#neuvillettexreader

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter one

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, clorinde ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.0k

 ‘EVIDENCE REPORT | POISSON: 43 DEAD, 5 INJURED.’

To savour tea is to indulge. As your lips leave the cold porcelain teacup in hand, you wave your advisor away, leaving you subject to yourself and your thoughts alone. In the quiet aftermath, you willingly embrace the thoughts that fester alone—an intricate tapestry of reflections, good or bad. The shaky sigh that leaves your lips is a limbo between exhaustion and, as much as you despise it, the unwelcome embrace of fear. Your calm, yet frantic eyes skim over the report countless times before noting the words in bold:

NOT TO BE DISCLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. 

Brows knitted, you question the odd desperation at keeping this case classified. But more thought brings you to the conclusion that this is somewhat justifiable; from the moment you stepped into Fontaine, you learned that to rub a Fontainian the wrong way was to critique their favourite opera—or rather, denounce their perception of it.

With another sip of your tea, your hands hover above the prompt for your signature glaring at you on the final page. You don't fail to notice that you aren’t the sole bearer of this matter but instead, share the weight of it with your co-worker, the Iudex himself. You can't help but scoff. It undoubtedly comes as a surprise for you; this isn’t something within his area of expertise. He can certainly provide his input on it, sure, but any measures taken in terms of Fontaine’s state of affairs are your call. Whatever it is, you are already hot on your heels, the thud of your boots muffled by the awfully grandeur carpet that graces the marble floors of Palais Mermonia. Though not entirely focused on the world around you, you certainly are not unaware of the whispers and hushes that arise in your wake. You pay it no mind. Someone of your calibre is sure to be a topic of conversation; it is undeniable that it flatters you, despite how annoying it may be on the ears.

You rap the door to the Iudex’s office once—then twice—to no avail. Feeling a light tap at your hip, you look down to find a recognisable face staring up at you with curious eyes.

“Why, if it isn’t Sedene!” you tease. If the melusine notices the slight quiver in your voice, she doesn’t question it. At the met silence, you let out an airy chuckle. “Is something the matter?”

At your voice, Sedene's expression relaxes. “If you’re looking for your Iudex, I’m afraid he’s in the Opera Epiclese tending to another matter,” You can’t help but feel your smile unwillingly falter upon knowing of his absence. He is your partner in arms for this case, and if others see to it that he is needed, then it is in your duty to oblige, no matter how nauseating the idea of it is.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Bringing the report up to your face, you try to compose yourself and shield your expression from the melusine’s line of sight.

This effort would prove to be futile in the moments that follow.

Sedene reaches up to drag the report from blocking her field of view. You know she despises the idea of being too short and having others take advantage of it, but you are mindful of the emotions crossing your face. With your bubbling rage at the Chief Justice’s involvement, you find that it takes a little longer to press your lips into a fine line and convince yourself that you have to either suck it up or take matters into your hands (by this point, you are extremely unsure which option you'd delight yourself to).

A soft paw-like hand begins to slyly wrap around your wrist. In an instant, your arm becomes captive to the ceaseless tugs of Sedene, who is jumping up and down in elation at her newfound revelation. “Oh! Oh! Sigewinne told me that expressions where smiles are replaced with frowns are signs of disappointment or sadness, or possibly both! So, this must mean that you are deeply disturbed by the idea of Monsieur Neuvillette being far, far away from you!”

The curiosity of Melusines never fails to amaze you.

You bring a hand to her mouth to prevent her from babbling any further. “Oh... hahaha… Aren't you a silly one! My dear Sedene, I’m afraid you've misinterpreted the means of my change of expression! I’m just concerned that his absence might delay the progress we shall very surely make in this situation—though, I certainly cannot disclose it because this is very, very, classified business.”

Noting the puzzled look she gives in response, you pat her head, albeit robotically, and fan yourself with the loose fabric of your blouse for composure’s sake. No one can see the head of Fontaine’s civil affairs under such humiliating circumstances. Confusion swirls when the unwanted heat begins to bloom from your neck up. What is up with you? You hastily bring your cold palms to the apples of your cheeks in a desperate attempt to quell the embarrassment that betrays your professional front. An incandescent blue shines brightly on the fabric of your coat, but that is purely your cryo vision working its magic. Ah, the wonders of Celestia are both a blessing and a curse indeed. 

Gingerly, you reach for the report secured under your arm. Your eyes ghost over his name unwillingly, and your nails have begun to dig into the lace of your glove; why does every decision end in his verdict? Do people not understand that his verdicts work only in the Opera Epiclese and yours—more just and logical—work in every other predicament that slips through the cracks?

Deciding to indulge in the idea of having time to yourself, you stride to your office with wavering confidence and slam the door behind you, back pressed against the wooden frame. Closing your eyes for a brief moment, the familiar patter of rainfall cascading down the stained glass windows of your office brings you a sense of comfort because at least there is something—or rather someone, out there who shares the weight of your burdens.

How you itch to search for whoever it is.

Snapping yourself out of your stupor, you force yourself to return to work; there are urgent matters to attend to. Thoroughly giving the report a once-over, you call in a subordinate.

Whether it is the weather or your own gloomy mood, the sluggish pace of whoever is to arrive at your door has you incensed beyond measure. When the foolish boy finally decides to show up, a headache begins to fester like a miasma from your right eye to your left temple. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you decide to keep the conversation short and concise.

“I expect emergency personnel to be stationed in Poisson by the end of today.”

The subordinate, whom you've come to learn is named Iaune, fiddles with his uniform. “But Madame, we lack approval from the Iudex—”

You bring a hand to your desk. “This is an order from me as your superior. The Iudex has proved his lateness in acting on this matter, and so I will be taking it from here.” At your glare directed towards Iaune, he nods profusely and scurries away, slamming the door a little too loudly, sending your migraine into full swing.

You aren't a supernatural being, and with the blurring of shapes and fatigue, accompanied by lidded eyes, it calls for a power nap. Slumping against the plush pillows of a leather couch that sits to the right of your office, you bring your hands to your abdomen and greet rest with open arms.

It is long past midnight when you come to.

Oh, no, no, no.

In a panic, you sit up to find a velvet coat slipping off your shoulders and onto your lap. You fight against the blur of your eyesight to study the fabric. The blazer is a brilliant Oxford blue, its lapels a blur between turquoise and cerulean lined with plates of gold. You feel at the fabric in curiosity; if not for your sleep-induced daze, you would notice that this very blazer belonged to Monsieur Neuvillette himself. Instead, you fold it over the back of a chair. With the paperwork in hand, you set yourself to his office.

One good thing to take away from this is how the migraine that had plagued you for the last half hour you were awake has now softened to a dull throb. You scan the palais for any sign of Segene, and… nothing. The same goes for everyone else really — your steps echo hollowly, and the stirs of gossip dwindle in the truancy of common folk. There is only one thing that brings you comfort and unease concurrently: the likely presence of the Chief Justice behind this door.

A gentle knock is what it takes to garner a muffled 'come in,' from the Chief Justice. Pushing the door open with your free hand, you are greeted with a grandiose office and the man you dread sitting at his desk.

You decide to skip the formalities and cut straight to the chase. "Monsieur, I am afraid that the prophecy is beginning to manifest itself in every corner of Fontaine. For this case, the spotlight lands on Poisson," you say, with a monotonous baritone that betrays nothing.

His ivory eyes widen a fraction, and he brings his fist to his mouth to stifle a cough. "So what I heard word of on the streets wasn't just paranoid drabble…" You can't help but feel your lower lid twitch.

"Well, word had it that you were too busy tending to business in the Opera Epiclese to officially hear it from the professional herself."

A gentle smile plays on his lips. "Very well then. Enlighten me." His gaze is imploring, almost expecting. With a sigh, you lay the report in front of him. You entertain yourself with an extra addition to your resume: experience in coddling the Iudex of Fontaine.

"Is there any reason as to why you lack any paperwork regarding this matter, monsieur?"

"I’d assume it was because of my preoccupation that they sought for you in my stead." With a deft movement of his wrist, two cups materialise as if conjured, a gentle azure glow tracing from his fingertips to the base of the cups. "Care for a drink?"

Crossing your arms, you can't help but order him around a little. "I’d prefer a seat, thank you very much."

He nods his head in complicity. "Oh dear me, my dearest apologies," and with a slight bow of his free hand, you find a chair at the very base of your ankles.

Easing into the seat—or should you say couch—is the easiest thing you've done today. Goodness, when was the last time you had a good night's rest? "Go ahead, you're free to read the report," you declare, the wave of your hand prodding him further. Fancying yourself a drink, you furtively take the cup of water he'd left on the edge of his desk.

To cure yourself of your boredom, you take to observing his mannerisms. A slight grimace, a squint of an eye—the look of surprise when he skims over the last page. Without preamble, he reaches for his quill, and you can't help but descry the way the ink dances across the page.

Once he hands the paperwork to you, you bow your head and turn on your heel to take your leave. The strained silence that hangs is broken with a chuckle from the Iudex. “I’d just like to inform you of your eligibility for trial at the Opera Epiclese.”

You hope he doesn’t catch the hiccup in your step. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Chief Justice.” Back still facing him.

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but deploying personnel to Poisson without due consideration and an unsigned contract jeopardises not only the trust vested in our organisation by the public but also compromises the confidentiality integral to this matter.”

You couldn't help but feel your lips tug into a smirk. “I put full trust in your intelligence to excuse your greatest asset from the scrutiny of your judgement. What I did is justifiable and is justified, Monsieur Neuvillette ,” His name leaves your lips like the slice of skin against a blade.

“Oh? And by the word of whom, exactly?”

“Have you forgotten? I, too, have held your position alongside my name in your absence. I represented the word of the law, I wrote the books, and I am just. I am my own judge. Could you say the same for yourself, oh dear Chief Justice of Fontaine?”

____

IS THE END REALLY NIGH? WILL THE ARCHON ACT?

Clutching a newspaper in hand, diving into the inked sea of critiques and snark, you surf the waves of public disdain for the Hydro Archon herself. Albeit insensitive, the fiery opinions ignite the page, and you can't help but catch the raging tide of anger swelling through the populace. Welcome to the storm of public sentiment.

Despite the exaggerated theatrics of Fontainians, you developed a sense of indifference, your reactions reduced to a mere scoff. The overblown antics fail to provoke any genuine response, leaving you detached from the flamboyant displays of folly that had once captivated your attention.

Clorinde’s abrupt snaps bring you back from your reverie, and only then did you notice the newspaper in your hands, crumpled from your unwittingly tight grip during your trance.

“Earth to you? Now’s not the time to loiter around,” says the raven haired woman standing with arms crossed, a playful glint in her eyes contrasting the familiar tone of the champion duelist you’d grown a soft spot for.

You swat her away with the newspaper as one would a fly and laugh. “As the Head of Civil Affairs, I, too, deserve a break from all the buzz.” Stealing a sympathetic glance at the tabloid in hand, you sigh in defeat at the fact that you never truly can escape the ‘buzz’.

“God, how often have you been burning the midnight oil? I presume my boss hasn’t been too harsh, surely?” Clorinde implores; you had grown to notice that she’d pop a question whenever conversation grew dire — adeptly quenching her curiosity while addressing the pressing matter at hand, a skillful act of killing two birds with one stone.

Letting her in on such affairs wouldn’t hurt a soul, it seemed. And so you decide to amuse her a little. “If you mean ‘harsh’ as in pampering me, then yes.”

At the duelist’s raised brow, you stop abruptly. “I — uh, my, have I said something wrong?”

“No, not at all. Go on,” she waves a hand, prodding you further.

“Alright then. Where do I start — he’s an odd one, that man. His demeanour is different in both office and in court, as expected of someone of such prowess — and of course, he is expected to act by status quo. But over these past few days, I’d been greeted with nothing but candour from him — almost as if he’s… compensating for something,” You make a calculated decision to skirt over details as to why this might be. Sure, you have your speculations, but no conclusion you came to was concrete.

Clorinde makes a face. 

“This is the second time you’ve given me that look. Tell me what’s wrong or I’ll tickle you.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him going so far as to pamper someone as you say he has to you, let alone seen it with my own eyes.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re rarely at the palais,” you deadpan.

She considers this with a thoughtful silence. “Perhaps, for once, you are correct.”

“I’m wounded that you underestimate me so greatly, Champion Duelist of Fontaine,” you feigned a damsel in distress, eyes shut in faux consternation.

The town clock strikes twelve, its ring echoing throughout the city, and the sun seems to show brighter.

Gently patting Clorinde’s shoulder, a nervous expression plays on your face. “Nevermind that! As much as I absolutely adore the cool breeze of the autumn air, I’m afraid there are to be more problems than there are solutions if this” — you gently wave the now rolled scroll of paper in your hand — “isn’t settled.”

“Didn’t expect you to grow so accustomed to your new job, young woman,” A smile seldom seen manages to creep up and tug on the fine lines of Clorinde’s lips. 

Merely shrugging, you return her smile. “What can I say, it is me we’re talking about, I pretty much am the adapter of all — consider me an otter in all its glory.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I’ll have you know that I am greeted with a soft mattress and plush pillows.”

Turning on your heel, you are met with a feathery wall of sorts. With horror, it dawns on you that this was undoubtedly not the type of ‘pillow’ you had in mind; this was no wall, this was someone’s chest.

This elicits a snort from the duelist.

There you are, standing merely centimetres away from the Iudex of Fontaine. Oh my God. You felt a growing flush rise up to your cheeks. Call it public humiliation, call it pride — but you simply cannot stand the image of your flustered self plastered on the tabloids all around the city. It had happened once, and you were certain it would be the last. The blame falls on Charlotte, of course, always nosing in on everyone’s business.

Almost in shock, you take a slow step back — in which the tap of your heel against cement echoes your humiliation, and you can’t help but grimace.

Through gritted teeth, you can only muster a pitiful: ‘Pleasure meeting you here, Monsieur…’ Despite the shakiness in your voice, it is hidden by the authoritative cadence you’d grown accustomed to during your time as the head of civil affairs. If it isn’t for your lowered gaze, you would notice the smile that ghosts over his face. But instead, in a frantic effort to maintain composure, you put on a brave face and take everything at face value, saving the impending embarrassment for later.

For a brief second you wondered how easier things would be if everything went in your favour.

“Good afternoon to you both,” The usual baritone of his voice sounds awfully frail. How odd. Another odd thing was how underdressed he appeared to be — his customary coat he wears in court nowhere to be found on his person. Both of you decide not to question it.

The two of you return the pleasantry with a stunned greeting.

She then offers the roll of paper to the Iudex. “I suggest you take a read. It won’t be long before everyone begins to question the acts of our archon.”

“I will take this into consideration. All actions in order to quell this matter are strictly confidential, Madame Clorinde, so I’m afraid I cannot disclose our methods with you at this moment.” At the word ‘our’, he gives you a side glance, perhaps in mocking, or perhaps in courtesy out of the goodness of his heart. At the thought of the latter, you drop the idea entirely, and entertain yourself with the more likely option — to which you can’t help but scowl.

“I shall take my leave, Chief Justice. Send my regards to Lady Furina for me, won’t you? I haven’t seen that walking chatterbox in a while,” She then levels her gaze to yours and winks. “See you in a bit, chenapan .” 

“Ta-ta,” Rolling your eyes, you dismiss her with a curt gesture. You can’t help but feel your heart slightly drop; it is inevitable that you will miss her — and as much as you hate it, there is a gnawing inkling that you won’t be seeing her for a while. No one warned you of how being the head of such a department would come with such responsibilities. Yet, the prospect of covering for the Iudex was even more burdensome.

The Iudex’s eyes follow her every move, and when she is finally out of his line of sight, he turns to you. “Which reminds me… I have arranged a meeting with Lady Furina, where you, the Présidence du Conseil d'État, are cordially invited.” 

Your brows knit. "And what's my role here? You have more sway with her than I do," Would it be blasphemous to say your opinion on your archon was a mixed bag? Sure, she was the archon of the land of your birth, but to say she brought you any semblance of reverence was a fruitless attempt at grasping at straws. The archon's influence over Fontaine remained an enigma, a puzzle you couldn't quite decipher. Unable to pinpoint why her dominance over Fontaine seemed a façade, you had kept the opinion to yourself and bit your tongue instead.

“Madame, I mean not to offend. You are not only my esteemed partner in arms but also possess a wealth of experience in this field that far surpasses my own. It is only appropriate that you take the lead as the principal force in this case,” Neuvillette interjects, his words attempting to bridge the gap of doubt. At your indifference, his jaw hands a little ajar, contemplating more ways on how to convince you with his flowery prose. 

“I beg for you to stop being so stubborn — this is all for the betterment of Fontaine. Please, let's find common ground and work together for the city's sake,” How flowery indeed.

You feel for the lace hem of your skirt and squeeze hard — you cannot lash out in public. “Me? Stubborn? I am promoted to being the Présidence du Conseil d'État, and suddenly all the world’s burdens fall upon my shoulders! Where is Lady Furina? What exactly has that woman done for the people?” What have you done? Your voice renders itself to a whisper in fear that Celestia above might hear your words of blasphemy. Challenge me, then. I dare you. 

Spite for the Iudex had been growing since his absence on the very day that news of Poisson had broken out. Maybe it was the comment he had made that night, or the way he had acted as if nothing happened, or how instead of an apology, he had opted to pampering you as if you were his plaything. The morning of, you had noticed that it was indeed Monsieur Neuvillette’s coat that had been draped over your shoulders, but you couldn’t bring yourself to push your pride aside and acquiesce into returning it. 

The sun’s rays seem to dim at your brewing anger, followed by the familiar patter of drizzle. Instinctively, you reach for your parasol, only for you to find that you had left it in your apartment. “Oh how lucky I am! The one time I leave my umbrella at home is when it starts raining!”

Neuvillette shifts in demeanour; he takes on a more softened look, hardened eyes now a confusion of regret and sympathy. “My… apologies. This inconvenience has caused you much distress.” Gloved hands reach for his own parasol, and you observe his every action with scrutiny. One can only imagine the look on your face when he opens his parasol, shielding you from the rain that has grown more fervent.

You push the hand holding the parasol away. “I am in no need of your pity, monsieur.” And when the reassuring shade leaves you, the rain seems to cascade with an indescribable ardour — to which you pay no mind; you don’t want the public to misconstrue your relationship with the Iudex.

“...And postpone the meeting for tomorrow. I have… matters to attend to.” Picking up your pace, you leave Neuvillette standing alone, a solitary figure in the midst of the sombre downpour.

a/n : dude I srsly dk how to navigate Tumblr but pls leave your thoughts on this and whether you wanna b tagged when I post my next chapter! im more active on my ao3 but ill probably start using Tumblr more often now!!

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter thirteen

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, furina ⌗ warnings : BLOOD. lots of it. inflicted trauma (both mentally and physically I fear...) ⌗ word count: 5.8K

Neuvillette watches you disappear around the bend to your residence, your stride as unmoving as ever. Were it within his power, he would’ve accompanied you to your very doorstep for no more of the lurking dangers that had come to bite your blind spot: a robber, perhaps, or perhaps your door had rendered itself faulty. Yet, in truth, despite his pitiful ignorance in denying that it was merely an excuse, every fibre of his being itched with the desire to see you — even if it meant for only a second longer.

Lady Furina once teased that without you in his presence, he resembled a lost, weeping dog without its master; and at the time, such a bold claim seemed borderline preposterous when made against The Most Impartial Man to Grace Teyvat. Yet, now, with no one but you running circles in his lawyering mind, he thinks Furina wasn’t so wrong.

What had you done that had the conservative faction onto your every bone? He dwelled upon the thought amidst the expected strain of your silence in the coach; and when you left, his chest swelled inexplicably of something he could scarcely articulate — something that evoked fear and a second thing; something the fine workings of his brain and the candid nature of his tongue are much too afraid to admit. Because he had spent the greater part of this year saying that he loved, and loved, and loved you — yet always with a measure of restraint. 

Because no person in the world can fathom, let alone bear, the burden of calling the woman who hates them their lover — and yet, there Neuvillette is, with his heart laid bare on his sleeve, yet hopelessly unable to lift the cloth off it — because God forbid he breaks his word; and the Iudex never breaks his word. Not unless it’s for you.

 Cut to his blood. Let it spill. And only then will they see how every cell of his body spells your name, into every corner, every crevice the reddish wine of life wishes to touch.

He never questioned why you hated him so much. Many people despise him, wish to have him burnt at the stake. But he had come to accept this bitter truth long — but that was before; before he caught the glint in your eye whenever you smiled — however fake or real. And that was when his heart caved in on itself, to make room for one extra person, despite how difficult you were, and still are.

A pit settles in his stomach, and he cannot help but wonder if whatever it is that is ailing him derives itself from himself, or from you — because if it were from you ��

“Uhm, Monsieur? Where to?” The coachman has his elbow resting against his own headrest by the sheer effort of him attempting to grab Neuvillette’s attention — and that he does — just, with a little bit of difficulty involved. 

Neuvillette’s blinks, slightly shaking his head to stir him back to reality. 

If anything was to take his mind off things, it would be work. So, with a resolute sigh, he gathers himself and straightens his tie along with his posture.

“Ah, right. The Palais Mermonia, please.” He says this with a sort of modest dip of the head, possibly in shame, but more likely because he almost feels as if caught, subpoenaed into telling the world what he had just thought about.

He settles back against the cushioned seat, the moonlight making the blue accents of both cloth and body only fade into a natural monochrome. As the coach rumbles along, he thinks of you.

Archons save you, because whatever it is, you aren’t making a safe trip to your doorstep. 

You try to disregard the echo of the footsteps mirroring your own— but from what happened earlier today, you can’t say you aren’t at least a little on your toes. A brief scrape of the wheels of the coach against the tarmac makes its final note within your vicinity before fading into the void of silence, and you mutter a prayer, however severed your belief is with the Heavens above, for someone to come save you.

Trepidation rumbles through your veins like the bass of a drum, and it rings through your already pounding head, making you a puppet to fear’s instrument. A mild shake to your head only presses the incorporeal needle deeper into your head. In an attempt to divert the discomfort, you rub your temples profusely. But, your efforts are relayed out to you in vain as you falter in your steps.

You hear a split second delay of the mimicker; and this time the step resounds a metre closer than a minute ago. Panic drives you through the streets. Reaching for the dagger up the garter wrapped around your torso, the polished sheen of the blade gleaming in the light. You hold it aloft, meeting the tight knit of your eyes in its reflection, every feature bending into every curve of the metal; but you also catch the ominous smirk of a hooded man from behind you.

