t believe that Wriothesley deserved more on his plate than he’d already been given, and he certainly shouldn’t have seemed so eager to invite this unnecessary mass hysteria and widespread speculation that ricocheted around the Fortress at Neuvillette’s presence.
When they stepped through the doors to Wriothesley’s office, Neuvillette asked, “Is this endeavor really worth the strain it will inevitably put on you when the inmates begin speculating about my arrival?”
Wriothesley paused and studied him over his shoulder, seemingly confused for only a moment before a small smile perked the edges of his mouth.
“A little excitement is good for them. People don’t mind your presence as much as you think they do.”
Neuvillette didn’t respond. It didn’t seem like Wriothesley expected him to anyway. They continued up the stairs toward Wriothesley’s office. Neuvillette was deposited on the couch on the far wall as Wriothesley set the container on his desk and meandered toward the shelf where Neuvillette knew he’d stored that new box of tea. Deceptively, the exposed parts of the shelf housed documents and many dusty books, but within the hidden cabinets, Wriothesley had revealed to him a collection of tea so impressive that he probably could have opened a successful cafe out of his office.
Neuvillette watched as he carried out the steps to prepare both of them a cup.
Wriothesley was an anomaly among humans: a broad-shouldered, battle-weary person who carried many deep scars so prominently on his skin. His eyes were sharp and clever, craggy-edged like unbuffed diamonds that might slice one’s fingers if they weren’t careful when engaging with him. His fists were rough, calloused things, with thick fingers that shouldn’t have lifted the tea container as delicately as he was somehow able to. He didn’t look the part of a man who was intelligent or refined, someone who knew all the technical names of the tea strains he so loved, who could regurgitate just about any amount of information Neuvillette could think to impart on him, but somehow…
This was the person he was anyway.
This was also perhaps why Neuvillette found himself so often enamored with watching Wriothesley as he worked. He wasn’t only interesting when he fretted over the paperwork that exhausted him or lectured the criminals he kept here, but also as he admired the steeping tea with a gentleness in his expression that Neuvillette had seen so many more times than he could recall anymore. He was intriguing as a specimen that Neuvillette could pin down in his thoughts like a bisected insect. He was, however, also intriguing in many more ways that were harder to define, harder to rationalize as a simple curiosity that an inhuman creature like Neuvillette might have for an entire world that persistently felt confusing and foreign to him.
Wriothesley’s dense muscles moved under his sleeves as he reached about and fetched whatever ingredients or tools were required to make this allegedly perfect cup of tea. His eyes reflected the soft, golden light of his office, and Neuvillette watched him the way a birdwatcher might gaze at an umbrellafinch, with interest and admiration and the smallest hint of something clawing and warm clenching in the recesses of his chest.
Wriothesley stepped back and set his hands on his hips, lifting his chin to the ceiling and letting out a soft, “ Ah .”
He looked pleased with himself which led Neuvillette to believe that he was nearly done. His hands deviated to the small of his back, where he pressed them firmly before arching and earning himself a few audible pops. A sugary floral scent accented the saltiness of Meropide’s damp air. Neuvillette sat with his hands in his lap as he considered the shape that Wriothesley’s body might have been bent in, if he could see his full figure underneath his coat.
It was regrettable that Wriothesley hadn’t thought to shrug it off before he started making the tea, but then Neuvillette asked himself why it was regretful, and he had no good answer to such a question. He sucked in a frustrated breath, tearing his eyes from the slight peeks of Wriothesley’s thighs that he caught beneath the hem of his coat, and focused instead on his wringing hands atop his knees.
“So about this container,” said Wriothesley, cutting through the tension tactfully, even though he had no reason to know that there was tension here in the first place. “What’re you going to do if its contents turn out to be some illegal contraband?”
Neuvillette pondered that momentarily. Wriothesley waited, but turned to eye him shortly, patient but curious, but also smiling ever-so-slightly in a way that led Neuvillette to believe that this was another joke.
He never knew how to respond to jokes, beyond simply speaking as frankly as he would otherwise. It often felt like a trap that he couldn’t avoid even if he could see the sharp teeth poking out between the blades of grass. He wasn’t capable of being funny. He never knew what to say. So he could ignore the joke and respond with seriousness and that would only emphasize what a joyless bore he was outside of the courtroom, or he could fumble his way through responding in some pathetic semblance of jest, and Wriothesley would surely have no idea what he was talking about.
“I’ll launch an investigation into its origins,” he responded flatly, turning his head to peer past Wriothesley to the slow-growing steam of an electric kettle on the ledge of his shelf. If such a thing was unsafe—having that much heat so close to all the flammable teabags and precious files—he trusted Wriothesley to know better than he did.