Your blood runs cold. The sole of your heels rest in discomfort against the merciless cold of cement below your feet. You come to an unideal outcome: this is a do or die situation, and dignity be damned if you don’t at least leave with claw marks. You inhale sharply, the stinging tang of the winter air cool against the violent heat of your skin. 

“If you’re here just ‘cause you were sent by Monsieur Moreau, I’d suggest you return to your quarters,” you start, steeling your heels into the cement of Fontainian soil. “and tell him to kill me himself.”

A rustle of cloth ripples through the wall of dull citylife, and you almost instinctively make a turn to confirm your statement — but you realise with horror that this isn’t some assassin sent by your father. 

The man ruptures into hysterical, maniacal laughter. “You won’t have to do all that work, Birdie.” 

His mania only ticks at your stuttered stride. You stumble to make up for the blunder, working your pace (your beauty sleep is forgotten, and you’ve long gone walked past your apartment complex). “After twenty-five years, this is how you ask for forgiveness?”

“I am not here to ask for forgiveness. I’m here to take you out myself.” 

You whirl, making a move to slash at the arm blanketed by the veil of black he wears. “Couldn’t do that the first time?”

He groans, clutching at his forearm before feeling at the warmth of the liquid between his fingers. The heart encased behind your ribs threatens to break, and your fear only spikes when that look you’ve grown to know washes over his dead, dry eyes. “Still afraid to hurt me, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I’m far from afraid.”

He reaches for his own blade, and though you had gone years without seeing him, you cannot help but feel a pitiful tug of hurt in your chest. The chill of steel grazes that very spot, and you instinctively wrap your fingers around it to give yourself space between yourself and your possible cause of murder. “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

You respond with you slicing his side, and he hisses — the sound of it honey to your ears. A trance washes over you in your indulgence of watching the man who terrorised you suffer, and as he stumbles backwards, the blade leaves with it. 

A grunt of effort sounds from him and he reaches to slice your neck. A slight tilt of the head mitigates the blow to your right cheek, blooming in a clean line of crimson. In your haze, you are blinded with bloodlust, mindlessly throwing blows before your wrist is caught in his stronger, firmer hold — and this is where your dread festers.

Your mind flashes in a frenzy of this specific scenario, where your father throws you on the ground and places a prop sword to your abdomen — but the weapon curled around his hand is not a prop sword, and you aren’t five anymore.

The only lifeline you had slips from your hold, clinking against the floor. There’s no time, and there’s certainly no room to dwell on your weapon; because you are about to get stabbed, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

Rebellious hands meet malicious ones, and you are doing everything in your power to pry the blade away from meeting your stomach. 

And this is where you make your mistake.

Your diversion from left to right gives your father the perfect leeway to slam down with no force upwards — and you only realise this when your grip loosens and metal digs into your skin. 

A guttural scream escapes from the very depths of your throat. When you feel the meticulous handiwork of dissolved thread rip from either side, a panicked sob threatens to leave your lips before a hand slams onto your mouth, muffling your every sound. 

I keep getting distracted, you think, the wound Clorinde inflicted on you spilling open in memories and sputtering crimson.

Perfectly slicing the scar he dealt you in your teen years, you’re certain he’s out for more than just blood. He’s out to annihilate you — to silence you; for what can be uttered by a corpse?

It isn’t a lethal spot to stab, but, in some way — it is. Why would he stab through the crevice of your right rib, the one that your mother sacrificed in all the superiority of man? Some part of you hoped with a childlike wonder, that your relationship as father and daughter would bring him to relent, to feel remorse for murdering your mother. 

But you realise he had done the same to you as he had done to her. He was just as cruel, and just as unfeeling.

Your mind flickers to Neuvillette, your accusation of his lack of emotion a droplet of water in the ocean compared to this absolute villain of a man standing over you, 

Your eyes meet your father’s, and you feel like a rabid dog: helpless, violent, and a loser all the same. 

Despite it all, he smiles, the corners of his lips dripping with malice and apathy, the look you’d come to face in all your worst dreams. “You really are like your mother. Weak, a pushover, unable to stop when the possibility presents itself.”

Your eye twitches, and you wrench his hand away from his hold on your face. Blood spills from your busted lips, and it sputters at your attempts to speak. You let out a desperate grunt of effort, finally getting out what you think might be your final words. “S—sounds a lot like you’re talking about yourself.”

He flinches at your words, the leer once etched onto his face a faulty circuit. “How dare you,” he snarls, tightening his grip on the blade. Blame it on your delirium, but it is almost as it wrings the blood on the steel, causing it to seep further into the fabric of your blouse (despite how desperately the cloth of your shirt clings to your skin, it seems to drink in the pour of blood as if parched). “You ungrateful, stubborn girl — you know nothing of power.”

Bravado. One would view your father to be a composed, successful man; but you are his daughter, no matter how much it pains you to admit it — and so you can see the cracks (bravado) in his facade just as easily as you can put up yours. One would see a broken man. You just see evil brimming in flames through the cracks of his skin.

“I know… I know enough,” you manage, voice barely clawing above a whisper. “And I know power just as much as you know selfishness.”

He winces, pulling the blade back as if to strike once more, but for once, you are quicker. With a surge of adrenaline, you ball your left hand to reduce the strain on your right, and relish in the momentary satisfaction the crack of bone brings as your fist meets his chin.

Your father staggers back as if drunk, and you squint at the notice of him diverting the direction of his heels, almost admitting defeat, admitting his plan of escape. Foolish; he had never changed his ways — mostly because you never told him that his cowardice always stayed with him. Because he always left.

Your blade is but a few steps away from you, and so you wriggle your arm with a sort of hastiness you never thought you had. It almost seems to increase in distance the more you reach for it, the sheen of the curved dagger dulling in tandem with your effort. With your eyelids shut in an attempt to regain some semblance of strength, your fingers finally brush against metal, and you grasp it with a disregard for your grip around the sharp edge. 

You look up, and panic. Managing another blow to his ankle, a shard of ice manifests from your hand. Aimed at his Achilles heel, you shut your left eye. The shard veers off course, slicing just shy of its mark. Shit. His scream of agony resounds like an orchestra in your ears.

Taking advantage of his disorientation, you clutch at the wound, chewing on your lip to muffle the screams that threaten to burst uncontrollably from the very depths of your throat. Pain ripples through every ounce of your being, but you force yourself to stand, weighing on your left heel. 

The chill of more unforgiving ice shoots from the tips of your fingers, wrapping snuggly around the ankles of the man who shoots you an indiscernible stare. Sometimes I forget I can do that, you think, loitering around the cool glow of blue around your waist. He’s backed against a wall, legs frozen into the ground, and there’s no where he can run to.

“You underestimate me, Father,” you grit, bringing your blade to his neck, the anxious pounding of his heart made obvious by a tense vein acting as a metronome of his unadmitted fear. “I am not my mother. And I certainly am not you.I’ve worked my way up the ranks fair and square.” 

The unbothered facade doesn’t hold up as well as you’d like, and a quiver leaves your lips. 

His glare reflects back into your own, and instead of a witty remark, he only scoffs. “Fair and square? Watch your mouth,” he tuts, shaking his head in disbelief. “Madame Lavigne. Willingly giving up the House of Moreau for nobodies like the Lavignes. And the Neuvillette name!”

“At least my mother died a death of honour,” you mumble, seething with blinding rage, that, under the blanket of irrationality, tells you her death was not of honour. It was of humiliation. 

To be cursed wealth and to raise a child birthed out of wedlock — that is a legacy of no worth. 

To claw at the decadent marble floors stained by a person in which carries himself with the arrogance of man, the sinful coin of those left bloodied under the heel of his boots, is degrading in its whole entirety.

A cruel, spiteful quirk of his lip morphs the wrinkles of his skin into a wicked mocking of his age, and he shivers with rage. “And you think you will?”

The blade at his neck falters, and so does your will. Blood trickles down your face, and even more down your legs, burgundy reveries tracing their course down to the very pads of your heel. “If that’s the question you choose to ask, I don’t think you know me at all.” 

He tips his head back (as if he could go any further, given the distance between his skull and the wall), letting the blood drip in the absence of a dagger. “I think I do.” “P — prove it.” Your vision falters for a sudden, lurching moment, and you find yourself digging your feet deeper into the grooves of the city tarmac. 

“Kill me then,” he commands, the authority of conman and a father blurred in the dim light of night. 

“You’re making me prove I know you well enough,” Your voice lilts. “That is not what I asked.”

He persists, voice now a constant demand echoing amongst the other phantoms of the same voice, except this time, his tangible voice. “Stupid girl. Kill me.”

You should know that your father is the last person to do what you ask — but can you blame yourself? That’s all you’ve ever wished for. All you’ve ever prayed for.

(but could you call it a prayer? another, more foolish version of you sounds. it says: a prayer is whatever you say on your knees.)

With all the strength you have left, you press deeper into his skin, until you feel it give way with a pool of blood. Another push, and he’d be dead. Perhaps you’d be, too. Killing him won’t stop your own bleeding.

The teeth that anchor your tortured gasps give way to an unbidden dam of tears, each sob a betrayal of your own will. It flows — the pain — in salty rivulets, ebbing in silent streams down your bloodied cheeks. Why do you show sadness in the face of a man that just so happened to be the cause behind your own assassination? To this, you have no answer.

His expression sours into that of a grimace. “You’re weak,” is what he chokes out, gulping for air to spit out more words you think will haunt you for all the days you are blessed (cursed) to live.

“You disappoint me.”

It’s childish — how you awaited the next words with the manner of your old habit: rehearsing his lines in your head. You always find that they’re not quite what you expected.

And in that moment, your realisation comes in grim, gnawing waves. The two of you have come to an agreement; and for this you are somewhat bitterly grateful.

You would never kill your father.

This does not mean you aren’t entitled to feel rage. Rage for what he had just done to you. Rage for what he did. 

Archons, you’re struggling to stand because he just drove a blade through your stomach.

And so you give him one last warning by wrenching the dagger out of your abdomen and mirroring the action to his kidney.

His scream is no longer an indulgence, but an overdose. Your mouth parts to shoot another jab, but you find you have nothing else to say. This does not stop you from searching his eyes for an answer, and within their depths, you find everything you need.

Your knees threaten to buckle, but you make yourself a promise not to show yourself weaker than you already are. Sliding with the tips of your toes, your mind springs to make a choice. You aren’t bothered enough to turn and have your father watch you return to your house. Clorinde lives too far off the city walls.

There is only one person you can think of. And with a thawing, yet stiff heart, you pick the kindest of the three evils.

It is safe to conclude that the Iudex of Fontaine has found himself mired in more distress than revelation on Lucien Moreau.

Moreau’s reputation in society is nothing short of a good, upstanding citizen — a man shooting his way up the ranks through very legitimate means. According to accounts, his dealings in business are only transacted through honest income — his wealth easily to link — traced back from esteemed family fortunes and heirlooms. The house of Moreau has always been in favour of the public.

Every document on Moreau’s particulars state the same thing: businessman; trader on occasion; wealthy by inheritance. Businessman, trader on occasion, wealthy by inheritance. All sixteen syllables of those words recur in an agonising mantra as he pores further into the records — because how can Neuvillette ever hope to protect you if there’s nothing incriminating on him?

He’s simply a man who specialises in exports.

The Iudex’s frustration can only mount as his fingers rake in a dance through his already mussed hair. Searching relentlessly for inconsistencies, he finds nothing but a man poised to perfection. But Neuvillette, the Ordainer of Justice, should know full well that no man is perfect. Not even him.

From trade logs to financial statements, connections, he finds his search fruitless. 

So Neuvillette comes to a conclusion: he is not to achieve anything driven in such a state of lassitude. He draws in a sharp breath, slips the documents into a file, places it to the top of the stack of cases, and leaves.

He adjusts his hair at the foot of the office door, and realises that he is the only source of sound in the whole of the Palais. The tips of his ears suggest a sharper edge to his hearing, and though it’s somewhat true, he wonders if this is where his age comes to attack his senses. A little birdie would suggest the eerie quiet of the night is a much more unsettling endeavour than one of crickets. Although Neuvillette is not one for superstition, he still takes this thought into consideration as he tugs his glove further up his sleeve, briefly recalling your anthology of fallacy perched on one of your shelves.

A creak sounds from one of the hinges, and his eyes draw into slits, as if to hear better. How awfully peculiar, he thinks; his hands aren’t anywhere near the knob.

Another creak comes to manifest in the door’s screws, and another, and another, until it gives way under the weak weight of whatever’s on the other end. He fully expects a bull to come barreling through, but he sees… you?

What a sight. You’ve come to crawl to sit against the doorframe for support, clutching tightly around the small of your waist. The blazer you’d worn earlier today is nowhere to be found, leaving you in nothing but a soaked dress shirt clinging onto every morsel of your skin — and pants, of course. Bloodied and bruised, your lips twitch into a dazed smile. 

“Hey.”

“Mon — [Name], who did this to you?” His first instinct is to pull you up and bring you to the couch, but judging from your state, it would be far more agonising than if you were to just lay where you are. 

With the back of your palm, you wipe the crimson staining the corners of your mouth. “What does it matter? I would still bleed if you knew.” 

Neuvillette squats down to level his gaze to yours, before his attention dips to the blood seeping from a gash from your side. Against his accord, he winces. 

A breathless chuckle escapes through the gaps in your teeth. “That bad?”

“No, no, not at all. Let me help you,” he says, watching the way your head tips, almost submitting to the loss of blood. In a frenzy, he reaches out to cup your face, tapping your cheek to stir your eyes open. “Whatever you do, do not close your eyes, not now.”

Your forehead crinkles in distaste, but you force yourself awake anyway. He reaches underneath you, touch feathering lightly around your figure. “No — I’ll — I’ll stain your robes,” you deny, muttering helplessly, clenching your fingers around his arm. 

Does she not recall I’ve had another robe made after I gifted her my own? he frowns, a pinch amused at the thought.

“Then let it stain my robes,” he assures, throat bobbing in boyish anticipation. Your head struggles under the effort of you nodding, and so he wastes no time in scooping you up, the warmth of your beading blood soaking through his clothes.

(He thinks he’s just been cleansed with the ichor of a goddess, but surely the impartial Judge Neuvillette mustn't say such things, lest the Archons realise where his heart truly lies. Blasphemy! he thinks they shout.)

Your lids threaten to fall under the weight of exasperation, and so, with a light poke to your temple, you are disturbed by Neuvillette’s act of keeping you awake. The groan that grows to morph into a whimper brings the Iudex to stutter in his tracks; what should he do? Should he cool you down?

He comes to a drawing conclusion that it would be best to set you down on the leather couch before choosing his next course of action. With all softness, he cups the back of your head, slowly laying you down. His soaked hands abandon their hold on you, and given your lapse in judgement, you shudder at the loss of warmth. 

Neuvillette pretends to not notice it.

He turns his back to you, rummaging through his drawer, his hands coming away with a cluster of gauze. Multiple things slip from his shaking grip, and it takes an idiot to realise why: he is panicking, afraid (and for the first time in his life, a solid verdict cannot dictate how to heal his injured wife).Reaching for more, the cadence of an angel commands him to stop.

“Neuv… Neuvillette,” you sigh, eyes clenched tight in light of your bleeding. If he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve turned as fast as the words leaving your lips. 

Orpheus had fallen victim to it with Eurydice, and Neuvillette had once doubted his integrity. In all renditions, Orpheus turns because her silence has driven him mad; he turns because he thinks they have triumphed; he turns on instinct at the sound of her stumble.

For if all it would’ve taken was for him to resist that backward glance, why did he falter? 

But now he knows why. And he hates that he does.

“I know, [Name]. It will be alright.” 

You let out another noise, and this time it’s an agonising scream that tears the very bases of your diaphragm. 

You certainly are no Eurydice, and he certainly isn’t Orpheus. 

And regardless, he turns.

He rushes, but he feels that his pace is sluggish, comically slow. Your hand is in his before you can even blink, but nothing beats the feeling of your father's blade embedded in you like some sort of morbid heirloom. This is one battle scar you wish not to put on display.

Neuvillette makes space for himself on the couch, his focus trailing down the streams of blood that begin to crack as they dry. He resorts to another solution, but for whatever reason, he thinks you wouldn’t be partial to it.

“I can meld this wound shut, but I must ask you to steel yourself of the pain. Do you believe you could endure it?” He searches your pained, constricted look for a response, and believes he finds one.

With desperate eyes, you nod. However hard you try to avoid his look, it still bores into you, almost relentlessly.

“Just — hold onto me should the pain become too much to bear.” He still has a layer of cloth to get through, and he fears you wouldn’t like it. So he asks. “May I — ahem — undo your…”

“Archons, just do whatever you have to do.” Noted. Extreme cases of duress do not appear to shut your brattish tongue.

He works gently at the buttons of your dress shirt, prying the cloth apart to reveal an absolutely gnarly sight of grime. Looking past the blooming bruise around the perimeter, he places one hand around the curve of your waist to steady his other hand, which glows, almost neon in the light.

Pinching the fingers of his right hand together, he mimics the thread of a stitch through your skin; and as he diverts his eyes, he still sees you, brimming with something more than hurt. Lady Furina once corrected him — said that hurt was not anguish. 

Anguish. What a strange word for such a strange feeling.

He strains his hand that hovers over your abdomen, and you bite into your palm to muffle your cries. Neuvillette’s eyes flit to you just in time to catch your act of fruitless respite — and without his usual calculations, he offers his hand, beginning to trip over his own words as if he’s never spoken before.

“Uhm. Here, you can squeeze here.” 

If things were any different, he would’ve smiled the moment you registered the lack of sophistication in his diction (well, he thinks you do; but that’s enough for him). However, things are the same, and instead, he’s drowning in the tenderness of your agony. A playfulness buried under the need for survival.

To his surprise, you reach for his wrist — causing him to almost lose his focus, and it’s already showing! The blue glow emanating from his right dims immediately ever so slightly at the little distraction: you.

Just before the skin’s fully stretched taut and the wound is melded closed, you let another grunt of pain. 

“Did I do something?” Neuvillette asks, a little too frantic — even to his liking.

You squeeze harder on his wrist. “I think my fa— assailant poisoned the blade.”

“Do not worry. I may not be Sigewinne, but I know how to work my way around poison.”

Your chest rises in a short-lived sweetness of a laugh before you shrink back again, grimacing in pain. “I sure would hope you do.”

“Alright, I hereby suspend any further laughing for the foreseeable future,” he chastises, albeit a little playfully. He does not recognise the twist in his chest that begins unravelling at the sight of you loosened up under some sort of anaesthetic of induced delirium.

You are sound asleep, and as far as he knows, this is the most peaceful he has seen you; other than when you were passed out in your office. Similar circumstances, different couch. You sure do love your couches.

He hadn’t moved one bit, subjecting himself to a most unpleasant position on the leather seat. Given the limited legroom, he’d considered bringing you to one of the guest rooms, but he didn’t intend on disturbing your slumber, either.

Given the way you’re frozen stiff, he assumes you haven’t had rest like this in weeks. He takes meticulous steps in cleaning the blood from your cheek, and even more scrupulous effort at the tear of your lip, curved in a perpetual frown. He worries if he hurts you, even in slumber.

God, even leaving his office to search for antiseptic ailed him to the point where he constantly looked to see if you were fine. He worried to wake you even when the cotton pads reached to clean the blood underneath your fingernails, the dried tears that never fell from the cliff of your eyebags.

He lets the wads of cotton pile in the corner of the couch, scooting closer to get a clearer view of your face. Even dirtied, your skin glows like porcelain in the dim light — and he doesn’t even realise what he’s doing until you shift your sleep.

Neuvillette, Chief Justice of Fontaine, does not know the truth of power ballads and poems. He does not know how to reenact what mortals love to speak of. Somehow, he manages to find all his answers in you.

He just doesn’t know if you find the answers in him.

Rain stirs from the outside, pattering violent drums against the windows, before eventually reaching into the confines of Neuvillette’s heart and ripping them open. To the naked eye, he is just tending to a wound. To the trained eye, he hopes they see a man tending to a wound.

Leaning closer to wipe the fresh blood that begins to bloom once again, he moves to the slope of your nose, then to your brow, and further, and further upwards. His lips threaten to meet the temple of your face, exigent, brimming with want. Neuvillette has never learnt how to want.

Before he can draw any closer, your eyes flutter open, and he frantically acts as though he’s in the midst of cleaning your face (he briefly argues that kissing is an act of sanitisation, though he knows full well he’s conning himself).

Your glassy gaze peeks through your lashes, meeting Neuvillette’s stare in a solemn greeting. 

What does one say to someone who has awoken in the early hours, just shy of midnight? Good morning? Good night? Whatever the dilemma is, it washes away at the sound of your voice breaking the wall of silence. “It’s okay. Go on, do what you were going to do.”

“I was merely tending to your injuries.”

“You know what I mean.”

Is there anything in the Fontainian Legal Codex that states anything of a divorce prompted by terrible romantic advancements? Because if there isn’t, he might be the sole inspiration for a new addition to a five-century-old book of law.

Your lips thin in drowsy impatience before bringing a hand to delicately trace his chin, guiding him to you with the touch of what one might mistake for a divine atlas. It’s soft beneath your calloused palm, almost reverent, the act of navigating the map etched in the fine lines of your skin a fervent current.

It is sweet, almost. Doing what is encouraged, but what is also prohibited — your own rules broken by a sick hand. Your sick hand. You are supposed to be strong, firm. But firm be damned if this is the only time you can indulge in regretful desires before your father kills you — properly this time.

Neuvillette’s lips against yours is a gentle war, the first touch of dawn, strings of sun prodding you awake.

He feels you lean forward for more, but he presses you down, afraid of hurting you any further. Desire is an odd, odd thing. Why the tug at heart? Some part of him tells him it’s simply guilt. But emotions aren’t simple.

You are the first to pull away, but not enough to rid yourself of him. 

“I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry if I confuse you. I am confused myself.” What you really think of is the begrudging mercy of your blade, the one set to slit the throat of your own blood. But you are weak, you tell yourself, succumbing to the horror of your father’s prophecy. For you truly are frail, and that front you put up won’t hold forever. 

He, however torturous, manages to make space between the two of you. However far he searches, he finds no semblance of culpability. That’s what makes it wrong. Impartial as he may be, he has just erred in judgement, but he thinks it’s okay. That it’s justifiable.

But is love justifiable in the face of court?

a/n: aaa KISS KISS KISS ive been dying to write this chapter for a while!! I thought it would be best to write the majority of the chapter in neuvillette's pov to really build it… I thought it'd be nice to explicitly talk about reader's impulsiveness and fluctuating moods. and I think we know where she gets it from ermmm mm m please lmk what u think of this chapter n and feel free to write your predictions hehe

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog @floffytofu

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter six

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, charlotte ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.8k

A subordinate of whom you do not recognise leaves a copy of the latest news on your desk and you do not pay it any mind until your lips leave your teacup of Fonta.

A MOST ROMANTIC SIGHT OF FONTAINE’S MOST INFLUENTIAL COUPLE SHATTERED BY THE BURSTING OF THE FOUNTAIN OF LUCINE!

You cannot say you are surprised; such a reaction was to be anticipated. The events of last night were far from ordinary, and the ring adorning your finger gleams in the sunlight streaming like bands through the blinds, affirming the reality of it all.

“An official report of this has been issued. Of whom do you wish to appoint this case to?”

“Why, myself of course,” you say primly, intonation insinuating the end of your phrase — but you take in a sharpened breath to continue. “Unless the Chief Justice — my fiance, might I add — wishes to accompany me. And if that ever so happens you may scribble his name of contribution in a footnote.”

The boy takes a hesitant step forward. “But, Madame, we have fresh graduates awaiting a job to take up. Wouldn't it be easier to have them do the work for you?”

You tut. “Oh, but that just won’t do. Doing the ‘work for me’, young man, does not mean doing the work effectively. I am not partial to cleaning up after my… protégés, if you will.” Another sip of your Fonta seems to shush any questions he might beg, and he complies, leaving you alone in your office. 

And he’s left the door ajar. Pity.

As you stand, your chair scrapes against the marble and you wince. I should call for someone to replace the rubber padding of the legs, you note, rolling the tabloid into a scroll. 

Though your stride is fast and your heels click a little too loudly for anyone’s comfort, you steal some time to skim through the newspaper.

A monochrome print of your outfit from yesterday makes a statement in a tiny corner of the paper you hold in your hands, and you almost smile. So people do like me! Perhaps it is your own self critique, but the words on the street after the Poisson incident were nothing shy of foul — not to mention how your rising to fame caught the attention of all the aristocrats in Fontaine (as Furina had once quipped, unaware you were right outside Monsieur Neuvillette’s office). You do not know what to take from it. 

If more surges of the prophecy begin to manifest, it is mostly up to you to take yourself up on the job — another result of Furina’s damned dereliction. 

Being proposed to does not cease the relentless flow of living, and thus is the sole reason why your feet drag you to the very precinct of Palais Mermonia. Fear lingers; you had just narrowly scraped death by a hair’s breadth, saved by your own reflexes at freezing the Fountain of Lucine before you could witness people dissolving into the very floors at which justice is determined.

Though the case is not very much ‘civil’ as your title suggests, there is no one better to take care of the problem if not you. And it does take into account the lives of people, so you do suppose that it is quite ‘civil’; in the context that it won’t very well be if more people die.

In layman’s terms, you have a case to solve that is very much your sole responsibility.

But this does not mean that you aren’t blazingly furious at the one who is supposed to spare her subjects from the injustice that is death; the sole guillotine looming over Fontaine. 

Before you allow the guards to open the door, you lose the pencil in your hair and card your fingers through it to restore its lost volume. When the door does open, a crowd seems to swarm when you make an appearance at the front step — and you eye them with a sort of caution that has you preemptively biting your tongue. The stench of sweat and body odour shoot through your senses in one swift motion, and you almost lurch forward to gag, the flashing of cameras a blinding curtain over your sight. 

And the queries commence.

"What measures have you taken to avert us from the prophecy?" a reporter cries out, thrusting a microphone toward your face, his crew trailing closely behind.

Another person, to whom you presume to be no older than twenty shouts warily. “Is it true that you are to be wed to the Chief Justice? What does this mean for your future and your new career?”

“Over here!”

“One for the cameras!’

You take a calculated move to disregard their questions and push further through the crowd — only to realise how much of a grave mistake you’ve made. An influx of more people come pouring in, snuffing the place out of any oxygen you can steal for yourself; and before you know it, you are unable to breathe. The throng of people swells and the contact of skin against skin from all the pressing bodies floods over you like a deluge.

Navigating your mind is the main challenge for a situation like this; how is one meant to think straight if all compass fails?  Your eyes flicker to the floor, and you realise the space that surrounds you as if you are a magnet repelling its own pole; but this does not stop them from pushing in further. Regret is the first emotion you feel out of anything; Why did I sign myself up for this job? Is one of the questions that cry out— but it dissipates when the more people fight through the field.

Shitshitshitshit! It almost feels like the very ground you stand on begins to cave in and you’re shrinking under the captious gazes of all the cameras and you feel so small. A fruitless attempt to create space brings everything to an impasse; and then everything falls silent. 

The crowd parts as your vision clears and your breathing slows. Damn it to the heat of the moment, but you swear you hear your heart pounding like a gong in the very forefront of your head. There he is, your knight in shining armour, as another headline stated — and if you were any more spiteful, your voice would’ve dripped with malice at the very notion of having him, the Chief Justice, by your side at every inconvenience.

But he seems to just do that at this ‘inconvenience’.

A low voice vibrates against your back and you feel a chill tease at your spine. “It is not necessary for you to converge at the Palais at this hour. I implore you all to return to wherever you came from, for my partner and I have important matters to attend to at this moment.”

This only prompts a surge of questions that drown out any attempts of the people to break through the surface of the stampede. Something — of what you presume to be a sharp edge of camera gear — grazes your side, and you physically feel a stitch come undone. The initial sting is almost akin to an ant bite, and you instinctively press your palm against it and hope that the pain from the pressure can override any pain from the wound. Pivoting, your left knee buckles as you shift your weight, your frame now shielded from the majority of the crowd. Lifting your cupped palm away from your hip, a little patch of red comes to bloom under the soft drapes of fabric of your blouse. This is what happens when you don’t take health care seriously, you jest in your mind: a fruitless attempt at diverting your attention elsewhere even if it is for a measly few seconds.  Allowing your arm to slacken, your elbow nestles firmly against your side, offering brief respite from the discomfort.

Your ears begin to ring at the sudden crescendo of voices after the Iudex’s silence, and you briefly glance at him before you realise he is peering closely at you, ultramarine eyes trailing to the very curve of your hip. 

“Must I reiterate — my partner and I have an urgent case to attend to, so if you would please excuse us.” A brief smile tugs at his lips, but it is an exasperated one. He reaches for your waist — to which he then withdraws, choosing instead to have his fingers interlace with your own. Almost dazed, you stare at your now elevated hand, and then to him, with an almost astonished awe that can only be considered as such: a want to slap him. This is certainly not of his character! What audacity…

It all happens so swiftly you have no time to turn your head at the voice that comes from the man to your left. He brings his lips to your ear and you barely make out the words — and yet the main message still prevails. “Stay close to me,” is the honey-lined command he mutters under his breath. 

He starts his advancement through the crowd, and you absentmindedly comply and attempt to replicate his pace — albeit with a noticeable limp in your gait (your attempt to shield it only has the multiple daggers piercing from within to grow into a grotesque violence). A certain demographic splits away from the crowd, retreating; another, more resilient and stubborn, stand as though secured with screws embedded into cement. Some claw at your blouse, and some to your skirt — and you cannot tell if the shouts that leave their mouths are profanities, praise, or whatever else stands in the blur of the in between.

The autumn chill freezes the warmth that once wrapped around your limbs and leaves a delicate, yet lingering frost on the apples of your cheeks. Suffocating as the influx of people was, you are now free from them, and you look back to see the aftermath of dejected faces and the subsiding of camera shutters. 

Awareness has you stealing a  brief look downward and and you feel a slight prickle of a sting at the clarity. You do not want to tend to it now; hence why you freeze a layer of ice under the gauze with strained effort. 2-in-1! Numbing cream and makeshift stitch!

With now being spared the imploring curiosity of mortality, you do not hesitate to drop Neuvillette’s hand. 

For good measure, you look past the man’s shoulder and over your own; a part of you tells you that no one is around — but how can you trust your surety? You are human; and to be human is to be defined by the errors that scream through the flesh of your being.

“There was no necessity for you to aid me, Monsieur. I was — and still am — completely, and utterly alright.” You do not turn to face him, nor do you dare to stop walking.

Neuvillette lags behind, his presence only recognisable from the shine of his boots under the sun. “I assure you it was not an action of intent, Madame; I was only off to seek a brief reprise from my duties, but instead, I was met with quite the group of people swarming you outside the Palais. Surely you must know this act was merely my own responsibility as —”

Strides fueled by adrenaline come to a brief stop and you whirl on your heel, met with a bewildered Neuvillette stopping just before he can collide into you. “Yes I do, very much know that, Chief Justice.” You lift your heel and swing it lightly backwards, stretching the distance between the two of you. “Now if you’ll excuse me; I am to mediate the threat that the Fountain poses right now.”

Instead of being patient enough to wait for a response, you curtsy and turn to leave. Someone just so happens to not take the memo, and you stop your stride again. “What is it now?”

“I am a man of my word, Madame; I claimed to have a role in what happened last night to the people, and so I must certainly be of service.”

Dejected as you are, you still remain unwavering in your gaze. “...Right.”

Neuvillette chooses not to refute, and you do not find it in yourself to speak. It is a walk of shame, almost — but the indignity lies not in the quiet, but rather in the Chief Justice's inaction in releasing the tension.

You steal a glance at Neuvillette, hoping for some sign of reassurance or understanding, but his expression remains impassive.

Your pace is now unrhythmic. The impulse to disrupt this unsettling silence with anything — a word, a gesture, or a mere breath — becomes a refuge sought in the recesses of your mounting desperation; because, God, you cannot stand another minute with this man! Yet, a brief flit of what he might be thinking gives you a taste of how, most probably, he is not feeling as disturbed as you are right now. Observing him from the corner of your eye, his demeanour remains unperturbed. Damn him and his impartiality.

Someone chooses to finally shatter the static, and it is not you nor Neuvillette. Instead it is that reporter: Charlotte. Though you do not see her, the sheer recognition of who it is is confirmed when she sounds from behind, and the two of you turn your heads almost in unison. A head of baby pink hair is the first aspect of her that you notice, and everything else comes into full view.

She claps her hands with a roll of paper in her left. “Oh. My. God. I have been struck with luck today, it seems! You would not care as to spare a few minutes of your time for some questions, would you?” 

You exhale a nervous laugh, looking to Neuvillette to reject the offer.

Beaming, she turns to you, and lays a friendly hand on your wrist. “I’m a big fan. It is an honour to finally meet you in person.” 

That is undoubtedly a first. Maybe she thought you were the acting chief justice? As President of the Conseil d'État, you haven't accomplished anything particularly noteworthy to warrant or merit such commendation. 

Clearing your throat, you bring forth the most professional smile you can muster. “And to you, too, Charlotte. Though I am afraid we are quite occupied with other responsibilities… Perhaps we could arrange an official meeting for an interview? Just let me know of your schedule.” 

“Oh! That is very kind of you, Madame. I will certainly send you my schedule and please, pick what date as you see fit.” Her eyes shift from yours to Neuvillette. “And congratulations on your engagement! The topic of your engagement has been thrown into every conversation under the sun. Trust me, I’ve seen it.”

Neuvillette closes in a little nearer, clearly piqued by her claim. “Really? I certainly did not foresee this to be upped to such a… grand scale. But surely —” He jolts at you nudging his arm to stop. “Ah. Yes. I apologise greatly, Charlotte, but the matter at hand is far too grave.”

“Yeah, sure — no biggie. See you two around!”

And there she goes, frolicking like a little girl in an open field. “A strange one, that girl.” You say, a tinge of amusement in your tone. Deep down, you are grateful that she happened to be there: a casual catalyst to have conversation up and running again. You pretend you do not dislike the man in front of you.

He hums a little. “Her childlike innocence is seldom seen nowadays; it is a quality I have so wished to feel.” 

You turn to him, eyes narrowing in scepticism. “Never have I met someone with a childhood so terrible.”

His expression seems to tighten, almost as if he’s been caught. “That was not what I meant, I am merely enamoured and simply jealous at how people can still enjoy their youth. You feel that way, too, don’t you?”

You do not completely buy into his claim, yet you decide to play along. “What do you think?”

Another beat of silence.

“We must make haste,” he says.

“Indeed we must.”

To feel relieved or concerned at the lack of people at the Opera Epiclese is another question that looms like jeopardy trivia. Its perimeter is boarded by tape and identified with a bold AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY at its entrance. A peculiar stillness blankets Erinnyes, the previously flowing waters now arrested in their motion, the sight of a frozen fountain showing bright and iridescent in the setting sun.

The man next to you looks forward as if entranced, the reason for the fall of his expression unreadable. His gaze drops to yours and he snaps himself out of it. “Ladies first,” he says, extending his arm as a gesture of courtesy.

“I do not like that this is the first time you’ve shown me such courtesy in the context of such dire circumstances in which I could possibly die if the water thaws,” you jest offhandedly, but you do not think he takes it the same way. 

“Forgive me if I have insulted you, Madame. I did not think my actions through,” he starts, but you stop him with a tut before he can continue further.

“Yes, Monsieur. You have insulted me and you certainly did not think your actions through.” you shoot him a glare.

"Was that... a joke? I certainly have not the talent which some people possess of conversinf easily. I apologise."

You scoff and brush past him, and though you do not see it — you just have a feeling he won’t attempt to overtake you in the dominance of your stride. And he doesn’t.

The Fountain is now dripping as it melts, its opal waters catching itself in the crevices of the ground. It lulls you ever so slightly, at how it trickles with an inexplicable slowness, a second longer than that of normal water; a possible explanation for why the Fountain has not fully melted yet.

There is a puddle of the Primordial water in front of you, and a sudden desire to touch it surges through you; it is a strange longing, but it lures you in like a moth to a flame.  It wouldn't harm anyone to continue staring at it for a little bit, would it? You've always questioned if you were indeed Fontainian, and the solution to your dilemma is poised in front of you, pulling you toward it. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” The Iudex has his hand wrapped around your wrist, his gaze a warning. You do not know what has gotten into you — hell, you don’t even remember reaching for it. 

You wriggle your arm from his grasp. “Don’t think much of it.” You feel protectively at your hand up until the base. 

Neuvillette’s gaze lingers, before he soundlessly leaves your side. He makes his way to the other end of the Fountain of Lucine, where he examines it with such curiosity you begin to wonder what he finds intriguing about the rear end of a Fountain that appears uniform at every angle.

A shout sounds from you and reaches the man on the other side of the fountain. “So. Mister Chief Justice. What do you think we should do?" He seems just as entranced as you are, eyes not compensating to find yours as his lips move to find a response.

“I think I can possibly revert the waters to how they once were — store it deeper inside the Fountain,” as he speaks, he begins to advance in a return to your side.“But I can only work with bodies of water, not ice. So I need to request a favour from you.”

Unsure of where he is taking this, you reply with a diffident: “Sure.”

He is now standing in front of you (it is a little too close, however — so you shuffle backwards). “Could you… possibly — no, that wouldn’t work.” He stops midway, a wrinkle forming between his blond brows. What an awfully peculiar man he is, you think, eyeing the way he seems to be finding other words to phrase what he was to say better. You think he fails to do so when his slightly ajar mouth closes.

You would be a fraud to say you weren’t curious. “No. Tell me.”

“It was merely an afterthought, and I suppose now that you still wouldn’t be up for it if I told you, so I might as well. Is it possible for you to reverse your freezing of the ice? To revert it back to its liquid state, so to speak?"

Your eyes dart to your hands, and you bargain the sheer potential of your power; you are able to manipulate the waters into ice — this you know — but to revert ice to water? It is certainly not unheard of, and yet you would consider such a method to be unorthodox; nothing of the sort was ever taught in schools, let alone by tutors. A memory from your youth resurfaces, your father’s blaring, forceful voice a menacing exploitation of your power he so desperately wanted to possess.

Flair was a spectacle — a luxury; for flaunting your own strength resulted in punishment.

“I cannot promise you anything. Do not be so much as dejected when my attempts prove to be futile, Monsieur.”

With an interest piqued, he brings his eyes to level with yours. “There shall be no need to worry if it fails. I have another idea we could resort to.” Something in your intuition had you feeling he thought you wouldn’t agree. 

“Wouldn’t the water annihilate the both of us?”

His eyes shoot to the now dimming sky, not stealing a glance at the gloves he begins to adjust. “I will restrain the flow of water, you need not be concerned.”

You roll your shoulders back. “Well. Doesn’t hurt to try.”

Though he does not respond, he takes a step back, allowing you the full expanse of the Fountain. You wriggle and flex your fingers. Shouldn’t be too hard, you tell yourself. How difficult could it possibly be? If anything, it is just a test of your skill; where are the cameras? If they were to take photos of you, you would love it if they would right now. Or maybe they find it all too mundane. Downfall and drama is what they prey on, after all.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you begin to reach into the ice with everything within you, forcing it toward you with a tug so hard it has you winded. The autumn chill intensifies as the wind carries the ice like a vice. Of all the things you think of, you are reminded of your father’s distant coldness: an extinguisher of warmth (of which belonged to your mother). It is a bitter childhood memory — one of an empty seat at dinner tables and palpable fury. You can almost hear your father’s voice, distorted as all memories are (they all come perfect, uniform — and yet they leave like glass breaking off at the hands of an all-too-passionate lover).

Ice crawls up your arm, the numbness a factor you do not pay any attention to. You cannot deny that this does bring you an odd discomfort, for the discomfort you usually feel at the use of your Vision is a draining of energy to create; yet this is the first time you’ve ever been required to destroy. 

It slows your pulse, as ice does, and your eyes fight to shoot open at the idea of a slip of your consciousness. Yet you still pursue. Pulling harder this time, the oxygen in your lungs grows frigid and cut like knives against your ribcage. You attempt to channel more with pure instinct, but you cannot. There is nothing for you to reach.

With finality, you permit your eyes to flutter open, all the pain you should be feeling blurring into the foreground when greeted with a vista of bright blues and the billowing of the Iudex’s robes. Your arm instinctively lifts to shield yourself from the roaring wind.

A halo of azure hues encircle his wrists, lacing through his hair. The water remains frozen, but it is not from the ice that you hold dear, and instead it is from his outstretched hands, twisting against the tide in attempts to turn back time against the current.

You stagger backwards, and yet you miraculously feel grounded in place, a paradox of numbness and pain you wish not to acknowledge. The seal he begins to place against the water ripples through the air like a soundwave, stripping you of any hearing and in its absence is replaced by a constant ringing. 

Neuvillette drops his arm, the suspended droplets of water following suit, crushed under the weight of his command. Everything seems to snap into motion the second the Fountain stills, a single wave of harsh wind fluttering through Erinnyes, the familiar rattle of trees swaying teasing at your ears.

Something about the whole spectacle seems like a fantasy, those of which you hear about in fables and folklore. 

“Bravo,” you muse, noticing the way his shoulders sag.

The Chief Justice looks over his shoulder, slate eyes morphing into wide ones as he takes in your frame. “My, you’re awfully pale.”

You flash him a tired smile. “Nothing I can’t handle. And no, I am not pale — this is an insult. I am perfectly sunkissed, so much so that every man and woman desires me or desires to be me.” You wave him away, your hand limp in its action.

The Iudex’s face only deepens in distress. You do not give him room to speak. “Why the long face hm? Surely you don’t think so lowly of me. Surely you…” Weights weigh in on your eyelids, and your knees buckle. An attempt to balance yourself with your other foot fails, and instead of meeting hard cement the warmth of an unwanted embrace greets you. 

“(Name),” he mutters. Your name rolls off his tongue like a curse; ludicrous. “You’re bleeding.”

Instinctively you use his arms as leverage. “I am fine, Monsieur. I am no princess in need of saving — oh! Nevermind, you are right,” you slur, a hand you never realised was on your hip coming away red. A drunk smile flickers on your features for a brief moment before you slump again into his arms.

He stumbles backwards at the suddenness of your movement, but his grip is firm. “You are unfit for a trip back to the city. I must escort you.” His breath brushes against the nape of your neck. 

You push him away. “Do not treat me as if I’m a child, young man. I can manage myself, I am a grown woman and I am employed. That says something, doesn’t it?” Defensively, you point at yourself to prove that you are not injured. Your claim contradicts itself; your sight begins to fail, blurred by growing black spots dotting your vision.

“Madame, please. You have over-exerted yourself.”

The Iudex’s voice comes as a muffled blur, and you attempt to take a step forward — but it is limp and miscalculated. Neuvillette's gaze briefly falls to your hands, his touch supporting you with one hand on your back and the other delicately grasping your fingers. “Goodness. Your hands are cold.” Sapphire peeks through the ice, the engagement ring a cruel reminder of the tie that binds you both.

You manage a whisper. “Not entirely. Just the palm.” You wiggle your fingers slightly, albeit with great effort. 

“Please, refrain from speaking,” he implores gently, a hint of concern laced in his voice. “It is imperative that I help you back home, so forgive me if my hold happens to be a little rough.” Before you can cry out in protest, he scoops you up, arms sliding under your inner knees and upper back. Platinum strands fall against your chest, his own rising and falling peculiarly slow. You can still make out a frown that pulls on his lips, and you almost smile at the notion that you’re the reason for his agony.

How sightly.

Your arms naturally curl around the groove of his neck. “I’ll hate you for this. Up until I am brought to my grave.”

“I believe your disdain for me would be far greater had I abandoned you,” he says plainly, no hint of jest in his tone. He adjusts his hold of you, and you slide further down into his grasp, now sandwiched between his arms and chest; you do not make any alarm of it, however, thoughts trailing to your fluffed mattress and plush pillows.

“My disdain for you is already much too cruel for a soul to comprehend,” you garble, a wisp of your misty white breath escaping as a plume.

"As it is for me," he breathes out, but you cannot read his lips.

Pointing blindly in a direction you assume is north, you declare: “Well then; if you don’t have any objections, to my apartment it is."

a/n: spot the subtle pride n prejudice reference I put for fun teehee

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter twelve

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, furina ⌗ warnings : mention of prostitution, horrendously inaccurate depiction of poisoning, assassination attempt?? ⌗ word count: 4.0K

You cannot help but feel as if you’re walking into a deposition.