“And if it’s nothing interesting?”
The silence extended between them. Then Neuvillette exhaled, sliding one leg up to tuck over the other before lacing his fingers atop them.
“I don’t believe the Melusines care quite as much about the contents of the container as they’re simply fascinated by the presence of a mystery in their village in the first place.”
“Ah,” said Wriothesley, the slightest hint of laughter in that sound. “And what about you? Would a mundane ending feel sufficient after all the effort you’ve made to get to the bottom of things?”
The tea kettle began to whistle. Wriothesley stepped forward again and cut the heat, lifting the kettle away and setting it on a coaster that he’d placed to the side earlier. He added two sugars to one mug but left the other untouched. Neuvillette watched as steam rose from both, the floral, sugary smell growing strong enough that it overpowered the usual indecipherable damp smell that prevailed so often in Wriothesley’s office.
“I don’t tend to think about such matters in terms of whether I am satisfied or not with their conclusions. Often, the minutiae of my career demands impartiality to such a degree that personal feelings become irrelevant. If you’re wondering whether I’ll feel that my time has been wasted if the contents of that container fail to meet my expectations…no. Frankly, I don’t expect much from this container, as much as I simply anticipate that the Melusines will be pleased with whatever findings I deliver to them. I do apologize if I have misled you into believing that this container was more than a frivolous distraction.”
Wriothesley looped the index fingers of both hands around the handles of each cup, carrying both carefully across the room and setting them gently on the table before shuffling into the empty seat next to Neuvillette. He left a respectful cushion between them, but even still, Neuvillette resisted the very inappropriate urge to scoot just a little further away. Even this was much closer than he’d allowed himself to be to a human in quite a long time. Even this, he thought, feeling minutely pathetic, was a little too close for his heart to handle.
“So you’re easy to please,” said Wriothesley, tugging the coaster that held his cup a few centimeters closer to him before pausing to blow the steam from the surface. “Or that’s what you want all of us to think, at least.”
“I’m sorry,” said Neuvillette, not quite able to meet his eyes, no matter how crinkled with teasing mirth they were. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re insinuating.”
Wriothesley fell back against the couch, extending his arms wide on either side of the backrest, the fingers of one hand coming close enough to Neuvillette that they could have tugged at his hair if Wriothesley wanted them to.
“You can ask for things, is what I’m getting at. You can desire something that you think is going to make you happy. You want to do something nice for the Melusines, correct? It’ll make you feel good about yourself if you can get this container open and report back to them with your findings?”
Neuvillette’s eyes deviated toward the stairwell briefly. His heart fluttered even though he had no idea where this sudden nervousness came from, or why his ears felt warm, even in the clammy cold of Wriothesley’s underwater office.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be incorrect to phrase it in such a way.”
Wriothesley spat a laugh.
“Our brave and impartial judge, who fears no criminal, no difficult trial, nothing that could make the average man quake in his boots, but being an imposition…”
Neuvillette’s brows furrowed, the slightest frustration fluttering inside of him. He leaned forward to grasp the handle of his teacup, convincing himself that the welcome distraction of the Sakura Blossom tea would surely abate how suddenly, inexplicably disgruntled he felt.
“I don’t think your perception of me is entirely accurate,” he said, as flatly as he could manage. “I am perfectly capable of being selfish under the appropriate circumstances.”
Wriothesley mirrored his actions, plucking his tea from the table and lifting the cup to his lips.
“See, that’s the thing about selfish people: they don’t wait to be selfish until it’s appropriate . That’s how you can tell the fakers from the honest-to-God egocentrics.”
Neuvillette exhaled again, heavily enough this time that the surface of his tea rippled like ocean waters in a storm. Oh, how he desired to plunge himself into the depths of the water now if only to abate the sudden burning heat that seemed to boil underneath his skin. How he wished he could squeeze through one of the many cracks in the Fortress of Meropide’s walls and wrap himself in the endless, dense waters like a comfortable blanket that could protect him from embarrassment, or ridicule, or whatever this abnormal feeling was that Wriothesley tended to elicit in him.
“I do apologize for the inconvenience I’ve caused you. I am more than happy to take my leave if undertaking such a task no longer interests you—”
“Oh, come on, come on,” Wriothesley waved his free hand in the air. “I’m just teasing you. It’s not an inconvenience. If anything, you know I’d love for you to come down here more often.”
This welcomed another short pause. Neuvillette felt warmer, and even Wriothesley’s ears turned darker red before he took a hurried sip of his tea and blurted, “—because Sigewinne worries about you so much. She’d complain less about you overworking yourself if you took the time to visit more often.”