The halls stretch out, and your slim fit suit now constricts like a cobra against your pounding ribcage. In manifestation of your argument is a file, threatening to slip from your grasp, sweat clamming your composure and fogging a rational train of thought you spent half of this morning to keep under wraps; and it comes shattering as the routine click click click of your heels no longer serves as a comfort or distraction to what you, in actuality, are terrified of.

Any ordinary individual would find comfort that the most impartial judge is by their side — but you cannot help but regard him as more of a liability than a lifeline. 

“Does something ail you, Madame?” He questions, eyes trained on the door at the end of the hallway.

Fixing your collar, your lips twist in displeasure. “Nothing at all, Chief Justice. Just that I have this feeling I’m about to be interrogated. Terribly.”

His steady stride stutters, inclining you to spin around to look him in the eye. After just a second of taking in the subtle lines of his face, you convince yourself with great difficulty that he looks somewhat worried. But just what good does that bring to your own anxiety, exactly? Nothing. Because not only is he blatantly telling you that you should be afraid, any pretentious diplomat could stroll over to him at this moment and tell him off for breaking his pledge of impartiality. But you shake the idea away after coming to terms with how far-fetched the latter sounds.

“There is no reason to worry,” he assures, his once reprimanding gaze a morbid comfort you find yourself confiding in — and it is no secret you must always take it upon your habits to tell yourself that this is wrong, that you shouldn't find yourself believing in a ruse set up by the woman you have so come to despise, but you just cannot help it, and it eats at you from the inside like an apple with a rotting core.

(You conveniently ignore the twist in your gut that tells you this is, as much as you despise it, real.)

His gaze flickers, and for some reason your idea of him being of the inability to understand human emotion strikes him again, another one of those expressions betraying his attempts to keep them at bay. And this time, he’s mulling over something.

His Adam’s apple bobs, and while your eyes naturally settle over the veins trailing along his neck, he finds it in himself to intertwine his fingers with yours — and you find it in yourself to not pull away, against your better judgement. And amongst the pragmatic reasoning pushed to the back of your psyche, you can almost make out their shouts: an unwavering you are going to regret this echoing into a cacophony of a thousand songs. And yet —

And yet.

The last time he held you like this had been that one night where you explicitly told him that any dealings of this nature were prohibited by your own edict. You cannot help but shudder at the bitter irony: the irony being that that very command has now crumbled under your own faltering complacency.

You cannot hear anything, save for the shrill strain of a violin that too, dwindles under the softness of his hold. “Monsieur Neuvillette, what are you —”

“Sorry,” he mutters, the apology slipping out of his lips the second he catches sight of your faltering attention that does everything in its power to deflect his imploring stare. 

You draw in a shuddering breath, eyes shut before whispering: “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” You slip your hand from his grip, fingers slipping between the gap of your collar to spare a little room for air.

His glovedi“From what I know, there is nothing they can use against you.”

“Right.”

“Is there something you’re hiding from me? Because if so I am entitled to know. To pro— defend you.”

“No. Nothing at all.”

“Alright then.”

If this were five years ago, you might have considered the scant number of diplomats as a blessing from the Archons above. But you certainly aren’t the girl you were five years ago, and you certainly aren’t going to let it slip you for even one second that the very matter you celebrated half a decade is now cause for concern. Yet, you are no longer the girl of half a decade past, and you find yourself acutely aware that this sparse assembly is, indeed, a matter of grave concern.

You reach for Neuvillette’s shoulder as leverage to whisper into his ear: a meek, faltering warning — a manifestation of your anxieties, if you will. “We’ve got trouble.”

Neuvillette’s attention, previously trained on you, shifts to mirror your own nervous, studying stare directed at the group of the representatives. “We might, but I don’t think a couple of personal jabs your way will have you crumble, ma femme.” You ignore the flutter in your chest and completely disregard the way he indirectly just complimented you — but it could just be a statement for all you care.

Pfft, like you care.

A nicely dressed man sits opposite to your place on the table, spotting the quiver of your eye like an archer to a target. This causes you to shift uncomfortably in your seat — and amidst the bustling small talk amongst the other diplomats in  this chamber, he seems to zero in on your tell.

The diplomats help themselves with the teapots laid uniformly along the table, but oddly enough, do not take the effort to actually take part in the consumption of it. However peculiar, you go out of your way to take a light sip of the tea, immediately wincing at the aftertaste of chamomile tea that shouldn’t even exist in its palate; because instead of something sweet, the flavour leaves your tongue bitter, mildly prickly in nature.

“Does your tea taste peculiar to you?” you ask, our turning excruciatingly slow, as if unable to admit that you’ve got something on you no one else should be aware of. Neuvillette’s keen eye does not miss your faltering hold of the teacup, the subtle cant of his head all the more reason to divert what you started to the men who, judging by the accentuation of their wrinkles, are beginning to grow even more restless by the minute.

“No, I do not think so.” “Nevermind that, then.”

Your lips are pressed into tight, worried lines, the bitter taste still lingering, clinging to your every sense. A sonorous disquiet blooms in your stomach — not from the effect of the poison, but from your insidious conclusion you draw yourself upon — that someone had gone to such lengths to harm you. You are not one to trust your gut from its first warning, but this time, you tug at your intuition like a lifeline when it tells you that someone in this room is complicit in your attempted murder. And your money’s on the man seated opposite of you.

Your mulling over every one of the possibilities is thrown under the clinking of someone’s cup, a resounding strain that draws onlookers to the source and its maker: the man from earlier.

“Ladies —” the man takes an effort to regard both you and Lady Furina — the only women in the room, before ghosting over the others. “— and gentlemen. The meeting shall commence.”

You take no malice in his regards, but instead choose to narrow in on his sharp tongue: a manner of speech you find yourself almost drawn to in terms of his manner of a pointed timbre, a dialect you cannot pinpoint — because, to put it simply, it does not exist. It comes off to be some sort of curious amalgamation – like the accents you hear from traders recounting their journeys across the blue expanse of Teyvat. But you know a trader when you see one: and this man is no trader.

“Lady Furina, as the representative of the Fontainian Parliament, we hereby declare that your action as Archon against the prophecy has been nothing short of deficient and nowhere near as efficient enough to have us back on our feet.” The parliamentarian’s booming baritone echoes against the brick walls of the chamber, eyes a steely blue.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur…?”

“Blanchard. Corbin Blanchard.”

“Monsieur Blanchard, if you are so intent on pulling at my reins, wouldn’t it be politically irresponsible on your end, considering all you’ve been doing is maintaining the tea exports?”

A cocky smile pulls at your lips, drinking in the bitter taste of her own proud look that says I do my research sometimes.

Monsieur Blanchard lets out a stunned, cocky scoff of disbelief. “I think you’re losing sight of the main reason we’re all gathered today. We aren’t here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about you. And this —” he almost grunts before slamming a thick folder of documents, and you wince at the sound it makes when it comes into contact with the table.

Lady Furina shoots from her seat, the screech against tile a most unpleasant sound to be greeted with at this time of day. A flicker of panic flashes across the brush of her brow before she straightens, rolling back her shoulders against the padding of her blazer before fabricating a confident — if by all means arrogant — tilt of the chin. “I rebuke that claim! I have done nothing but salvage the lives of the people — uhm, uh — ask a citizen. They’ll tell you, heh…” The poised posture of her shoulders drop into a curve, her haughty guise hesitating when the assembly shows no sign of support.

“Tough crowd,” she grits, a quip of desperation slipping like a whistle through the gaps in her teeth.

“What she means to say,” Neuvillette interjects, rising from his seat (what the Chief Justice had in grace and stead, the Archon lacked). “is that action will be taken immediately to improve our manpower.” A reassuring hand makes its way to cup around Lady Furina’s shoulder, the shudder of her fear moulding into the palm of his hand. 

The man, like any textbook diplomat, is unamused by this way of reasoning — and his eyes dip into slits, a silent dismissal of Neuvillette’s defence. “I do not need your word Monsieur Neuvillette. I need hers. And what I am calling from her word is a bluff; here — look at this file.” He slams a folder onto the table, pages spilling out. “It is a record of lives that were lost not too long ago, and everytime an incident of this nature occurs the death toll is still the same along with frequency. So what exactly do you have to say to this?”

Lady Furina’s eyes dart to the damning evidence before her. “I — I!” 

Forget what you said about her keeping things together; this was everything but! You must say, her response is nothing short of embarrassing that you almost feel for her. “Forgive me if I am wrong, but amidst this whole phenomenon, the Présidence du Conseil d'État and Iudex of Fontaine have decided that if they were to get married, it would be in the midst of decline! Which — let’s be honest — is pure drivel. “

Neuvillette moves to rebuke this claim, but in fulfilment to the arrogance of men, Monsieur Blanchard holds up a hand to silence him. And Neuvillette complies. 

You shoot him a scolding look. You’re really letting this man step on you?

“Oh, do not give me those looks, all of us know what arrangement you both signed. ” 

By this point, your sight is nothing but a swirl of colour, a distortion of what you wouldn’t call nausea and neither would you call it enlightenment, so you come to the brusque conclusion that you’re caught in the limbo between nirvana and a possible assassination. The gnawing ache in your head gradually subsides after a series of contractions, and you pray it’s your mithridatism playing its part.

Another man, shorter in comparison to his superior, stands, a smug, taut smirk, shooting daggers at both of you.  “Lady Furina — if you are one to play tricks like this, I’d strongly advise you to run a background check on your cast!”

Lady Furina casts a wandering eye to your side, but your sight is impaired by the gavel hammering in agonising successions against your temple. You find no effort in taking heed to an accusation you know full well is right, despite your own defensiveness. “I hired a private investigator to look into your background, Madame. And what I found was shocking.” Your eyes tiredly drag to his mannerisms, and you spot nothing but pure malice and foul play threatening to pull you under.

Neuvillette lets out a defensive groan. “Monsieur, you should know that unauthorised acts of following are prohibited and are inadmissible in court.”

“Oh I know the law. Which is why I’m going to ask your pretty wife,” he plasters a feigned amiable smirk your way, and you muster all of your pettiness to return the gesture (though you think your own leer is far more practised, lacking a quiver like his does). “Why is it that I have no trace of your surname Lavigne, and that there is absolutely no lineage traced back to it?

You lean forward, hands splayed on the white cloth of the long table to stabilise your teetering balance.“I — I don’t know what you're talking about. Surely, this is a mistake.”

“Except it isn’t. See — I’ve had someone check you. Why is it that the only person with such a surname is a woman with no inheritance to her name, a prostitute and a maid—” Everything around you spins like a toy around its axis, your only anchor being the sound that spills in defence: your own, rugged voice. “Enough. This information is clearly false and I implore you to stop this.”

Neuvillette’s eyes round in worry as he moves closer, inspecting every crinkle in the dip of your eye, to the strength at which you’re gripping the corner of the table. “Monsieur, without any feasible evidence, this is classified as slander.”

“Do not lawyer me. This is not the court, and this is clearly not the Opera Epiclese. So until then, you have no authority over me.” If you were sound in health, this ‘diplomat’ would be out the window, but you’re not, and for the first time in your life, Neuvillette is not tolerant of this gesture of contempt.

His jaw ticks, and he cranes his neck intimidatingly downward to see eye to eye (though, in a million universes, this would not ring true in any metaphorical sense) with him. “What did you just say to me? Do you really believe that these walls grant you immunity? We are here to deliberate, not to conduct an inquisition upon my wife—”

Neuvillette’s words fray into the backdrop, and you’re suddenly struck with a split-second decision. If someone possessed the audacity to poison you, it stands to reason that they are able to have accomplices in their arsenal both outside and within these walls. Should Monsieur Blanchard prove of no use, you could outwit an oblivious conspirator and feign a damsel in distress. You take no hesitance in second guessing this decision — and you tell yourself that if there is any time to critique your method of action, it would have to wait; this, at this point, seems to be your only recourse of procedure.

A hand comes to rest atop the apex of his knuckles.“It’s alright, mon coeur. If you’ll excuse me, I need to leave for the restroom.” “Wait —” You find generosity in you to flash him a reassuring wink. “Don’t worry.”

Time to put your act on.

Neuvillette watches as you stumble down the hall and slam the door shut (almost), clutching your stomach like a vice. He finds himself nearly ready to abandon the crucial proceeding at hand for a mere sight of you, a simple assurance that you were alright.

Neuvillette watches as you stumble down the hall, steps faltering before slamming the door shut (well – that’s what you think; the door didn’t come anywhere close to the latch). You clutch your stomach as though in a vice, face contorted in faux agony. This almost inclines him to wipe the smirk off Monsieur Blanchard’s face, because whatever you’re up to, the cards are in your favour.

He follows your figure through the slit of the door you couldn’t muster enough strength to close, his body tensing in dawning realisation: you weren’t headed to any washroom at all. It was a dead end, and only he knew it from his frequent visits for meetings. You, on the other hand, are unaware of the possible prospects headed your way.

“Not so impartial of you now, huh, Chief Justice? Now, tell me — can we expect you to manage court proceedings now that you’ve got someone to lose?” This stirs chuckles from a minority in the room, but the Chief Justice’s steeling gaze is enough to have them shrivelling up in their seats. 

It did not take no detective — let alone the most revered judge in the world — to realise this specific faction are cruel, unfeeling politicians spilling blood to claw to the very top. With no evidence, Neuvillette made it his priority to have them crumble, to prevent their abuse of power.

To prevent anything happening to you.

He turns a blind eye to his jab, already irritated at everything else spilled in bad faith. “Gentlemen. I believe our business here has been fulfilled. Please, see yourselves out.”

Corbin Blanchard makes his ridicule creep through the defeated scoff that brings his shoulders to stutter in the action.

Lady Furina lets out a sigh of relief, before being silenced by Neuvillettes cutting gaze and him being light on his feet. He paces out of the room, stalking down the hall before realising you’re nowhere to be found. This leads him to another, horrifying conclusion. You had made a turn into either one of the split junctions that branch into far more narrowing corridors.

Archons, how long ‘till the guy comes along? You’ve been making all sorts of turns to lure him further into a dead end, but you scold yourself for digging yourself a hole you are now unsure of whether you are able to get out clean. Did I make a left or a right turn? I took the right. No — it was the left — oh God. What have I just gotten myself into?

“Miss Moreau.”

Took him long enough. 

The voice doesn’t harbour the same cadence as Monsieur Blanchard’s — but the use of your… old surname brings more questions than answers. Your father was no pussy. So why, in all the world, would he send people for you?

Even if it is instinct to respond otherwise, you push yourself to continue walking. But in your current state, you hitch in your tracks for a second too long. The hallway, now dimly lit, stretches ominously before you, and the echo of his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

“What is it that you want?” you seethe, moving only the slightest inch of your head to catch a glimpse of the man behind you. Sweat beads on your forehead when you realise that there is not one distinguishable quirk to his features you can describe — the only notable thing being a smirk that curls wickedly at the edges, almost branded into his skin.

“Nothing. Except that I want us to be partners — because, well, frauds know frauds.” His eyes gleam with a predatory glint, advancing closer with each word — the echo of his footsteps reverberating off the walls. The poison in your blood runs cold as well as every sensible bone in your body ( you resist the urge to slump against a wall and succumb to it all). 

You swallow hard, pulse spiking. “You’re threatening me. Tell Monsieur Moreau if he wishes to contact me, he should do so in person and not through some measly informant.” Your voice is steady, but your hands tremble as you tighten your grip on the hem of your dress.

He chuckles darkly, his eyes never leaving yours. “So be it, Madame. I’ll tell him exactly what you said.” His words hang in the air like a venomous promise.

A voice resounds from the other end of the foreboding expanse of the corridor — and this time, it’s warm, honey like — a lifeline amongst unforgiving shadows.

You pause, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears, and glance back toward the source. A familiar face is what greets you, and you have never been so glad to see him, out of all the people in the world. 

“My apologies, but I don’t think you’re authorised to be allowed in this section of the building. Shall I escort you out?” A cruel, harsh smile rips the perpetual frown off the man’s face. “Oh, that shouldn't be a problem. Remember: clock’s ticking.”

As he turns to leave, you subconsciously mimic his action, balancing on the balls of your feet, a subtle strain settling into your muscles. A distressed wrinkle etches into the temples of your brows, a flickering look of satisfaction and fear for both the same reason, both emotions prompted by the same, uneasy conclusion: your father is coming after you, whether you like it or not. The thought of it has your blood running cold, leaving you teetering on the precipice of dread — and you find yourself uncertain whether the clarity of knowledge or the comfort of ignorance would prove the lesser burden. 

Your name spills from his lips like a prayer — except it’s lower, gravelly, if you will. “Mind telling me what that was about?”

“Well. Someone’s on my tail.” “I beg your pardon?” You almost lose your want in telling him because of the amount of times he’s said I beg your pardon? Over the period you’ve grown to know him. Or, rather, forced to know him.

‘It’s nothing, really.”

His face twists into a confusion of wanting to pry and worry of overstepping the boundary. Forgive me, but I do not believe it is merely nothing, he sighs, words ending in a whisper, his approach slow, but not enough so it would shake you to cave.

“I said it was nothing!” Your voice escapes you in despairing exclamations. Neuvillette lets another one of his emotions paint themselves, a clear canvas, on the fine lines of his face. 

As much as your body yearns for a soft, fluffy mattress, it shifts its priority to some sobby man that makes it his life’s mission to be by your side at all times! Well — maybe not all the time — you wouldn’t want him peering over the curtain of your shower, would you? (For some reason the idea doesn’t bring you much repulsion as it would to the you a few months ago).  “Sorry,” you mutter, and this time, despite your shattered conviction, you mean it.

Neuvillette doesn’t have it in him to regard the tug in his jugular, the rapid pounding of it beneath the strong expanse of bone. 

It strikes you as you open your mouth to explain yourself: he hadn’t even requested for one! And you’re out here, giving out unwarranted information to the man you never muttered words of unnecessary drabble. “If it is of any merit, I am a hundred percent certain I was just poisoned.”

His shoulders sag as if relieved, before blinking twice and taking a stunned step forward. “E─excuse me?” 

You pat him on the shoulder. “I was just poisoned. But don’t worry — I am fine.” The last of those words leave your lips shakily, an unstable promise laced with a nature that abandons its pillars once a sliver of wind catches in its marble grooves.

“How can this be? Surely you —” he takes in the playful glint in your eye, and stops mid syllable. “You’ve been taking preventive measures, haven’t you?”

“What do you think?” You are generous enough to give him a second of self reflection before bumping your elbow against his. “Let’s leave, this place is a bad omen personified.”

“I must escort you home.” Well. He does not seem to be taking your joke as intended. 

“Don’t you worry about that, I can take care of myself.”

“At least around your residence.” You shift your weight to your right foot before exhaling a defeated sigh. “...Fine.”

a/n: the next few chapters are the ones ive been DYING to write pls. also I tried to develop their relationship a little bit more here. I mean let's be real ─ we're twelve chapters in. there MUST be something to show for it 😭

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog @floffytofu

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter eight

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, furina, sedene, literal cameo of wriothesley, clorinde and navia, other melusine characters ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 6.5k

“Ouch! Sedene, can you go any tighter?” You really just intend on patting her arm to stop, but your hand meets her face and she reacts with a little squint to her nose.

You look under your arm, and find that she has tilted her head. “But isn’t it a Fontainian custom to tighten a corset to its limit? For a woman’s youthful look to ‘shine through’, as they say.”

“Well — my youthful look is going to turn into a wrinkly one if you’re going to constrict my airways.” The ironic thing is that, although you've had your share of tighter corsets and could wear them tighter yet, the issue persists; the innumerable comforts you've offered Neuvillette over the previous few days have served just as a distraction. You're still in excruciating pain.

The week had unfurled in a whirlwind of activity, traversing boutiques and bakeries alike, where both you and Monsieur Neuvillette took the painstaking sacrifice to your schedule to craft the wedding arrangements. Arguments, though not exempt, arose with discussions on which croquembouche would most harmoniously blend with the theme (Neuvillette eventually bent his opinion in your favour, your excuse being that he is not allowed one as his profession forbids him so). However, the task of securing the venue had been entrusted to Lady Furina's capable hands, and to Monsieur Neuvillette's discerning eye, her choice did not fail to impress.

In the days leading up to the wedding, the place at which you have been staying happens to be the very Palais Mermonia — and though you were initially apprehensive about living in the same place as your ‘fiance’, it was a strategic move, a calculated step on the chess board. It has proven to be of other conveniences as well: a shorter commute to your office and the excuse for leisurely strolls around the Palais grounds, weather permitting, which you’ve come to realise isn’t very often during this monsoon (odd how this period of the year in particular isn’t known for its rain, but then again, it never has really been consistent).

But out of all of the days where the rain poured and the levels rose dangerously high, a common denominator stood true: the Iudex of Fontaine, standing tall and erect over the balcony of the Palais, water matting his hair to his face, his robes to his skin.

You briefly recall the night in which you weren’t dressed in any garments but a nightgown, toeing lightly down the steps in hopes that you wouldn’t awaken anyone at such a late hour over a matter as trivial as a cup of tea.

If a memory is worth recalling, it is worth noting that embarrassment is one of its most prevailing factors. When it comes to you, of course.

And to see such a sight at such an hour had you almost playing death with the ceramic cup in your hand.

____

The Chief Justice of Fontaine stalks down the hallway, and though it is too dark to see the dampness of his clothes, you are sure of how he radiates a certain coolness, ridding wherever you are currently standing of warmth. His silhouette appears more fitted, a likely reasoning from the clothes that cling to his skin. For someone who sees nothing but the warm lights of the Opera, he is certainly of a robust build.

You don’t think he sees you when he almost slams into you with the full force of his momentum. A most depressing sight turns out to not be the both of you, but the lemon tea that spilled onto the marble floor.

“There goes my cover. And my midnight tea.”

The clarity in the whites of his eyes grow more pronounced, the adrenaline-fueled rush that spurred his almost inhuman speed beginning to fade. “Goodness, I am sorry. Let me make another cup for you.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I’m very much hydrated now that you’ve decided to show up,” you jab, eyeing him from head to toe. It's doubtful that he notices your scrutiny, though if he does, you hope he realises it's not in a particularly flattering light — more of a bemused acknowledgment of his somewhat unkempt appearance. Most definitely up to par with his reputation, you muse.

(Is it just you, or did the rain stop?)

He shoots you a fatigued smile in the dim-light. “I was just about to make myself a kettle of tea, to soothe the nerves. I could pour you a glass, if you’d like?”

“If you insist.” You finally look him in the eye, a subtle gleam of indigo glowing against the night. 

And with a midnight snack consisting of awkward small talk and sips of tea, you wish you never rolled out of bed to begin with. 

___

“Earth to you?” Sedene taps at your hip, but such a gesture would’ve gone unnoticed had it not been for her insistence. The corset you wear is the main culprit, taking the jabs of her hand.

“Yes? Is something the matter?”

“Does it feel better now?” She finishes, the discomfort increasing once she finishes tying the knot at the base of your waist.

“Yes, thank you Sedene.”

If anyone were to barge into the room at this particular moment, you would have been set for utter humiliation on your wedding day. You are clad in nothing but a corset and an underskirt — surely a most scandalous sight!

Sedene calls for someone to grab the dress off its hanger, and you see Kiara peek from a corner, clearly struggling under its weight. You immediately rush to take it from her hands, and you notice her immediate expression of relief. How adorable.

With a swift move, you retreat behind the privacy of the changing screen. The gown’s delicate lace and silk shimmer softly, catching glimpses of the stream of light peeking through the window. With a gentle touch, you slip into the gown, but the sleeves, as if possessing a will of their own, elegantly drape over your arm, reluctant to rest precisely where intended. 

You glide towards the dressing table, greeted by a reflection unfamiliar in its elegance. Flowers weave delicately through your hair, stray curls framing the soft contour of your cheeks. The white wedding gown, meticulously tailored, drapes like a dream, its sleeves sitting off your shoulders, leaving them bare. Slipping on your lace gloves, you make a statement to have the engagement band to remain on the ring finger of your right hand.

The two share reactions in astonishment, with Sedene voicing "Oh, wow," in disbelief, affirmed by Kiara's nod of agreement.

You gently smooth down the gown, then look a little forward to see the two of them waddling toward you, all smiles. Returning the warmth, you affectionately pat both of their heads. “And you two as well.” They had eagerly volunteered to be the flower girls ( you harbour doubts, having spotted them in the Chief Justice's office—a more likely scenario being that Neuvillette ordered them so), and were thus given sky blue dresses to wear.

Kiara hands Sedene a translucent cloth, and Sedene promptly relays it out to you. “Would you like me to put on the veil for you?”

“It’s quite alright, I can manage.” Playing with it in your hands, Kiara takes her leave, but Sedene stays. Your eyes follow her as she slips past the door, but she stops, seemingly greeted by someone on the other end.

Focused as you are, it is diverted when Sedene taps your hand. “You do not seem happy.”

This prompts your smile to drop. “What do you mean? Can’t you tell that I am from my smile alone?”

“A smile it is, yes, but it is a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your expression is the textbook definition of joy, yet I cannot help but feel like you are anything but.”.

Your fingers pinch at the bodice, and you try your best to keep composure. If someone were to see you like this, it would be only you. Not Clorinde, not Sedene, and certainly not that Iudex. “It is nothing to be concerned about, Sedene. I am just fine.”

She blinks, and you think she doesn’t really believe you. “Alright then, if you say so. I'll call for Monsieur Neuvillette—see you at the venue! And in case I haven’t mentioned it yet, you look absolutely stunning.”

“Ah, thank you Sedene. You flatter me too much.”

She smiles and walks toward the door, closing it gently behind her, yet it fails to muffle the voices emanating from the other side.

The resounding echo of the door's closure bears down upon the room, casting the weight of burden in the now still silence. How could you have possibly subjected yourself to this stupid, senseless excuse of an arrangement? With hesitant steps, you approach the mirror, only to be met with a stranger's visage staring back, prettied and prepped for a sale that was never your choosing. Today is supposed to be an opening of a new chapter, of a life you haven’t lived, yet why does it feel like you are the corpse in a casket, awaiting your own burial?

With a shaky effort, you steady your fingers under your eyes to stop the tears from ruining your makeup. Not here, not anywhere, you assure yourself, hoping that if you bite it back, the feeling will eventually go away.

You try to affix the veil to your head, but it slips off to the right, resisting your attempts to secure it to your head. In an act of desperation and haste, you remove it, cautious not to catch any stray hairs — only to discover that your subsequent attempt moves it too far back. With your vision blurring from the effort, you reluctantly decide to leave it be.

Time does not wait for you to wallow in self pity, and instead it sends you something even more frustrating to get your mind off it.

“Mon coeur?” a deep voice whispers from the other side of the door, but you don’t have to think to recognise who it is.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” you question in return, a hopeless act of confirmation.

Wiping your eyes, you take in a sharp breath before allowing him to come in. He stands apprehensively by the doorway, wearing a white suit with blue accents on its lapels. Given how the outfit bears elements to his everyday wear, you entertain yourself with the notion that work life never seems to leave him, no matter the circumstance.

Monsieur Neuvillette, the Chief Justice of Fontaine, is comically frozen in his place.

You raise an amused brow. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he says, blinking, before proceeding to shut the door behind him, beginning to walk toward you with a hesitant pace. 

You flash him a brief, cordial smile, but a grimace manages to fight through. “You ready?”

He stops before he can get too close. “I’ve spent days convincing myself that I was, but to tell you the truth, I am not so sure,” he whispers, gaze lingering on the flowers woven through your hair, to the earrings clasped to either side of your ears. He does not dare look any further. 

Neuvillette finds himself at a loss for words. Should he offer you words of comfort? No, that would only rile you further. 

The two of you motion to different spots in unison, lips parting to say similar words.

“I bought you a gift —”

“No, please, your gift first—”

“I insist that you present to me my gift first, to avoid disappointment.” You think he takes it lightly when he chuckles. But for once, it truly isn’t in jest.

“I thought this gift would be fitting.” He reaches into his breast pocket and presents to you a bag. Curiosity piqued, your brows raise. It doesn’t take much discerning to realise that the fragrance emanating from it is, in fact, a handpicked array of tea packets.

“Oh. Thank you for this, I needed to restock my stash of it but I had gotten a little lazy in doing so.” You fidget with the bag antsily, taking a peek at the content. Pulling the drawstring closed, you face Neuvillette, to whom returns the look with an expectant one. “If you’d just give me a moment.”

Pacing toward the dressing table, you reach for his gift, making an effort to avoid your reflection in the mirror. You turn around and meet his eyes, only for him to break it and find interest in a… pot? 

You walk over to him and simply hand him the gift. “A notebook — for when inspiration strikes you at all the wrong times.”

“Ah, thank you. A very thoughtful present —”

“Don’t think too hard about it, Monsieur. It’s just Fontainian custom.”

A pained smile paints his short lived, light manner, and he tugs at the elastic that keeps the notebook from opening of its own will like a boy who's never seen a toy quite so fascinating. “Does it hurt to appreciate a gift?”

A spike of childish reminiscence leaves your lips before you can think anything of it.  “On apprécie mieux le soleil quand on a connu la pluie.” We appreciate the sun better when we have known the rain. 

Neuvillette’s expression softens into recognition. “On trouve toujours que la douleur est moins amère après l'avoir sentie quelque temps,” We always find that pain is less bitter after we have felt it for a while. “That quote derives itself from an old play. How did you come to know of it?”

“Well, Monsieur, like any normal person, I had interests. I was once a fan of the arts, poetry, plays, you name it — but look at where I ended up.” 

“I never knew you were so attuned to the fine arts. I should have purchased an anthology if I knew of it.”

“Dwelling on it won’t do anything, Chief Justice,” you stop to adjust your glove. “Is our escort here yet? The wedding reception begins in under two hours.”

“We shall anticipate their arrival within ten minutes. Shall we adjourn to the entrance promptly?”

If you were anymore rushing with adrenaline you would’ve answered immediately, but you notice that your head feels a little bare. “I certainly do wish that were the case — but I do still have a veil to put on. So if you don’t mind.”

“Alright then. I shall be waiting by this very couch.” He points to the leather seat you’ve grown accustomed to in your stay in the Palais, and promptly sits, making sure to look away. 

For the nth time today, you make your way to the vanity, and try again. It almost drives you mad at how it just cannot sit right, and your heart pounds anxiously against your chest as if in sync with the intrusive ticking of the nearby clock. 

A distant voice interrupts your struggle. “Do you require hel—”

“No. I am fine. Just, ever so amazingly, fine.” Your response is tinged with sarcasm, a hint of irritation slipping through despite your attempts to mask it.

Ignoring Neuvillette's persistent offers of assistance, you wrestle with the veil again. And again. And again. Each attempt is punctuated by audible sighs of exasperation, likely loud enough for him to hear from across the room.

With your eyes still trained on the reflection of the veil, you ask the other person occupying the room an offhand question: “Do you remember when you asked if I needed help?”

“Yes, I do remember it very well.”

“Well I think an emergency such as this is worth warranting help.” 

Before you can even finish your sentence, he rises gracefully from his seat. As he moves closer, occupying space in the reflection beside you, his eyes lock onto yours with a depth of uncertainty that sends a shiver down your spine. Ego aside, you feel bare, stripped, vulnerable.

His words brush against the nape of your neck. “Do inform me if my touch proves too unyielding,”

You take a nervous gulp and choose a nod over words, fearful that any utterance might betray your inner turmoil. Neuvillette deftly accepts the veil from your hands, then gently pushes a few strands back with a practised touch. His left hand traces your bare shoulder, a fleeting warmth that tantalises before dissipating, now lingering at the very lobe of your ear — and your lungs begin to plead for more air as you begin to hear your heart beating against your skull, the cloth of the Iudex’s suit the sole barricade between scandal and sin.

But there’s no one to stop you.

“That is enough,” you remark, turning to face him with a newfound resolve — and in that instant, a dawning horror grips you, realising it to be a grave oversight. There is something terribly wrong with the air in this room! Your eyes, usually sharp and commanding, now betray a flicker of uncertainty, quickly masked by a defiant lift of your chin. It doesn’t seem to last, your authority dwindling — robbing you of composure, the marble floors swirling in your vision; your high ground caves beneath you and it stirs a strange, undefinable confusion of feeling. It's as if all sense and logic have been threatened by his proximity alone, his face uncomfortably near yours, hand still in your hair. Despite the undeniable allure that you might grudgingly acknowledge, your stance remains firm, a silent refusal to entertain such thoughts, buried beneath the weight of your loathing for him.

Pull yourself together. This is the man who ruined your life.

You swat his hand away with a quick, dismissive motion — a gesture of indifference, of your forced aversion. There's a fleeting expression of disappointment that crosses his features, but you steel yourself against any sympathy, unwilling to entertain thoughts of his feelings. Instead, you draw in a deep breath, the cool air filling your lungs as you straighten your posture, a silent act of regaining control over your emotions.

“Did I clip it on too tight?”

“No. No you didn’t,” you say, taking an awkward step backwards. “It’s fine, you did half of the work.”

His eyes do not leave yours — a narrowing, apprehensive gaze that has you fighting against all your composure. 

You take a brief once-over of yourself in the mirror before letting out a breathless, dry laugh. “We should get going.” He really did good work on that cloth — but what is to be made of him as a husband (however temporary)  if he wasn't able to do something as simple as clipping something in your hair?

His engagement ring glints in the blooming sun. “We shall.”

____

The hour preceding the arrival of guests is nothing short of chaos, with eager individuals clamouring at the doors of the coach in a flurry of excitement. With all your judgmental tendency, you cannot help but regard them with a tinge of annoyance, at their fervour for a touch of fame, at a corrupt ideology planted into them — a flaw they have no one to blame for but themselves. An imperceptible roll of your eyes goes unnoticed by the man next to you, who seems nothing but aloof amidst the commotion.

“How civil,” you chide, clearly amused at the state of madness possessing these people.

“Ah, well,” Neuvillette replies with a knowing smile, “I suppose you're quite familiar with their ways, given your role as the Head of Civil Affairs.”

“Archons forbid a woman be fascinated,” you muse, a sneer making its way to replace the frown that had come to form since your time in the Palais.

The man at the wheel swerves to the right, and you grip onto the handle by your side of the coach, but the effort is fruitless when you end up scooted up against your fiancé’s arm. Before Neuvillette can make a reaction of it, you step on all of whatever he might be thinking. “I know, I know, you think I cannot get enough of you.”

The Iudex uses his right arm to help yourself back up — but you shake your head. His brows furrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s called humour, Monsieur. You’re going to need some of it.”

He says nothing.

After what feels like aeons, the coach jerks to a sudden halt — and before you can lurch forward, Neuvillette instinctively extends his arm to shield you.

You eye his arm with a raised brow. “That wasn’t required of you.” 

Though visibly hurt, he soundlessly slips his arm away, and turns to open the door.

Reaching to do the same, you find that Neuvillette happened to reach an inhumane speed and is now opening yours. He offers his hand, but you find support in the handle near your seat instead.

But there is one important thing you seem to forget. Eyes follow.

Neuvillette seems to come to the same conclusion and gives you a knowing look. You begrudgingly accept his hand, heels meeting on cement.

You wish not to engage in whatever he seems to be planning behind those eyes that gleam like ice: cold and unforgiving, and yet, you realise this is what you’ve signed your life for — to act, to be a pawn mercilessly thrown around on the table.

Standing at the precinct of the mairie, amidst the bustling noise, a stark loneliness envelops you. You're about to walk down the aisle as an orphan, bereft of a mother's reassurance or a father's farewell kiss. Gripping Neuvillette a little tighter, you cling to the only semblance of support and he stops (everyone else surrounding the barricade does too, but you pay it no mind). 

___

Judging by Lady Furina’s shriek at your appearance, you sense her disapproval of how you look. “Y—Your makeup! It’s smudged! Oh God.”

Your hand hesitantly brushes against your cheek, detecting the subtle dampness where your makeup has indeed betrayed you. With a superficial calmness, you respond, “It should be expected, Lady Furina, given the unpredictability of the weather as of late.” Despite the Hydro Archon’s critical gaze, you maintain a dignified demeanour, unwilling to let her judgement dampen your already heavy heart.

Neuvillette intervenes before Lady Furina can continue her scrutiny. “Lady Furina, the wedding reception commences in fifteen minutes. I kindly request you save your critiques for another time.” His protective stance shields you momentarily, prompting you to seek out Sedene amidst the commotion.

You venture further into the hall, and to your satisfaction, find them giggling with baskets in their hands, their dresses a perfect blue against the backdrop of the glass architecture. Bands of joyous light peek stream through the windows, casting a sheen against the silk of your dress. 

The Melusines pause in their chatter, their eyes widening in admiration as you approach. “Madame!” they exclaim, encircling you in excitement. Their gentle inspection of your dress brings a fleeting sense of satisfaction amidst everything.

However, Sedene’s gasp and concerned inquiry shatters the brief respite. “What happened?”

You attempt nonchalance, replying, “What do you mean?”

“Let's put that aside for the moment, shall we? What's important is that you look your best,” Sedene declares, determined. She leads you to the dressing room, where makeup supplies are scattered in a chaotic array, likely the result of others' hurried preparations. You note the various shades of lipstick and the slightly uncomfortable puckering of the Melusines’ lips all likely because such application of the cosmetic was in a rush. Sedene works swiftly, applying powder to salvage what remains of your makeup, her movements deft and purposeful.

After a brief pause of silence, you rub your hands against either side of your arms in an attempt to find warmth. Sedene prompts your eyes to close, and you hear her tap her brush against an eyeshadow palette. A familiar softness of a brush swipes over your eyelids, the quiet bringing the Melusine to hum jubilantly in tandem with the strokes. 

You hear the door creak open, but the brush lingering on your eyelid has you still, unable to move. “Ah. There you are,” the voice says, a middle ground between panic and relief.

Your lips pull upwards in sardonic spite. “Yes, Monsieur Neuvillette, I am well aware that we have but a few minutes left — but won’t you give your fianceé a few minutes of solace before she walks down the aisle with you? You can have her all you want until you grow tired of it.”

Satisfaction courses through you when your response is met with a tense hush, abuzz with silence that dances like errant shadows against the walls. “What, cat got your tongue?”

“No, no, certainly not. We shall rendezvous by where we met Lady Furina, if you do not mind.”

What difference would it make if you did, in fact, mind? Could time, against its natural course, be  reversed at the hands of a clock at your beck and call?

“I have no problem with that. Now, if you would excuse me.”

Neuvillette acquiesces, and this you know from the way the pad of his boot clicks against the cement instead of the wood tiling the floors of the room, each step a catalyst for the brimming tautness. 

The frantic brush of the trail of his coat twirls the strands of your hair and you make no interest in fixing it. Response would be idle, a futile attempt at salvaging the rubble of whatever the two of you have.

And with almost no regard for the now tense quietude, Sedene resumes her putting on of your makeup. You think you can almost slip this under the rug for how easily a quarrel like this could go under Sedene’s nose — but it appears that you forget that naivety comes with a lack of filter. 

“Neuvillette tells me you aren’t entirely fond of him.”

A wrinkle forms between your brows and your eyelids push against the brush that hovers above it. “What?”

A hand in which she holds nothing comes to fly over her mouth. “Was I not supposed to say that?”

You scoot further into the stool, the rustle of your dress leaving the ground. I suppose this discussion has come earlier than anticipated, the thought is rueful, a catalyst that weighs you down just as much as your dress. “You're not wrong,” you finally admit; though your voice is soft, only the most adept of hearing would hear the edge that cuts a thin abrasion through the air. “But fondness is a luxury I've learned to live without.”

“You make it seem like he had committed a crime,” Oh, how vicious of a contrast. But what he had done to you, it might as well be.

“It’s… complicated, Sedene. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, dear,” Sedene murmurs, shifting eyeshadow palettes and lipsticks alike into an arranged array, the mess you were once greeted with now left with no trace to a crime. 

You shake your head, bitterness possessing the shift in your bearing.  “I do not need your pity,” you assert, though the words feel hollow even to your own ears. “What matters is that this must go on. For however long it wills to.” With practised ease, you straighten your posture, a facade of composure settling over you like a second skin. 

Sedene nods slowly, her gaze thoughtful. “As long as you're alright,” she says softly, her concern palpable.

“I always am,” you reply, exhaling a shaky breath you hope goes unnoticed by the Melusine in front of you.

You hear someone (or something) scurry past the door, and Sedene promptly peeks from your side, her eyes widening before she waves at whoever it is.

“Who…?”

“Kiara has just gone to usher the guests. You must go. It is nearly time,” Sedene's voice breaks the tranquillity, grounding you back to the horror you find reality. With a shaky breath, you steel yourself for what lies ahead, drawing upon the fleeting moments of solace and camaraderie within the dressing room as you prepare to face the orchestrated spectacle awaiting outside.

____

The bouquet of flowers thrust into your hand by Lady Furina slips slightly in your hold, and you await behind the grand doors of the hall, except there is no one to guide you through the aisle. A sudden, icy cool works from your fingertips, the cause of your own fault. 

Frost accumulates at the bottom of the wrapped posy, but you crush it before it festers any further up the stems. The glow of your vision is the sole source of light that falters in tandem with the flutter of your heartbeat, and you recognise it well — it does not stem from excitement; rather, from an overwhelming confusion of impending doom.

Aeife and Aeval come to hold the train of your dress, Sedene and Kiara, ever giddy, come to stand in front of you — one, holding a basket of flowers, and the other, meticulously protecting the rings in the palms of her hands.

The colloquy breaks off as a beam of light peeks through a crack in the door. Before you can make a name for yourself as a runaway bride, the gasps of all almost succeed in shattering your resolve — but you swallow, choosing to use it as a vessel to fuel the unwavering smile that comes to paint over your lips. You feel it creep up to the squint of your eyes, but the only receiver of the sting happens to be the man standing high and mighty at the end of the aisle.

You can almost hear the judging hushes of ‘an orphaned bride?’ and its more degrading counterparts stirring from the crowd.  Keys of a piano start in a rapid crescendo, arpeggios drowning out the whispers of condemnatory tones regarding the absence of the man next to you.

But scandal is what fuels the people, you conclude, a more stirring, grim smile coming to twitch at the corners of your lips. 

Kiara skips down the aisle, opening the way with flowers, excitedly giggling as she makes her way through the stretch.

Every step you take towards the man that you have come to hold in a loathful regard grows more weighted with hesitance. 

You reach the steps, catching a glance of Clorinde and Wriothesley sitting beside each other, along with a woman you do not recognise clad in a black dress, blonde hair tied neatly with a ribbon.

Helping yourself with your trail, you bring yourself to level your gaze with your future husband, eyes flickering in uncertainty, his mirroring yours. 

(You try to ignore the absolute excuse of a woman officiating the wedding to your left, but you cannot.)

Lady Furina’s eyes dart between the both of you with a childlike wonder, a growing grin showing teeth flashing in the rising sun; cruel, but a smile nonetheless. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we are here to witness the most influential of marriage unions Fontaine has ever seen! Please, provide your utmost respect.”

A light courtesy of clapping incites from her very words, and through the very edges of your peripheral vision you see her cant her head to the side, basking in the pleasure. 

Her loud, and debatably authoritative voice drops to a whisper, as the smile she dons stays picture perfect — a smile, that to the naked eye, would appear that she is soundless and simply happy. “Please tell me you memorised your vows.”

You do not give her the satisfaction in turning your head to her; instead, it stays fixed in place, taking in the man that stands as stiff as a rod in front of you, further fueling the confident tilt of your chin.

 “Why, of course,” you start, “But we must proceed now, or they will grow suspicious. Surely you must agree, mon amant?”

Neuvillette blinks, shaking him of his stupor. He appears awfully dazed, the distinct authority you know that applied exclusively to the Chief Justice pools at his feet, disrobed him clean. He takes your hands in his, the agonising act of a real, authentic smile coming to oppose his duty as the ever impartial.

“I, Monsieur Neuvillette, take you to be my wife, promising to hold you close from this day onward, through every joy and every challenge, in times of plenty and times of scarcity, in sickness and in health. I vow to love you deeply and cherish our bond, knowing that nothing but death itself can part us.” The words leave like a burden, and you take it with morbid conclusion that the words you must say will have you linked inextricably with him, no matter the farce.

“I…I take you, Neuvillette, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, through better or worse, through richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; until death parts us.” You let out a defeated sigh, the only aspect of your form that betrays the rest of your otherwise joyous mannerism. 