For a moment, that quiet seemed capable of overtaking them, but then Neuvillette took his first sip of tea, accepted the reality that it didn’t taste all that bad, actually, and nodded, drawing his tongue between his lips to catch a sweetness there that he hadn’t noticed earlier in the air.
“Naturally,” he said softly. “I regret how infrequently I’m able to find time away from my duties to alleviate her anxieties. However…I do trust that you’ve taken good care of her.”
“Naturally,” echoed Wriothesley, his voice strained, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the strength to force it out. “Although most days, it feels more like she’s the one taking care of me.”
That sounded right, Neuvillette thought. The Melusines were marvelous creatures, capable of compassion and selflessness that many years ago, Neuvillette would have thought impossible in humanity. Now…he wasn’t so sure. He’d crossed paths with too many selfless people to convince himself anymore that Teyvat had been usurped by a wholly undeserving species.
The man before him was no exception. He had no good reason to volunteer his services for the task ahead. He had no stake in whether the Melusines in Merusea Village ever got closure to their mystery or not. Neuvillette wasn’t sure what he aimed to gain from any of this, but appreciation filled him warmly, settling in the pit of his chest in an uncomfortably giddy sort of way. He was far too unfamiliar with this feeling to know what to do with it.
Instead of expressing clumsy emotions that he barely understood, he said, “You were right. This tea is delicious.”
A broad, handsome smile cracked across Wriothesley’s features.
“You think so, yeah? Better be the best damn tea you’ve ever had, because it costs about as much as all those fancy diamond companies say you’ve gotta save up for your engagement rings.”
Neuvillette wasn’t familiar enough with the diamond industry to understand the kind of Mora Wriothesley had spent on this tea, but it did leave him wondering why Wriothesley had been so insistent on sharing a cup with him—wasting it on someone who he knew could barely appreciate things like this instead of saving it for a more cultured friend or colleague.
Humans were perplexing even on the best of days.
And Wriothesley, he decided, continued to be the most perplexing of them all.
Sigewinne joined them in the production area after they finished their tea.
She said, “Monsieur Neuvillette! You…you smell like…flowers?”
Wriothesley laughed at that, positioning the container on a metal slab that attached to some grand mechanism that Neuvillette didn’t know the function of. Two “arms” extended along the edges of the slab that Wriothesley turned a knob to tighten until they clasped either side of the container. Above, there was a sharp-tipped circular blade, something that Neuvillette supposed must have been used to cut the sharper edges of metal before they were buffed out and fastened to each Mek. He’d never claimed to fathom the full process of Wriothesley’s work, but sitting here and witnessing him man this machine filled him with myriad emotions that were each more confusing than the last.
“The Duke was kind enough to share some Inazuman tea with me,” Neuvillette said softly, giving Wriothesley whatever space was necessary to open the container without issue. Sigewinne studied him for a moment before her smile grew again. She nodded, turning her eyes to Wriothesley’s back and watching the way he fiddled with the settings on the machine.
“The Sakura Blossom tea, right?”
Neuvillette nodded. Sigewinne’s grin grew so wide that she bit her lip to stop it from becoming untameable.
In a lower tone, she said, “He’s been talking about that tea nonstop since he ordered it. ‘I’m going to get Mister Neuvillette to drink a cup if it’s the last thing I do!’ I know many people think he’s terrifying, but he’s actually pretty cute when he gets like that. You should have heard him fantasizing about what you’d sa—”
“Sigewinne, if you have time to tell your wild fairy tales, you should come over here and grab that wrench out of my toolbox for me.”
She stood a little straighter, her smile not so much scared as it looked sly—like she knew she’d been caught red-handed, but she didn’t care much whether Wriothesley was aware that she was gossiping about him or not.
Neuvillette didn’t know what to make of it. Every part of him yearned to convince himself that Sigewinne was practicing humor as well, but she wasn’t often the type. None of the Melusines had ever been particularly fond of the human practice of comedy, and she must have known that he, of all people, would not completely understand it if she wasn’t being serious with him.
But if she wasn’t fibbing for the sake of a laugh, then…why?
Why would any part of that story be true? Why would Wriothesley care whether he personally tasted a new batch of tea, when so many other people would be far more capable of good conversation and even better company?
He felt warm again, which was alarming, given the even colder temperature in the production area, now, after hours.
Sigewinne fetched the wrench and handed it to Wriothesley. She didn’t comment on the fact that he didn’t use it, but simply set it down and continued working.
“This is the box that Menthe gave you, right?”
She turned her eyes back to Neuvillette. He nodded again.