Lady Furina’s eyes light up with a brightness of a thousand fires, exuberance radiating from her despite her affinity with water. “Monsieur Neuvillette, will you take her to be your partner through life? Will you love her, protect her, and spend your days in laughter together forever?”

His grip on your hands tightens a little, the friction of glove against glove exuding a warmth that snakes up to the tip of your spine.  “I do.”

“And to the bride,” her gaze fixes on yours, intense like a hawk's to its prey, “will you take Neuvillette to be your partner through life? Will you love him, cherish him, and pledge your days to laughter and love for all eternity?"

A thousand rational voices come to scream in response. No! they say, objecting to the very idea of it. It sickens you, that in all your years of living, that this is how you are to be wed; forcefully, stripping you of all sense of control. But alas, who are you to make that choice? The sole influence you hold over Fontaine’s population is but a fraction of the people's devotion towards the Hydro Archon. It would mean nothing of your rebellion.

“I do,” are the words that spill like poison from your lips, betraying your own autonomy, betraying the promise you vowed to yourself that night, hidden in your closet. 

Sedene eyes you with pity as she presents the rings, but you dismiss it with a quick glance away pretending to find interest in the way the clouds swarm above the glassed roof.

He makes a calculated move to lift your right hand, making sure of the absence of an engagement ring that lies in your left (he cannot help but be meticulous in  handling your cold touch). He then reaches to remove your glove, but you shake your head. No need for that, you order with your eyes alone, and the solemn smile on your lips says just as much. With a knowing nod, his hand slips from your hold, leaving you with nothing but a looser fit for a glove.

You make the intent of no longer meeting his eyes when he slips the ring on, the band of blue an irresistible target for burglars who do not know any better. Though the ring fits like a dream, you cannot say the same for yourself; how do you fit in as a bride? Before being tangled in this rout, the very notion of marriage was a faraway fantasy; a pipe dream. It was, and still is something that only fairy tales could fulfil. Fairytale indeed, for what you face right now is hellish, an arrangement designed primarily for Lady Furina’s own personal gain.

Sedene shuffles to your side, and when you turn to look at her, you can only make out the blonde head of hair from under the pillow where the last wedding ring sits. She pushes it slightly forwards to make for an easier reach, a move that brings the edge of the cushion to touch the tips of your fingers. Hopeless is what can only be described of your effort in bringing the ring to level with the Iudex’s own, admittedly warm hand. 

Neuvillette’s gaze bores into yours, and this, you do not need to affirm for yourself; it is truth, as is the word of the law. Your dress shields how you move to steady yourself (because, frankly, you think you might just lose consciousness if you don’t), the probing eyes of those in the crowd a factor you further take into consideration at your own, reckless ambivalence.  

The moment this ring pushes against his finger, it will all be set in place — and the final verdict lies in your hands. You briefly entertain the childish notion that you’re almost back as the Acting Chief Justice — though, really, it is a stupid distraction.

And so you bite your own hand, the one that feeds you. The band slips on with troubled attempt, its own reluctance a humorous prospect you amuse yourself to.

Lady Furina's hands shoot out from her sides, buzzing with exhilaration. “Monsieur Neuvillette, the Iudex of Fontaine, and Madame (Name), the Head of Civil Affairs are now officially wed! Put your hands together for this union!” Furina bellows, voice ricocheting off the glass walls of the town hall. This is the only time you revel in her love for spectacle, an uproar of celebration conjured by the command of a god. 

Amidst the mass of commemoration lie the most miserable: the newlyweds; the ones, who in all of tradition, should be amongst the completely joyous — and yet, here they stand, rigid and mourning. 

What you do next is not by the command of Furina, but of your own volition. 

You make the first move to step closer. It is a silent vow you make to your husband. I will not forgive you, but for once, I make an exception, just for this moment. You reach for his tie, fingers tracing the fabric as you pull him close, until the only sound you hear is of the both of you breathing, until you two are nose to nose, foreheads touching.

The longer you stand in such a manner only serves to heighten the thundering acclaim of the crowd, a ceremonious cacophony of anticipation leaving you to marvel at how the rain outside roars a solemn hymn in response.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice husky and unfamiliar, as though it hadn’t been used. You forcibly guide his arm around your waist, feeling the warmth of his touch against the cloth of your dress, a silent reassurance, however unideal.

“It is of no consequence, Chief Justice,” you whisper, a breathless act of convincing, a facade you know deceives no one. “The damage has been done.”

a/n: sorry for putting this out so late I got sick midway thru writing this chap[ter LITERALYL almost got admitted cuz my head was pounding like crazy

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter ten

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, clorinde, navia, furina ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 6.1k

Amongst those of grandeur and coin, you would assume the elite would make a better run for their money. Yet, judging from the perfervid eyes of many that stand by the wide precinct of the ballroom, you think you might’ve just assumed wrong.

You make note of this as you study them with the eyes of a hawk through your coach window, anticipating the swirl of opinions and envious, lidded stares.

The dress you wear is cinched at the waist, hugged by a pin hidden from the inner folds of cloth — the glimmer of sequined colour reflecting into the periphery of your eye. It was a change made on a whim, for the previous dress was a touch too pink to match the formality of such an occasion. And, to be fair, the pamphlet presented you with a plethora of options, making it exceedingly difficult to settle on the perfect one from the get-go. Your plus one sits to your left in the carriage, a reasonable distance between you both to further up the stifling air.

You do not wish to comment on what he has chosen to wear for the evening, his usual judicial robe replaced with something of the likeness to his wedding garb. So, instead, you pick a route that is sure to stir idle gossip.

“Do you know of Lady Furina’s activities as of late?” you question, eyes trailing to the raindrops that warp down in rapid races on the window.

By the sharp ruffling of his clothes you can almost picture the expression on his face: a panicked, borderline surprised look of bewilderment that this, out of all topics, is the one you chose to spark conversation. “I do not know if I should say.”

More like he does not want to, you snarl.

“Oh, come on, don’t give me that — it’s not like she’s here.”

He does not respond, his silence thickening the air between you. The air is blazing, and you can feel the heat of his presence searing into your skin.

Thanking the Archons that he cannot see your face of nonplus, you scrunch your nose to calm your nerves. Turning abruptly in your seat to face him, you realise your faces are disconcertingly close, but it’s too late; you must feign indifference. The scent of his cologne, intoxicating and undeniable, overwhelms you. “This cannot be true. Surely, you jest.”

He inches his face a little further away from yours, before giving you a tight-lipped smile (well — it’s more of a grimace than anything). His breath brushes against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “I take it you aren’t in favour of her being here?”

Quirking a brow, you shuffle closer, giving him a quizzical look. Such proximity, regarded by those  conservatives, would only bring rise to more scandal; and you sure hope it does. The faster the climax, the easier the plateau. You would spare both Neuvillette and yourself more suffering. “If I said no, I bet you’d think me a doppelganger.” Your eyes lock onto his, daring him to challenge your words.

“That I would, Madame.” His voice drops a notch, almost a whisper.The way he says it sends a thrill through you, your heart beating faster in response. You use your own vulnerability as leverage, your cue a shutter of a camera’s flash in the distance. Consider it a sixth sense, but you know someone must certainly have their eyes on a certain couple in a certain carriage.

Amusement sends sparks through your veins, a flash of a smirk gleaming in the cruel light. “It’s mon coeur, Chief Justice. Fanatics would go so far as to read lips, you know.” You trail a finger down his jawbone, letting it leave the second it reaches slightly below his mouth. It comes as second nature — the act of skin against skin. You don’t feel the spark others fooled by their own blindness; to touch does not mean to love. How will one know what a novel is based on its cover alone?

Judging from how many taps against your hand it takes, you realise it is almost as if he struggles to reach for your hand to pull it away. As his hand brushes to meet your own hand at his cheek, his fingers tremble. “Please, mon coeur, now is not the time,”  he mutters, his voice strained and low. He clears his throat afterward, but the sound is thick with what you think is the effort of maintaining composure.

You tear your hand from his, reaching to fix his hair now — the curl that parts his locks undone by the way you rake your hands through them.

“Please,” he repeats, his voice softer, almost pleading now, as if he’s begging not just you but himself to stay strong. His thumb brushes gently across your knuckles, a tender gesture that belies his words, and you can feel the turmoil radiating from him. 

He draws in a sharp, cutting breath — but given the closeness, he might as well just drink in your perfume.

It takes every ounce of willpower for him to finally, reluctantly, begin to pull his hand away, and even then, it’s with a slowness that even you find odd (what do you not find odd about this man by this point?).

You make your distaste known to him with an annoyed roll of your eyes (you note that it is only the Chief Justice’s face in view, so the guise you need to uphold lies only in the most physical of actions). “Don’t tell me you are affected by our PR.” Roughly, you shove his hand back to where it originally was, your satisfied look mirroring his dishevelled one.

“If you are going to do so, at least let me know when so I am not caught off guard by… such advances.”

“Then tell Lady Furina to change the conditions in the notebook.”

“I do not know of such a notebook.”

“Odd how you easily forget such a possession that hangs in your breast pocket all the time.”

A puzzled execution of searching for the notepad deems itself fruitless when he swipes past his breast pocket to find it empty. “How…?”

You reach into your pocket (yes, your dress has pockets!) and tauntingly hold the bundle of paper up for him to see. “Judging how you failed to enact any of them on me,  I thought I'd rather do it myself — for the benefit of my own accomplishment and gain of course.” Before he can wipe off the smugness in your character, you make another diminishing comment to a habit of his that  you’ve caught on. “Not like I could read half of the content — the ink is smudged from the rain you oh, so love to stand in.” 

“I beg your finest pardon?” 

Dread overwhelms you when you realise the coach is slowing down and the murmurs of small talk are growing louder by the minute. “Is a woman pleasuring herself so taboo?”

His head shakes in the bewilderment of your comment and he shifts in his seat — making no note to move away from you, glued by… fear?  Endearment? Intrigue? “That… is not what I said. But, may I be nosy as to pry, why follow them if those rules were not meant to be adhered to by you?’

“To put it simply — I like the thrill,” you take a look at his watch, reaching for his wrist to angle it toward the moonlight so it catches the hands of the clock. “Why do you think we’re ‘fashionably late’?”

“And fix your hair. You look unkempt. Before you argue with me — I know it was of my own doing.” 

You drop his hand before the coach comes to a stop. Suddenly it is almost as if the flashes of the cameras sputter erratically at your arrival — but you know it is not for you – for the most part. Waiting patiently for Neuvillette to open your door, your eyes hook onto him walking across to your side through the rear window, adjusting the minimal space between his skin and collar, visibly unkempt. Oh, the ideas that might stem from that one moment alone! You just knowhe’s never going to hear the end of it with Furina.

The second his back turns from the audience, the facade he puts on oddly stays the same, the only change being the lighting and nothing else. He swiftly opens the door, and the cameramen rage on even more — even going so far as to request to turn their way! It almost sparks a smug look on your face to be captured in the photos, and you don’t know if you are afraid or simply exhilarated (you tell yourself the answer is the latter).

He offers a hand, and you take it with all the grace you can muster — making a statement to use your own weight to pull yourself up instead of the sanctuary of his palm.

The movement of your hands are borderline rehearsed, if not choreographed, by the way one slyly snakes around your back as a tether amongst the onslaught of photos being taken of you —the other around the cave of Neuvillette’s inner elbow and you almost quip on how it’s a lot less uncomfortable than the first time you and him made your appearances live to the whole of Teyvat.

You restrict yourself from running your mouth on the carpet, keeping it shut with the nagging thought of ‘exuding an air that betrays nothing but charm and propriety’; it is another trick in Furina’s book, but as much as she is irritating, she also is in cunning, and for this you must (begrudgingly) give her your praise. 

A man at the very foot of the ballroom almost stammers on his words upon shifting his glance from you to the Chief Justice, to which you almost scoff. He’s even got men at his feet! It’s his hair, isn’t it? His eyes flit aimlessly on the guest list, ticking off Neuvillette’s name first before reiterating the names of both of you.

“Monsieur Neuvillette, and Madame Lavigne?” The notion of affirmation falls on deaf ears as a frown comes to make its way on your face instead of a nod.

“Mon cherie, are you alright?”

‘What?”

“He has just mentioned your name.”

What a slip up. You hadn’t heard anyone call you by your last name in ages, let alone with your new one (mostly due to your insistence, but it does not hold any significance). You do admit, it still sounds unfamiliar even to your own ears.

“Yes, that should be me,” you say, springing back into your character. The word should makes it sound more suspicious than it ought to be, but you hope the young man does not latch onto any odd intonations of your phrase.

The man extends a hand that points into the ballroom, muttering a quiet ‘should be right down the hall’ before stepping aside and opening the grand door. 

When you hear it shut, you see the cameras dim in frequency, shying away as other later guests of lesser significance pass through. However, the noise doesn’t seem to quell from the endless tidings of conversation, the only difference being that it only spills from the end of the hall and not the carpet you just so happened to have walked through right before this.

The Chief Justice doesn’t seem too thrilled about all of this — justifiable in the sense of the difference of his workplace to that of insufferable people who know nothing of what to do with their wealth except spend on unnecessary luxuries: like gold plated toilet paper. You scrunch your nose in distaste.

“I do hope you know how to dance,” you tell him, more a question than anything. But you are too tired for questions, so it comes off as a statement instead of the intended quizzical tone.

Neuvillette tilts his head, hair rustling against the fabric of his clothes. “I hope so too.”

Okay… not the response you expected to hear, but you guess you could do with a few steps on the tips of your toes even if it means being in excruciating agony for just a few days.

It takes everything in you to give Neuvillette the green light in opening the doorway that leads to the actual ballroom this time, but you realise with grave regret that you are still in the midst of processing what’s to come as he pushes the door open.

Chandeliers drape from the ceiling, bedazzling the marble floors with opulent patterns cast from the crystals that appear to drip down toward the floor, strung by invisible strings hooked onto metal pegs. Prisms lined with colour trace the fine contours of rustling lace and prim ties. 

The crowd doesn’t seem to notice your grand appearance, until someone in the crowd gasps and everyone is stunned into a still silence. With such a noise comes a domino effect of other gasps, each differing in pitch. Awfully dramatic, even to someone of your tolerance. Guess one of Furina’s tactics worked, but at what cost? Now everyone’s looking at you, and Neuvillette cannot do anything —

“Please, do not be so tense. Momentous this event is indeed, but it is but another occasion,” He reassures, and all of a sudden the way his voice ricochets off the walls sounds radically similar to the baritone his voice bears in the Opera Epiclese.

Except it wasn't any formal occasion. Neuvillette's frequency of appearances outside the courtroom were and are even more than obscure now — obscure enough to consider it akin to that of a sighting of a dodo bird.

Everyone eyes him sceptically, slowly returning to their conversations. But you do not miss the way their choice of words are more contained — docile, if you will. You notice their vocabulary changes — the word ball turns into thé dansant, and commenting on rumours and gossip shifts into romance and novels.

You notice the way women with no visible ring on any of their fingers eye you with envy, seethingly jealous at your ‘success’. But is it really success if it has only brought you misery?

After standing in observance for what you think is more than a while, someone calls your name.

You whip around, losing the grip of your arm interlocked with Neuvillette’s to divert your attention — and you lose no time in grinning. “What a pleasure it is seeing you here, Clorinde,” you start, facing the blonde beside her. “And you as well, Navia. It has certainly been a while since I’ve been given the opportunity to chat with you.” “Ah, yes indeed. I’d really like for us to chat over a cup of tea someday.”

She really did live up to her reputation; from the manner in which she carries herself, to the very stitch that binds her lace hem. 

You turn your attention to Clorinde, squeezing in time for small talk. “ I suppose your schedule’s freer than usual?”

A server with a tray of champagne glasses comes passing through the throng and offers the delicacies laid out for you on a tray. You accept a glass and some canapés without a second thought — though Clorinde denies the alcohol with a polite shake of her head. “I would not say ‘free’. This place is a breeding ground for thieves — so consider it another day on the job.”

Navia tests one of the canapés by biting a sliver off the side before coughing into her hand. Clorinde shoots her a chastising look. “What?”

The blonde attempts to whisper, and though it doesn’t prove to be inefficient, it did help quench your desire of knowing what she is to say to Clorinde. “There’s steak tartare in this. Do you… want it?”

“How many times have I told you that you’re not going to like it just because you’ve tasted it more?” Out of all the things in the world, the Champion Duelist of Fontaine makes it imperative to scold her close friend about raw beef. 

Your husband wraps a hand around your waist in an act of pulling you closer, and you can only mask your disdain with a wry look and a brief check of your dress to confirm that the alcohol hadn’t spilled in the process. “What are you doing?” you seethe, gritting your teeth.

He responds with a looser wrap around your hip, soundlessly submitting to your reprimand. 

Clorinde and Navia seem surprised at such an uncharacteristic display of affection from the Iudex of Fontaine, the retracting of her head seemingly an obvious tell. “Much expected from the Champion Duelist herself. I implore you to take a break every so often. I have observed that many aren’t usually able to bear the weight for as long as they’d wish.”

She pats him on the shoulder. “Take your own advice, boss.”

Neuvillette’s chuckle drips with amusement.“That’s certainly a new title. I will take it into consideration.”

She nods her head, taking her hat off to engage in a cordial bow. Before she can lose herself amongst the crowd with the head of the Spina di Rosula, you reach for her wrist and deftly place a tea bag in her pocket. “We need to talk. And if that fails, I will send you a letter. Whatever it is — take a look at what I have given you.”

Clorinde hesitates, body halting at the command of your hand. “Alright then. We shall rendezvous near the entrance.”

Before you can give any semblance of a response, she turns, making sure to pat at her pocket as she does so. It does not save you from human interaction, however, for another voice sounds from your right: playful and distinguishable.

“If it isn’t the main couple of tonight’s event! I’ve talked to the host — myself — and you two are meant to take the dance floor once the violin commences.”

What a way to start a conversation.

There was certainly no need for pleasantries, but a simple ‘hello’ or a ‘how are you?’ would have sufficed, wouldn’t it? You make the pragmatic decision to not let your personal prejudice of Furina get in your way of complying to her rules, because this part was mainly on you — agreed to by your own pen. 

Waiting for Neuvillette to respond on your behalf, you find yourself already exhausted with the mass of people that eye you down, almost draining you of a conversation though their gazes alone; you tell yourself it doesn’t bother you, but the way your heart beat picks up against your ribcage makes you think meat is eating away at bone.

“Let me reiterate: you want us to dance as the distinguished couple?” His brows raise quizzically, his hold on your side slipping ever so slightly. 

Another server comes to approach, so you gulp down the whole glass of champagne (wincing in the process) before placing it on the tray as the move on by.

Lady Furina chuckles so loudly even a snort would be less humiliating in comparison. “Now they say there’s no such thing as ‘bad questions’, but…”

You roll your eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be finding away to deviate the prophecy? Not attend some ball?”

“I could say the same for you, Présidence du Conseil d'État.”

“Well i very much would be helping if you hadn’t gotten me into this stupid—”

She places a finger on your lips. “Hey! Keep it down!”

A maintained, high-pitched note of a violin silences the murmurs of the people  — and this includes Lady Furina’s never ending tangents you know would never stop if not for the ensemble.

You instinctively put on a brave front as the crowd disperses into a circle, leaving a space in the middle for the two of you — and as you both make your way through the crowd, they seem to part as if by a spell.

“May I have this dance?” The Chief Justice inquires, his touch ghosting over yours before you agree in the silence. His hand easily between the grooves of your fingers, softly placing his lips to your knuckles with a delicacy you can only consider to be a totally calculated act. His hold on your hand lingers on your fingertips, his touch fraying as he moves to initiate a bow.

You mirror this action, pinching the sides of your dress and bringing them up as you curtsy. Raising your head, you meet his gaze, his look equally just as weary as yours. For a split moment, it takes you back to when you stood in the shadows, fingers fidgeting behind your back hoping that your father would only taste the rust of prison for the rest of his life. But he cannot — must not look like this. This is not the look of a revered judge; it is one of a lovesick boy. And you almost throw up.

Another cue of a violin now spurs the string quartet into motion: a soft and slow minuet conjured through their very fingertips. His hold on your hand smoothly slips to interlock with your own, and he brings the other to your waist. He pulls you toward him, and it is almost peculiarly simple — the way you fall into step, blown in the wisp of music; of dull cellos and vibrant violins.

A spotlight shines from above. It is the only source of light — another entity that mimics your movements, illuminating every one of your flaws, every single imperfection. Neuvillette releases hold of your waist to guide you through a spin, a hand behind his back before he tip you backward into his arms at an angle so discreet that a mere word from you would go unnoticed. 

“Tell me, mon mari, would you trade this for another case in court?” you murmur, warmth ghosting against the nape of his neck. You lose yourself of his hold, hand still entwined with his as you leave the warmth of his body and execute this with a twirl outward, your blue gown fanning out as if it were a bouquet of periwinkle.

Your grip on his hand shifts from a knot to a palm to palm, and you find yourself in orbit of his arm, inching ever closer in expectation of a response; and your lids flutter, a brief opening to the window of your soul. You lower your sight elsewhere — to the lapels of his robe, to the platinum strands of hair that gleam like pearls in the light; if it meant that you would not remain subject to his scrutiny any further. Admittedly, you were afraid. Afraid that, in a moment where light shines down on you like the watchful gaze of the omniscient, he would see through your cracks, through your guise.

He does not know the woman before him is a fraud. 

“I’m afraid I misunderstand your inquiry,” he whispers, before masking his puzzled look for a fond, albeit manufactured look of love.

You return the look with reproach, and your eyes weigh lidded against the burden of all the people waiting for their spot on the floor; watchful, analytical eyes of the assembly stopping you from doing anything rash. That is, until Neuvillette initiates a change in a step; the steady pressure of Neuvillette’s hand on the small of your back an anchor, as much as you loath to admit it.

“Save your words then,” you say breathlessly, taking both of his hands as you both circle the perimeter of the dance floor. 

Before he can reply, the music crescendos, and he is now thrown into the momentum of string and melody. The world around you is a blur of motion and bliss as he leads you into a move.

The bass of cello and harmonising of two violins swell, tightening the invisible string bound by convenience, drawing yourself closer to the man you never thought you would have the displeasure of waltzing with. Each sway, each glide across the floor, is executed with more attunement to his every move, your own matching his.  

After another twirl, his hands reach for the curves on either side of your waist, lifting you up in his grasp. Weightlessness envelops you; he spins you around, a stunned giggle slipping through your lips — but it is drowned by the ruffle of your skirt, its hem barely tracing the ground. Gentle flames of candlelight reflect against the grooves of his sleeve.

This, expectedly, warrants many gasps of awe from the audience, their admiration a confusion of fabrication and authenticity. But it still sweeps across the ballroom nonetheless. You are acutely aware of their intense regard toward yourself as the Chief Justice’s wife more than the actual role you hold in Fontaine’s bureaucracy, and yet it is his eyes you cannot look away from. Neuvillette’s hand holds firm against the small of your back, an unnecessary touch you are unsure of appreciating or condemning.

As you straighten, you find yourself clinging onto Neuvillette’s arms in an act of desperation to keep yourself steady. You must say that this definitely took the breath out of you, spins and all. 

Every matter outside this dance seemed to vanish at another touch of the hand, another move that required his hold, one that brought your faces into almost meeting, more than once.

The melody ebbs, the final notes a cue for you to slow. Neuvillette brings you into a dip, hand steadying you as you lean into his arms. An excuse for diverting yourself from his stare did not come in your favour, for the distance between your lips and his is so close that you can feel his warmth radiating into your own skin, warm and inviting.

You shut your eyes. Benevolent and inviting? Just what am I thinking? Cut it out, you fool.

The two of you are suspended in the strain of the final note, puppeting the way your body slumps into his touch — an unfamiliar one, but one you know is able to fool the crowd. The audience watches with bated breath, the sound of breathing washed away in the sea of adrenaline. A gloved hand trails up your arm to the trace of your jaw — and you hold in regard the demurral of your husband's touch. He leans in closer, close enough to whisper into your ear. But nothing could’ve prepared you for his words.

“May I kiss you?”

Your eyes round into spheres, the strands of hair masking your admittedly unbecoming reaction. It truly feels as though this request has brought the world to a stop, the pounding of your heart slowing like a defeated bird in its cage. This is all a ruse, you tell yourself; but you cannot help but sear the sincerity indelibly into your mind.

Furrowing your brows, you cannot help but cant your head to the side. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” you hiss. You pull back slightly to catch your breath — your face almost an inch away from his, eyes narrowing in quest of searching his expression for a hint of jest. Neuvillette’s eyes now darken in the shadows, luminescent opal eyes now a stormy, turbulent hue; anyone would have caught the bona fides of the integral pillar of the law.

“It is for the crowd; for Lady Furina,” his voice soft, almost defeated. “They expect it.”

The rational part begrudgingly knows he is right, that his offer he places on the table is but a strategy to fool them any further: a performance.

And yet, the thought of his lips on yours stirs a mellow tremor of unwelcome anticipation that you hastily suppress. “Well then,” you snap, your voice cold. “But do not think for a moment that I will enjoy this.”

He dips his head in compliance, the curve of his lips an infuriatingly charming trait that has all the women in the crowd placing on the brink of fainting. “I wouldn’t dream of it, ma femme,” he replies, his lie deceptively light.

As he leans in, a tumultuous confusion of dread and something far more dangerous buzzes through your veins, sending every bone in your body to bend into his will. Closing your eyes, you steel yourself for the inevitable; and erratic thoughts sporadically burst like glass, invading your mind. How can something like this, illogical and meaningless, manage to fool the crowd? You know it is a question with a definite answer; so you question yourself again: why ask? Butyou aren’t given any time before your train of thought crashes under his fingers.

He brings his hand to your chin, drawing you closer with an allure so strong you are nearly convinced his touch is divination.  Collective gasps of onlookers, each a whisper of opinions you simply have not the time nor inclination to discern warps into pools that hum into one clump of futility as his lips brush against yours.

It is not wrong to say that this isn’t your first, and yet, you almost feel like it is. His lips against yours is gentle, almost chaste, but it ignited a stubborn fire you are loath to acknowledge. The strength of his hand at your waist firms, melting into a tender brush against the small of your back — and for a moment, you forget that this is all a farce.

You roughly push him away with your two hands against his chest, eyes staring daggers through the windows of his soul. You breath comes in shallow gasps, now a deafened noise amongst the cacophony of applause of the crowd, intoxicated in the fleeting thrill and spectacle of an act they do not wish to recognise as a lie. 

Nothing registers in your daze. You blink, fighting to regain your composure, because the lingering ghost of his lips on yours makes it unable to think straight.

Get it together! This is PR. Actors do this all the time.

“That was—” he mutters.

You move stiffly, forcing yourself to step back and put some distance between you. “Don’t read too much into it,” you say, your voice harsher than you intend. “It was just for show.”

“Of course,” he agrees, but there is a hint of something in his gaze, something that makes you wonder if perhaps, for a moment, it wasn’t all an act. You push the thought aside, unwilling to delve into the complexities of your feelings, and focus instead on the task at hand — maintaining the illusion, no matter the cost to your own heart.

Neuvillette holds out his arms for you to retire from the floor, leaving the other couples to spill into the space of the ballroom. But amidst the glittering crowd, you spot a figure, the well-worn wrinkles of his face an uncanny reflection of your own. This cannot be. You were sure your father had left, presumably perished in the process — but what of this? Why is he here, revealing himself to a crowd that is sure to recognise him and his reputation? 

A sudden, fierce constriction of your corset tightens your lungs like a vice around your ribs. Gasping, you claw at your throat for air, the once grandiose patterns of the stone walls caving into you: harsh and oppressive. Even the Chief Justice, the one to restore order, does not succeed in reaching you; and thus the attempt blurs into the fray, disregarded in the heat of your panic.

You anchor yourself in the depths of Neuvillette’s worried look, pulling yourself out of the merciless current of water. “I need some air,” you croak, hiding your face so the couples that stand waiting on the floor don’t receive but a glimpse of this stupid, nonsensical breakdown.

“Would you like me to accompany you?” he asks, making space between you both. 

“No. Please.” You practically beg, squeezing the wrists of his arm, before you flee.

_____

Neuvillette watches you intently as you blend into the mass of people, and they part instinctively, leaving a clear path for you to tread; but, the Chief Justice is no fool to trickery. As discreet as one can make themselves, he is one man that one should not — can not deceive. As you dance through the sea of bodies, a man walks against the current, trailing you with terrifyingly calculated precision. A metallic glisten betrays the sharp blade hidden from under his blazer.

Through the crowd, he meets Clorinde’s eyes; to which he concludes that she, too, is searching for where you went. She gestures with her eyes an inquiring look, to which Neuvillette responds with a quick glance toward the entrance. A mild nod is what he gets in response, and she rushes the other way, presumably through another door. 

The music strums once again, and so he takes an opportunity to rush from behind, his stride silent and quiet. For the man, however, it is almost as if he wants to make his presence known, from the set of his shoulders, to the tap of his feet against marble.

Neuvillette’s eyes narrow, focus not once slipping. He waits, watching as the man slips through the front entrance. Once he is out of view, Neuvillette follows, stride confident with urgency.

The man makes a sharp turn, reaching through the front of his blazer to reach for what Neuvillette presumes to be his blade.

_____

You pace through the garden, letting the trail lead you to the balcony that overlooked the Palais Mermonia. Clamping your eyes shut, you allow the hold your hands have on the railing to relax; a sharp, shaky exhale spills from your lips, hot tears threatening to pool at the base of your eyes.

The thought of your father’s crazed eyes sends you into a spiral, seeing a memory of him the more your eyes remain closed.

A rustle of leaves.

Footsteps.

There is only one person who would've followed you here. “I’ve already told you leave me alone, Chief Justice.”

“Chief Justice? You mistake me for someone else, birdie.”

Birdie. Your eyes shoot open, immediately diverted by the disturbance. Your hands slip from the railing, turning so that instead your back is pressed against it — the thrill of anticipation buried under the solemn rush of sentiment. 

This man was, in fact, not your lawful husband.

Oh, wow, you are certainly graced with the inexplicable miracle of luck!

“Why aren’t you replying, hm? Too ashamed of what you did to me to speak?”

Everything in your power to calm yourself down does not, matter-of-factly, calm you down. The man’s voice — his voice — is too cutting, too violent. The world spins, a minute sense of rationality bringing you to palm your thigh, feeling for the sharp edge of the dagger you have shoved in a garter. Clorinde surely has some sixth sense, because —

“(Name)?”

Your chest practically heaves as you let out a sigh of relief, the chilling autumn night bringing your breath to leave as cold white plume. The exhale is prolonged — albeit very tremulous, and it’s almost as if you can hear your heart beating in your head with more clarity than ever. 

“Clorinde?”

“I saw you leave the ballroom, so I figured this is where you'd be —” 

Taking one blazing glare at the man that hides in a bush, you stagger toward her as if poisoned. You take refuge in her arms for a short, stunned moment; Clorinde’s hands remain suspended, frozen. 

“Listen to me,” you whisper, voice wavering. “We must leave this instant.”

She grips onto your shoulders to pull you away. Her hand immediately moves to her hip, the brush against metal light, but sharp.“Is there something? Someone following?” 

“Save your questions.” you retort.

It is obvious that she notices the glassy gleam of your eyes in the moonlight — but she is smart enough not to pry. In the spur of the moment, she glances at Neuvillette, and nods her head. “Alright, just stay close to me.” You cast another look into the darkness, only to find it empty, uninhabited, and ominously still.

a/n: can y'all guess what neuvillette did to the guy🤭🤭🤭

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter seven

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, furina, sedene ⌗ warnings : brief mention of like pregnancy but not relevant to the plot ⌗ word count: 5.9k

Maybe you should’ve given in when Neuvillette offered to nurse you.

"Allow me, you're hurt."

"If you really want to help, please, get out of my apartment."

But having almost fainted in front of the Iudex of Fontaine, let alone having him carry you, is enough for all you can bear. The embarrassment is something you cannot think of; you cannot become susceptible to his offerings any longer — even if it is at the expense of your life. You swear yourself an oath.

Thus, you made a choice — to endure the pain. You’d rather sit alone in your apartment than allow him to see you so… rough. The prospect of further humiliation brings you more justification and reason for your ‘rejection’ to the Chief Justice’s offer. The worst of all is that it has been pouring the whole night, the usual calm of rain a newfound annoyance. 

It is almost dawn, and you’ve been trying your hand at different home remedies to help your now fully reopened wound. Antiseptic. Aloe vera. Honey, even. Not much a pretty sight for someone who’s been making it to the main headlines for a little under a month straight. You know your mother would curse you for such unruliness; but what were you supposed to do? Walk out on the streets bloodied, clutching at your stomach like a to-be-mother in labour? Oh, no, no — you cannot imagine the sight of it! 

You do not like how a set of sewing needles sitting on your dresser seem to stare daggers into you.

Reaching for them, you blink, retracting your hand. Just what are you doing? You could barely manage your own two stitches down in the fortress. What makes you think you can manage more than that? Your mind flickers to your schedule, littered with mundane duties to whatever unreasonable conditions Lady Furina imposed on you barely a month after being assigned the job. Do not be selfish, a voice chastises, firm and motherlike.

You nibble on your nail, weighing your options.

Whatever; you decide on sending a letter to the diligent soul tending to the mailbox, and rationalise that a day without your presence would not be a burden. It also conveniently provides you with a valid reason to grant yourself a day of respite before the whirlwind of significant events ensues (the wedding, and the preparations for it has your mind reeling and you would not like to think about it right now). Indulging in a bit of self-care seems tempting, a cleft in a rock. A mischievous voice in your mind edges out the more sensible thoughts, urging you towards a touch of mischief. An escape from routine would not disrupt anything too important, would it?

There's a glint in your eye as you entertain the notion of self-indulgence. Perhaps you could simply relish the luxury of an uninterrupted afternoon nap and tough out the worst of it unconsciously. This possibility, though seemingly trivial, is worthy enough of your consideration that you mindlessly reach for the set on your vanity.

You draw in a sharp breath and try not to scream as the needle pierces through your skin.

_____

Neuvillette does not need to look up from his desk to know that the woman making herself welcome to his office is Lady Furina. She walks in with her arms outstretched, grinning as if the spotlight was shining directly at her, casting shadows of her figure against the carpeted floors.

“What is it?” he questions, his eyes still trained on a report he, admittedly, barely understands. The quill hovers over the parchment, a bead of ink pooling at the quill’s tip.

“Oh, how rude of you, Chief Justice,” Lady Furina remarks with a playful tone. “I expected a warm welcome, and this is what I get? The cold shoulder? Not only do you give me such a rude greeting, it’s raining. ”

This forces him to meet the Hydro Archon’s stare; his gaze is piercing — narrowed in brewing irritation. “Being the Hydro Archon does not exempt you from knocking on my door.”

Lady Furina, undeterred by his stern demeanour, places a hand on her chest in mock shock. “Are you teaching me manners, Monsieur Neuvillette?”

Neuvillette wastes no time in answering her question, and instead, he places his quill into its inkwell with a deliberate motion. “Lady Furina, you of all people should know that time is of the essence for me. Please, get straight to the point.”

“Why, yes, yes,” Lady Furina responds, a playful grin coming to press at her lips. “I was just wondering where that fiancée of yours is. Forgive me for indulging in my curiosity, but I took a little peek into her office to find it vacant; surely you must know where she is…”

Each party isn’t obliged to know the whereabouts of the opposite party unless consented to. 

Neuvillette acknowledges this silently, his expression remaining composed but internally processing the implications.

The condition rings through his head, but he dismisses it with a shake of his head; a trivial concern, for it does not apply. You had willingly told him where to go, and the place in question was your apartment. His mind wanders back to the events of the previous night — to when your consciousness waned, nestled close to his chest, your head gently resting against his shoulder. He should have tended to you, despite your protests to the contrary.

What a sight it was. He resists the urge to remember the trickle of blood seeping through your clothes, and it fills him with deep regret. Perhaps I should have been firmer; or maybe I am overthinking? Maybe she isn’t as injured as she appeared. 

Are you alright? Are you cursing him out?

A little voice tells him that you are strong enough to brave it, and that he shouldn’t let paranoia have him in its clutches — but this does not prevent him from feeling a morsel of worry.

He blinks. “That I do not, unfortunately.”

“W—well, you must’ve heard from her, certainly you have!” She shuffles closer to the Iudex until the only thing barricading him from her is his own desk. 

Neuvillette rests a hand under his chin. “Is there any evidence for you to say that I ‘certainly have’ heard from her?”

“Why would I have evidence of your dealings with your fiancée —” The question goes unanswered when her eyes drop to his hand. “Where. Is. Your. Ring.” Her jaw slacks further, and he swears he sees her tear up; the words spill more like a statement rather than a question, and Neuvillette presumes it’s from her shock that she delivered it in such a manner.

The hand leaves its resting place and he flexes it, the absence of a glimmer going very well noticed by Furina. “I don’t remember it being written on the note that it was necessary for me to possess an engagement ring.” He observes his hands further, gaze lingering on his ring finger.

“Did she — did she not inform you of it? At all?”

“I don’t think she found it of any importance to comment on. At all.”

Both of her hands cup her face, and she peeks at Neuvillette through the slits of her fingers. “Good heavens, Neuvillette, you hopeless thing! Have you no inkling of the time-honoured traditions of matrimony? What conceivable purpose does it serve for your fiancée to be seen with a ring if you, in your infinite wisdom, fail to sport one yourself? I implore you, someone, anyone, sedate me before I succumb to the sheer absurdity of your idiocy!” Though her voice is almost brought to a shout, the muffling of it brings the Iudex to inch closer in order to recognise the blurry syllables of her ‘speech’.

Furina’s tangent stuns him into a rare silence. Such audacity for her to claim that he, the Chief Justice of Fontaine, can be considered clueless of the customs of matrimony. He’s overseen many divorce cases over his time as Iudexm and yet he still allows the surge of defence dies when he silently admits his lacking in this field. After all, he was hardly an expert in such matters, having dedicated his life to legal intricacies rather than social conventions. However, instead of retorting immediately, Neuvillette takes a deep breath, his expression masking any hint of embarrassment.

“Clueless, you say?” Neuvillette finally speaks, tone measured and composed, betraying none of the incredulity he feels. “I must confess, Lady Furina, that the matters of matrimony are a far cry from being my forte. This, you should know. Legal precedents and judicial matters occupy my mind more than the intricacies of… wedding bands, but I am always open to knowing more about it, shall you wish it.”

He pauses, fixing her with a steely gaze. “If you seek to enlighten me on the customs of matrimony, I am willing to listen. But I must admit, my expertise lies elsewhere, and I make no pretence otherwise. And as for sedation, I'm afraid that's not within my purview.”

She raises a quizzical brow. “Since when did you grow a bite? It’s that girl, isn’t it? Ever so sharp in her words…”

The Chief Justice almost cracks a smile at how this is almost the third time she’s deviated from the topic. “You seem surprised. To be with someone is to grow their mannerisms, and it was you who placed the both of us in such a predicament, was it not?”

“You!— Anyway… If everything’s all in order, the wedding should be set in place by next week. The venue, invitations, broadcasting channels will all be settled; you just need to ready your suit and her dress. Sounds fun? Ah — and don’t worry, my dearest Neuvillette, I will get that ring for you,” she says, satisfaction laced in her tone; she is a little too proud of herself almost, a familiar smugness seeping through her grin. 

Neuvillette stiffens. “Next week? But it hasn’t even been a month. What about the other conditions we have not yet fulfilled?”

“By next week, I mean the end of it — so basically in two weeks time. Do you think I do not know my schedule? You seem to be in a rush. Do you so desperately want to rid yourself of her? My, I knew she was insufferable, but I never thought that you of all people would want her gone so terribly.”

He stands abruptly from his chair and the usual scraping noise is muted from the blue carpet that sits under his feet. Though the sound itself isn't a surprise, the shift in demeanour he dons is extremely out of the ordinary (he does not seem to have estimated how loud this action might be; the slight wince of his eye says just as much). “But it comes with reason, Lady Furina. She has been under this job for barely under a month and a half — and you expect her to be reasonable, when she hasn’t a clue on how to navigate her new post. The first thing you think to do is pin every mistake on her, belittle her in her face and behind her back. Have you ever paused to think that maybe she is ‘insufferable’ because you push all the wrong buttons? I must say, I had hoped for better from someone of your stature, Lady Furina.”

The two of them stand face to face, as if awaiting the other’s response, and none of them seem partial in doing so. 

Knock.

Neuvillette’s attention diverts almost immediately, staring daggers at whoever stands behind that door; Furina seems unfazed, too unbothered to turn around and let curiosity get the best of her. The sharp intake of breath he takes stings his nose, and he absentmindedly pinches the bridge of it. 

He brings a fist to his mouth and clears his throat. “Do you mind waiting a moment?”

“...But it is a letter.”

Neuvillette steals a puzzled glance at Furina, and finds that she seems just as blur as he is. He does not speak to her before striding down to the door.

He opens it a little, allowing a little of the man’s face to peek through the slit. “Who is it from?”

“It’s addressed as…” The young man takes a closer look at the letter, an index finger skimming under the letters. “a lipstick stain?”

Neuvillette looks closer, and notices a slightly mauve outline on the bottom of the envelope. He would have brushed it off if it had been anything other, but he realises that the lipstick shade is the one you use most frequently, and so he has a change of heart.

The clouds part and he feels the heat of the blooming sun against his back.

“Oh? May I have it, then?” Neuvillette asks, hand slowly extending through the gap in the door. He does not know if the boy is terrified or is simply at a loss for words, but before he can thank him, he’s disappeared.

The Iudex turns around, met with Furina peering over his shoulder. “What was that? Who is it from?” Furina returns to her height when her heels touch the ground.

“It is simply none of your business,” he states, brushing past her. “My private affairs are to be kept under lock and key, and that includes you.”

Though he does not see her, he senses her swift pivot on her heel, the rustle of fabric accompanying her movement. He feels her eyes boring into his back, her gaze fixing on him with a sort of intense scrutiny he can almost feel prickling on his skin.

“None of my business? I know it’s from that fiancée of yours, and you want to hide it from me?”

He does not bother to face her.“Why is everything that pertains to her required to be known to you?”

“Well — I made this arrangement happen, so I should be entitled to your dealings.”

“Entitled to my dealings you are not, Lady Furina. You spend so much time on this… ‘marriage’, you haven’t a clue what to do about the problem actually at hand, do you?”

“I do know what to do, Chief Justice.” Her voice is stern, but Neuvillette does not buy into the farce; he hears very well the quiver of her voice under that facade.

“Well then. Enlighten me.” He gazes imploringly out of his window, fingers tapping impatiently against the nape of his neck. 

“Many things, Chief Justice, many things. I do not know if I can list them from the sheer abundance of my aid —”

He cranes his neck to glance over his shoulder, his body keeping firm in its place. “So much so that you cannot name one? I’m afraid you take me for a fool.”

“Nothing seems to satisfy you! If you so desperately want me to name one — fine. I’ve had informants bring me statistics on the concentration of Primordial Sea Water and its molecular structure, and so far I have received nothing of it. Happy?”

“And what will you do with it?”

“I… do not know yet. But I will find a way.”

He pivots on his heel, using the cupboard behind him as something to lean on. “You must make haste, then, even if it means compromising this marriage arrangement. We can fend off for ourselves, we need not your constant mixing in it.”

“But it is also my duty to supervise the two of you. I put this command in order, so it is my responsibility.”

“It appears to me that you have distorted your priorities. Each moment spent here further jeopardises lives, so, please get a move on.”

She heaves a defeated sigh, realising there is no point in arguing with him any further. “Alright, alright, just — do one thing for me.”

“...Go on.”

“Talk to her about it. The wedding, I mean.”

He hums in response, and although he does not say it, Furina senses that he has had it with her.

“Nice talking to you, Neuvillette.” Her face lights up with mischief. “Though, it would help if you did try to woo her.”

“Lady Furina —! Please.”

“Okay, okay!”

As she takes it as her cue to leave, he finally returns to the side of his seat, still standing as he watches her slide shamelessly through the opening of the doors.

He slips into the cushion of his chair, and opens the envelope, making sure to not ruin its wax seal.

Dear Monsieur Neuvillette,

I would just like to inform you that the reasoning for my absence is caused by the affairs of last night. I have gone through great turmoil to have this letter received, and so in the case that you do not reply I will simply assume you haven’t received or bothered to read this letter (and I will, fortunately, sever all ties with Fontaine and leave). Don’t let this ail you, I am not going through hell and back to write this; just simply wasting away in the confines of my bed. 