“The lid has become so corroded that it’s impossible to open without the assistance of machinery. Wriothesley was kind enough to volunteer his services.”
“I bartered them,” Wriothesley corrected, his voice strained as he extended himself at an odd angle to finagle some random part into place. “The tea for my services. Don’t forget that.”
“Of course,” said Neuvillette. He didn’t understand why that mattered.
“Well,” Sigewinne piped up, leaning down and angling her head to look directly at Wriothesley, “Looks like you achieved what you set out to do.”
Wriothesley turned and looked at her, but Neuvillette couldn’t make out his expression from where he stood. Sigewinne smiled in that sly way again, before standing taller on the tips of her toes and looking quizzically at the container.
“I wonder what’s inside?”
“That’s what we’ll find out shortly,” said Wriothesley, grasping the edge of the slab and hoisting himself back to his feet. “Take a step back, Sigewinne.”
She nodded, hopping back to stand next to Neuvillette.
Shortly after, the machine grumbled to life, sputtering momentarily as the knobs and cogs turned and an orange glow emanated from a grate inside. Wriothesley tugged at a lever that lowered the circular razor, his shoulders straight and his posture careful, smart, like these actions came so naturally to him, even many years after he must have used a machine like this the last time.
Sparks flew from the edges of the container as the razor connected. They flew off and died on the metallic floor, embers only belatedly gasping for air that burned holes in the muck caked between the steel tiles.
The process only took a minute, at most, before Wriothesley deactivated the machine and slowly lifted the razor again, before releasing the container from the clamps and removing the shredded lid from the container.
Sigewinne stepped forward, grasping Neuvillette by the hand and tugging him along.
They flanked either side of Wriothesley—close enough that Neuvillette could smell the floral scent on him, too, that he could feel his warmth and the dense swell of his muscular arm. He felt too close and too nervous, suddenly lacking any good reason to put distance between them when he was supposed to care about the contents of that container more than his sudden, inexplicable fretfulness at the concept of accidentally brushing his arm against Wriothesley’s.
He forced his thoughts onto the task at hand instead, squashing the heat that rose, again, under his skin.
Inside, the contents were surprisingly well intact. There was a leather-bound journal that occupied the largest amount of space in the middle, a jeweled necklace fitted with a beautiful emerald-colored stone and strung with pearls. There was a faded map, too, with ink drawn in thin lines across the geography, folded up so he couldn’t make out more than the eastern edge of Elynas and the pale blue gaps between the islands that dotted the surface of Fontaine. Other odds and ends accounted for the strange noises that the Melusines described hearing when they’d shaken the container: a ring of keys, a small, folded telescope, a palm-sized teddy bear in a thick, houndstooth print suit jacket, with fur so matted and faded with age that it looked like it had been chemically dehydrated. Framed by all of this was a note, yellowed and crinkled at the edges. Tentatively, Sigewinne reached forward and plucked it out, unfolding it as though it was an autumn leaf that would crumble in her fingers if she didn’t handle it carefully enough.
She read off the date at the top. It reflected a day nearly thirty years ago. Wriothesley’s brow twitched as she said the words aloud, but he offered no response beyond that.
“To my beautiful child, Alexandre,” echoed Sigewinne, squinting to decipher the ornate cursive that Neuvillette could see bleeding through the other side of the paper, “I do not wish for you to grow old believing that you were born into this universe without love. Love, you must understand, is all we have to shield us from the grave injustices of this terrible world. There was a time when I believed that love would be enough—that I could love you enough, that this would save us, somehow. But I understand now that the world is an abominable monster, and that its appetite cannot be satiated by love, itself, alone.”
Sigewinne paused to mouth that mouthful. Neuvillette grew weary with the flowery prose as well, but Wriothesley continued staring at Sigewinne—past her and the letter in her hands—with that unreadable expression, his knuckles white where he continued to grasp the steel slab ahead.
Sigewinne cleared her throat.
“Someday you’ll grow old enough to understand why I’ve done what I’ve done, and why I could not be here to see you grow up into the wonderful man I know that someday you will be. And when that day comes, I have arranged for this package to be delivered to you, wherever you may be by then. And I hope when that day comes, you can forgive your mother and her weak love. And your father, who left us long before I put pen to paper. That life has been kinder to you than it has been to us, and that you’ve blossomed into the loveliest flower—because through this pain, you deserve a brighter future.
My beautiful, perfect son, you deserve all the happiness that I could never provide.
The birds will guide you to the answers that I was never strong enough to give you.
With much love,
Mom.”
They stood in silence for a long moment. Sigewinne scanned the letter again, before turning a troubled gaze not to Neuvillette, for guidance, but strangely, to Wriothesley, whose hands slipped from the slab and hung loosely at his sides. His brows were drawn low in thought, his eyes sharper than Neuvillette had seen them in many years. Then he stood straighter, exhaled hard, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Well, looks like you’ve gotten the answer to your mystery,” he said simply, his words barbed with unexpected thorns. “What will you do now?”
Neuvillette looked from him to Sigewinne, then to the box in front of them. Sigewinne looked like she wanted to say something, but she bit her lip instead.
“It seems that this letter has a rightful owner,” said Neuvillette, “and the rest of these belongings…it isn’t right to allow them to stay lost for much longer.”
Wriothesley breathed a laugh, but it lacked the usual harmlessness that Neuvillette often associated with him.
“I thought you’d say that,” he said, pivoting on his feet and putting many steps between them, turning so promptly that while Neuvillette would have wanted nothing more than to have seen his expression, than to understand why his chest pinched so painfully at the sight of him now, he couldn’t make out his face in time. “Well, good luck with your treasure hunt. Please let me know if you’d like to borrow my tools for anything else in the future.”
With that, he made his way toward the elevator. Neuvillette felt so hopelessly confused that he couldn’t even muster the strength to thank him for his hard work.
Sigewinne waited until Wriothesley was completely out of sight to sigh. She folded the letter again, standing on the tips of her toes to exchange it for the journal. Neuvillette looked at her curiously, wishing desperately that he had the nerve to ask her what was going on, but lacking any substantial backbone for this sort of thing that would allow him to be so forward.
She read him anyway, easily. Sigewinne had always been good about understanding others’ emotions. It made her a wonderful nurse.
“These dates…” She flipped through the journal, seemingly citing each string of numbers jotted at the top of each entry. “It’s…a long shot, but…I don’t know.”
Neuvillette cleared his throat quietly, extending a hand as though he might pluck the letter from the box, but losing his nerve at the last second. He allowed his hand to fall to his side again.
“If I may be so intrusive…Sigewinne, what do you understand about this situation? What vexes you about it?”
Her eyes lifted to meet his. They were big and slightly glassy, tinged with worry and sadness that were each far easier to recognize than anything Wriothesley had expressed just moments ago.
“It’s just…” She shook her head, closing the journal and clutching it close to her chest. “These dates all line up with the time that Wriothesley said he arrived at his foster home. These…all of these entries would have been written just months—if not days—before that. So…there’s a chance…”
She let that thought taper off. Neuvillette finally understood her thought process anyway.
“He could be disinterested in this for personal reasons.”
Sigewinne hummed in agreement.
“I think…” She paused again, tugging at the box before Neuvillette shifted it from the slab and placed it more comfortably in her arms. “Um…I think we should give him some space for now, but…can I keep this? Then…maybe you’ll come back in a few days? I’d like to give you a physical. It’s been a while, and I can tell you’ve been overworking yourself again.”
Despite the obvious cover, she still looked at him with a motherly sternness that made him feel like he really might be grounded if he said no. So he smiled at her, despite his uneasiness, and nodded once more.
“Of course,” he said. “I should be able to arrange my schedule for that. If you’d be so kind as to inform the other Melusines of our findings, if you might see them before I do…”
“I’ll do that,” said Sigewinne cheerfully. “Blaithine said she’d visit tomorrow, so I’ll ask her to let the others know.”
He thanked her, turning his gaze toward the elevator that Wriothesley disappeared through. The guards who stood at either side seemed unfazed by everything they’d seen. To them, Wriothesley’s subtle change in behavior must not have been noticeable enough to raise alarm.
That left Neuvillette with the discomforting realization that he was better at reading Wriothesley than most people, but even so…he didn’t understand what any of this must have felt like.
He couldn’t grasp what such a possibility would mean to Wriothesley, after having lived so much of his life with the solemn resignation that he might never uncover the mysteries surrounding his birth.
Neuvillette knew what it felt like to have such questions, but he’d always suspected that someday, if he bode his time patiently enough, the tapestry of his long-retired past would unravel itself and the murky details would become as clear as the most immaculate fresh spring.
He wouldn’t be in the dark forever, but Wriothesley’s lineage was muddier, his family tree obscured by unknowns so unfathomable that he might live the rest of his life not knowing where he came from and why his parents had decided to leave him on the front steps of total strangers.
He didn’t know if learning the truth would hurt more than forever asking why.
He didn’t know if the storm that brewed in Wriothesley now resembled the unrest that he’d felt for many hundreds of years, since he first arrived, confused, on this bewildering planet.
He couldn’t imagine what Wriothesley must have been feeling right now, and it bothered him to leave without doing anything to remedy it.