If any matter of significance arises that pertains to my attention, I urge you to promptly write a subsequent missive either preceding or succeeding your reply to this.

p.s: If that woman just so happens to be by your side, I suggest you hide this letter. Please and thank you.

Sincerely,

Madame (Name)

A faint smile teases at the corners of his lips. Had it been any earlier, Furina would’ve certainly made a fuss of the contents. Thank the heavens he stalled her from doing so. He proceeds promptly, dipping his quill into the inkwell to start on pristine parchment; yet, the nib lingers excessively at one point, causing the ink to gather in an unwelcome pool.

“Oops. This certainly won’t do.”

Neuvillette crumples the paper into a ball, and tosses it into the bin. He reaches for another piece of paper and starts anew.

Dear Madame (Name),

I hope this letter finds you well. Please do inform me of when you return to full health, for Lady Furina has me in a little of a time crunch with this arrangement, unfortunately. Do not let this ail you too much, she has rescheduled the upcoming events we were supposed to attend to take place after the wedding ceremony. It is not my intent to leave you in the dark about this, and so if you have any qualms, do not hesitate to send me another letter.

Would you be willing to discuss this matter further over lunch, if you're well enough? However, I am open to any other suggestions you might have in mind.

p.s: Rest assured, your privacy is of utmost importance, and I will ensure the confidentiality of this communication.

Yours sincerely,

Monsieur Neuvillette

____

You suggested the Hotel Debord, and so Neuvillette complied.

The two of you sit facing each other, with your back comfortably settled against the cushioned chair while he occupies a normal one; he had insisted that you take the more secure seat, and you think this is because he thinks you’re too weak to fend for yourself (and though it is somewhat true, you cannot claim you aren’t slightly stung).

"Feeling better?"

You offer a weak smile. “Maybe if the weather was sunnier… It’s been nothing but cats and dogs the whole time I was recovering. Ever heard of the famous Fontainian proverb? ‘Hydro dragon, Hydro dragon, don’t cry’?”

Neuvillette crosses his arms, the folds of his sleeves growing prominent. “Yes, I don’t know if there is anyone who hasn’t heard of it — and apologies for the rain.”

“You sure do have an affinity for apologising for things out of control don’t you, Iudex?”

“Ah, consider it a con of mine.”

Perhaps it is but a figment of your imagination, but the man in front of you appears a little tenser than usual, his posture a pinch too upright. The clip that tidies a lock of his hair out of the way is a little askew, and the blue that lines his eyes appears to be smudged, as if rubbed vigorously. That is all you can take from his appearance, however, for the rest is shrouded from the rather large menu in his hands. You stare at the leather bound booklet, waiting for him to make his decision. It takes everything in you to not tease him about it.

He puts the menu down and you take it as your cue to call for the waiter. The both of you seem to have the same idea, and now both of your hands are raised in unison. Neuvillette shoots you a look you cannot discern. “You needn't trouble yourself with raising your hand; I can manage it.”

You quirk a brow. “Why, ‘cause you’re the Iudex? I do not blame you; given your esteemed position, one would naturally be inclined to prioritise you, wouldn’t you agree?” Your palm slowly settles against the cool surface of the table, your gaze remaining inquisitively fixed to the man in front of you.  He averts his eyes and you think he finds the prolonged scrutiny a little too unsettling. How peculiar. 

“Do not disparage yourself, mon coeur,” he says, but you get the impression he’s hesitating, as if treading on eggshells. The pet name does not glide off the tongue correctly, likely due to the days apart — but one thing you can be sure of is that his tone lacks the velvety smoothness of his usual cadence. 

You reply with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Never said I was.”

Before a dispute can arise, a waiter swiftly attends to your table. You surmise that the boy is a little under the age of eighteen, considering how he appears somewhat squeamish upon seeing both the Iudex and Head of Civil Affairs at one table, both eyeing him like prey —or so you imagine.

Looking at Neuvillette you gesture with your head for him to go first, but he waves his hand in your direction, prompting you. Your gaze dips to the text of the menu, fingers skimming for the meal you had agreed upon a few minutes prior, and all of a sudden it feels as though you cannot find it. The familiar wording catches your eye and you flick your finger against the laminated paper and turn to the waiter. 

“Tripes du Port, please — but would you mind cutting it down on the carrots? Thank you.” The boy nods, scribbling in a manner you think is caused from your stare alone, but maybe it is a desperation to have the order down to its preference.

“Alright then. What about you, kind sir?” 

Neuvillette perks at the acknowledgement, and his finger dies against the name of the meal he had his eyes on. He flashes a smile, places the menu down, then relaxes in his seat. “One Consomme Purette will do it.”

“What about drinks?”

Is that even a question? A question it may well be — the thought of opting for tea immediately crosses your mind, but the days spent in your apartment indulging solely in brew to numb the burning has certainly dulled your palate to the earthy flavours on your tongue. So you select the other, equally delectable drink. A nonsensical part of you thinks it’ll wash away any drowsiness left of the healing stitch on your side.

“Oopsies, that completely flew over my head. I’d like a cup of Fonta.” The waiter moves to write the order on his notepad and looks up from it to prod the man in front of you for his order.

As his eyes shift their attention, you cannot help but follow them. You do not know if the waiter notices it, but Neuvillette is awfully apprehensive, revising the drink portion of the menu; his eyes scroll from top to the bottom, and he repeats this routine more times than you can count before lowering the booklet in hand and turning slightly away from you. You assume his drink would be something decadent, a niche flavour of water you cannot tell apart from its infinite counterparts — but no, you are proven quite wrong.

“Make it two, please,” he asks softly, oblivious to your jaw coming loose at its hinges. Since when was this man ever partial to Fonta? You recall the glasses of water laying at the edge of his desk in the Palais, consistent, but never forgotten; the cups always appeared refilled, no trace of dust collecting at the handles. 

Everyone has a change of preference, of course. It is not like everyone can evade the relentless tug of change. 

Smiling, you watch as the waiter swiftly removes the menus from the table, granting you more space.

The waiter still lingers by a vacant table, and you sense his eyes on you, searing indelibly into the side of your face. Please stop staring, is what you scream into the void. 

Neuvillette shifts his attention to you with a kind smile. “The letter you sent… was the lipstick all that necessary?”

“Oh, darling, you certainly seem flustered about it. You are, aren’t you?”

You shoot him a dark glare, and he shuffles awkwardly in his seat, preparing himself.  “Indeed, it's become a cherished sight on my desk. I am now reminded of you whenever I am working — which is most times.”

This incites a laugh from you and it seems to tug at Neuvillette as well. “Do not say such sweet words. I’m sure you’ve received romantic letters from other suitors in your lifetime.” This ‘lie’ truly begs the question: how in Teyvat is he not married? As much as you do not find him attractive, his looks are far from mediocre, and given his dedication to his work, surely there must be a certain demographic of women who fawn over him over tea. You almost shrivel up at the thought. 

“Are romantic letters really romantic if their receiver thinks it to be dross? Come now, mon cherie, I hold each syllable from your pen in greater esteem than reams of lacklustre prose penned by would-be admirers.”

“Oh, stop it. Though… I suppose you are right.”

He tilts his head and a strand falls from its part. “I am very rarely wrong.” 

“Now you’re just flaunting your position as Iudex.” Your voice is still as soft as you can render it, but you take that Neuvillette takes the hint of warning in your voice. Don’t get too ahead of yourself now.

“Certainly you take me in a higher regard than to think of it characteristic of me to openly boast of my role as the Chief Justice, hm?”

Though you do find it out of character, you do not think it is completely out of the equation. “You tell me.”

He chuckles and his broad, padded shoulders rack slightly with laughter. “But maybe you could do with a more discreet way of addressing yourself?” He leans forward in his seat, and you instinctively turn your head so your ear is closer. “I might just mistake your letter out of the pile of other letters addressed with… lipstick.”

“So what you’re saying is I’m not distinguishable enough.” You raise an inquisitive brow.

“No, not at all. It is just that I’d hate for word to get around and all of a sudden I am sifting through vats of paper trying to determine which letter is yours.”

Your eyes lift in amusement. “So you do agree. You have women chasing after you?”  This conversation is by far the most tacit of interactions you’ve had with the Iudex, and it does feel rather odd. You cannot wait for the pack of hounds that stare daggers into to leave and deem you as invalid prey. 

Neuvillette seems to want the same thing, too, and so he leaves the question open-ended (you find that the silent reply is better than if he answered). An excuse to continue this already prolonged silence comes in the form of two cups of Fonta, and for that you are infinitely glad.

The person serving isn’t the same boy, and instead it is a girl you presume to be older, a haphazardly tied bun tucked away under her hat. She places two coasters on both of your right’s, and the cold cups come to sit in the centre of them, condensate dripping off the sides. 

You take a greedy sip, making sure to eye the man in front of you as your gaze forces him to mirror your action. A slight wince teases at his eyes when he forces a gulp down. Foolish man. 

A glint from his ring finger reflects in the morning sun and you can’t help but notice — a ring?

“Since when did you fancy yourself a ring?”

He places the cup down to fidget with the band. “Oh, this? Lady Furina said I had to wear one for solidarity’s sake.”

That blue does not suit him. And My God did she have terrible taste in jewellery. “That’s… great..”

The indulgence is briefly interrupted by the same group of angsty teenagers that whizz by, buzzing with laughter. An opportune moment to slouch your posture. 

The bubbly farce you put in front of the group of people dissipates (though, it is no easy feat — you are staring at the person who carried you home, after all).“So. What was it about the marriage you wanted so desperately to discuss?”

He takes a few seconds to take in the question and replies promptly: “The itinerary, of course.”

“Itinerary for what?” “The wedding.”

“Archons above, I completely forgot about that. That brat expects us to arrange everything ourselves? The invitations, venue, date and time… All for us to manage?” Your tone brims with malice and you almost allow your eye to twitch.

His eyes widen. “No, no, she said she would take care of those aspects, you need not worry.”  

“Sounds about right. What of the invitations though? Does she miraculously know who the VIPs are or…”

“I could write a list of who you’d fancy to invite. Name it and I’ll see to it being done.”

You bring your hand up and flex your fingers, and you make a mental note of who you’d prefer to go; your fingers ultimately count up to three. “Let’s see. Clorinde, that Duke from the Fortress, and I guess any of Clorinde’s other close acquaintances. I’ll get her to pick.” You observe the way his eyes flit away from yours, and onto another group of laughing colleagues that have caught themselves in a laughing fit. You don’t let it take away from the camera you see pointed at you through your peripheral vision.

Take 2.

My, is this getting exhausting.

“And what of you, handsome? Have anyone in mind?” Subjecting yourself to a strained smile, your hearing sharpens to the collective, though hushed gaps that weave through the restaurant. Peculiar how these people act as though they’ve never seen any medium of romance. 

He seems to have choked on something, but you aren’t sure on what, exactly. The table is empty. “H-Handsome? That certainly is a new one…”

You bring your voice down to a chastising whisper. “Answer the question. Do not take it to heart, Monsieur Neuvillette; I certainly do not think you are at all handsome.”

“I… uh, well — I do not have anyone in mind. I only ever converse with very few people.”

You cannot help but smirk. Not only is it so easy to fool the people, but to have Neuvillette react just as much says that you are doing a pretty good job. Ah, Fontainians and their baseless pursuit for spectacle.

The Iudex attempts to cover his blunder and asks a follow-up question. “Might I ask if you’d be partial to any of your family members to be invited? If the reason happens to be that they are currently outstationed, I can subsidise their trip here.”

You feel a lump form in your throat. Hands that were once perched comfortably in dominance slide immediately under the table, and you press your nails against the inner lines of your palm. An expression of confidence you once had falters, and it brings you all the effort in you to keep a good impression.“No. I am not partial to the idea. I’d really prefer if you choose not to bring this topic up again.” Clueless on how you managed to sound collected, you press your lips and force yourself to stay shut lest you let something slip.

“Of course. I apologise if I have offended you, Madame.” His voice trails off in volume the further he says it. You two are left staring at each other with words that can only be spoken in their absence — and yet, you do not understand what is being said behind those stormy eyes that rile yours in return. Perhaps he is cursing you for being brutish, for the quick shift in your ‘act’. But what he does not know is that you aren’t.

Your jaw ticks, and your heels drum on the marble flooring while you wait for the group of people to disperse.

“...Don’t worry about it. It’s just that —” you cut yourself short, aware of the crescendo of footsteps that sound from behind you; you can almost smell the strong aroma of food, but why is it sweet?

“Monsieur Neuvillette! Madame (Name)!” A familiar, comforting voice comes in with two plates of 16-slices-a-day cake. 

The two of you eye the Melusine incredulously. “Sedene?” is a question you both pose in unison.

“Yes, that’s me! I couldn't help but recognise two familiar faces. Say, Monsieur Neuvillette, this is the first time I’ve seen you here in a while. And I go here everyday,” She looks at you with a playful twinkle in her eye. “So is it a special occasion? Or as they say, a ‘date’? Don’t quote me on this, please, I coined the mantra from Sigewinne.”

He grins and answers. “Ye—”

“No. Just here to talk business. Am I right, mon coeur?”

He takes another forced sip of Fonta. The level of liquid in his cup has but moved. “Why, yes. We are currently discussing the affairs of our wedding. Would you like to come?”

“I would be delighted to see you two get married. A profession of love, as people come to say.”

You accept the cake eagerly, grinning. “Thank you, Sedene, really.”

“That reminds me… I haven’t seen you around the Palais in a while. Are you alright?” You wave her away in jest. “Yes, just down with a cold. I am just about fully recovered now, don’t worry. I am a little dizzy, though.” Your hand instinctively cradles your side, a subtle shield against the discomfort. You dismiss the dizziness with a casual mention of your 'sickness,' though a keen observer might discern the real culprit: an ill-judged increase in the vial's dosage. Not the wisest choice on a day filled with duties and engagements. Perhaps you should’ve ‘picked your poison’ another time.

Missing the concerned look given by Neuvillette, you give another weary smile.

Sedene gestures openly now that her hands are empty. “Now — I must get going, so please take this cake as a gift.”

Both Neuvillette and you wave as she skips off into the exit. 

“So. Where were we?”

a/n: was rewatching an archon quest playthru n forgot how cute sedene is!! she's the sweetest

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter nine

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, clorinde ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.5k

It would not be an overstatement to remark upon the folly of those who regard you with such narrow-minded scrutiny. Despite your accomplishments, diligence, and endurance through it all, the people have diminished you from a capable and esteemed Head of Civil Affairs to nothing more than the Chief Justice's attendant wife.

However, you find it not in your duty to rebuke those claims, or rather, think not to bother addressing them outright. The attitude you bring to your office and those beneath you isn’t anything out of the ordinary, per se, but one with a discerning eye can notice the unusual edge and snappiness to your character. 

And the one with the said discerning eye happens to be your husband. 

Multiple questions from him arose over the course of a week before his schedule took him up in its clutches again, and obviously you were one to deny such accusatory things. Oh, how glad you were when you found his office vacant most of the time. No one to pester you, and no one to pester the pesterer. 

But obviously such luxuries come with some demon to tip out the work-life balance. The invite to a ball as a plus one has you lurching for air, and another report on the impending prophecy gnaws at you like a teething hyena.

Today just so happens to be another banal day of doom and gloom. Ruthless court hearings meant Fontaine would see rainfall, and for this particular week it meant every consecutive day — which also meant a certain Champion Duelist is slipping through every nook and cranny for a playdate. 

“If it isn’t my favourite new bride,” she muses, leaning against the doorframe. You notice the difference in the way she quips the last few words, and you subconsciously associate the likeness of tone to that of the Duke; weird — you never considered their closeness up until this point.

You sip on your cup of chamomile tea. “So what you’re saying is that there was a point where I was not your favourite bride.”

“Maybe it’s because you weren’t married, idiot,” she starts, closing the door behind her and making herself home to your small, albeit homely office. “One day you’re all over never finding a husband, and the next day I see an invite on my doorstep that you’re getting married to the one man you hate!”

You wish to strain the lie for a little longer, test how much more you can baffle her straight through your teeth. “Well, Clorinde, fate has many a surprise for those who least expect it. Take the newlyweds that run the new bakery down the street — rumour has it that they hated each other before making out in the store room; oh, the poor manager… So, it really is a trap anyone can just about fall in.”

Her lips twitch as if a lightbulb had switched on near her temple, a subtle trip, but telling of the inevitable. You show indifference. “A trap, you say? So who exactly arranged it? Pray tell, was it Monsieur Neuvillette, Lady Furina, or god forbid, you yourself?”

“...What?’

She chuckles, taking a seat across from you.  “If there’s one person you’re not going to fool, it’s me. You forget I was on the other end of your endless ramblings about him — so why have you exactly gotten married to the very man you so detest?”

Ah, Clorinde, you reply with a soft smile, setting down your teacup. Always one for blunt truths and cutting humour.

Clorinde leans stiffly against the back of her chair, expression hardening. I’m serious.

I appreciate your concern, truly, you reply, a hint of amusement in your voice. But marriage hasn't dulled my wit or ambitions, if that's what worries you.

The Champion Duelist crosses her arms and you catch a familiar shade of crimson dotting her sleeve. “I never doubted your wit, only questioned the timing of it all. You're a force to be reckoned with, and now you have a husband? It all doesn’t line up.”

“Consider it the responsibility of my duty — Lady Furina thought me ‘worthy’,” —you say this while quoting it with your fingers— “of this, and so there she went, thrusting me into another job I did not want to do.”

Given the slight furrowing of her brows, you surmise she is more intrigued than she’d like to come off as. “Oh? And what do you mean, ‘worthy’?”

“Worthy of being a pawn in her stupid games,” you groan, finding interest in the shape of your nails, a roll of your eyes prompted by the repulsive thought of the woman that started it all. “I won’t have you guess any further. Your guess is correct, unfortunately.”

Now she’s truly given herself away; despite the stoicness of her poise, the way she grips the table to bring herself closer to hear you better speaks volumes. “Oh really? My guess was a shot in the dark. Never expected myself to be right.”

“If you did in fact miss your guess, you, my dear Clorinde, would be out of a job.” you three of your fingers inward  to mimic the shape of a firearm.

Arms crossed, she flashes a grin. “I’ll just bail my way out through my boss.”

“I don’t think he’s as merciful as you think.”

“To me, probably. But you’re another story.”

You scoff, your head canting to the side. “You think I’m the exception? Yeah, right.”

“Are you blind? Everyone in the workplace has been either praising or critiquing his bias,” She helps herself with the kettle of tea, slightly leaving her chair to reach for the handle. “But that’s the fun of it all. Keeps things interesting.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back in your chair. “Interesting is one way to put it. I prefer ‘degrading’.”

“Semantics,” she shrugs, a smirk playing on her lips. “Either way, what Lady Furina intended for your arrangement is playing out just as she planned.”

Time will tell, you muse, taking another sip of tea. But for now, let's talk about the blood on your sleeve, shall we?”

She reaches for her elbow, pulling the cloth toward her to take a closer look. “Oh — this? The usual, really. Criminals.”

“I see you’ve made short work of them.”

“As I usually do, miss ma'am.”

You try for another sip of your tea only to find that your lips come away empty; though with inexplicable reason you feel it as though you have, indeed, taken a generous gulp of it. With your eyes trained on Clorinde, you reach for another tea packet from the pouch.

“Speaking of which, that old man should be making his way over to the Palais in a moment. Saw him leave the Epiclese when I did.”

“Let’s not talk about him.”

Her eyes dart to every part of the room almost erratically, losing track of its target. “Great then, we shall move on to the next topic of conversation.”

In all your impatient habits you cannot wait for her to finish her sentence. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Archons, woman. You’re always so full of questions, you bursting buffoon,” Clorinde quips with a playful eye roll, noting the embarrassed look on your face. “But I was just going to mention what gift I got you.”

“Ooh, do tell.”

You did expect a gift sometime along this week: a lipstick, a gift she had frequented much in giving you, was nowhere to be found on the table, now replaced with a meticulously crafted blade with a sheen so polished it burned shadows into your irises. In one swift motion, a dagger slides onto the table, her hands prodding them forward. Her eyes study the subtle raise of your brow. “Not what you expected, I'm guessing?”

“Certainly so. But it is very in character for someone like you, Clorinde.” You trace the blunt end of the dagger with your finger, allowing your touch to graze the hilt. Foreign was the feeling of it in your hands,  the weight of it a limbo between light and heavy. It had been an undeniably long time since you were in possession of a tangible weapon, your reliability on both martial prowess and vision a dwindling skill since your role of being the Head of Civil affairs. “Thank you — but why?”

“I’m assuming you’re asking me what far fetched reasoning I have for it — but I’ll simply state this: you are now the focal point of public attention. And you know what that can stir?

“Envy?”

“Precisely. Or you could just take it as a token of our spar from a few weeks ago. Or to when we used to spar as children,” She delivers it with a sag into her seat, but beneath that facade, you know she really is just concerned.

You open your mouth to speak, but she interrupts you with an abrupt shift from her posture. “And before I forget — I got you more.” She holds a drawstring pouch teasingly in the air, and judging from the familiar clinking of glass, it’s exactly what you think it is.

You reach up for it, forcefully pulling it towards you. Peeking through the bag, you look up at Clorinde through your lashes. “How’d you know I ran out?”

“I'm your supply. Do you think I miscalculate, let alone forget? Come on, chenapan.”

You look away playfully, dodging the jab. “Shut up.”

Rain begins to patter erratically on the window, and both of you tear your focus to it. You swipe the curtain away to look out into the clouds, but you spot a familiar figure standing, hands poised on a railing. His hair is darkened, soaked by the water that drips down to his feet. 

A deep laugh stirs you from your staring. “I take it as my cue to leave. Have fun with your husband.”

You turn around as swiftly as one possibly can, and find her sitting up from her seat. “What? Already?”

“I have places to be. And you seem to have one in mind,” She gestures with her eyes to the man outside, and you roll your own.

“Are you serious right now?”

She flashes you a brief grin with a scrunch to her nose. “What do you think?” Before you can object, she rids herself from your clutches and slips through the door — and when you make your way to peek out from your office, you see nothing but the closing of the entrance.

Shame compels you to shut the door as you lean back, letting your head find solace against the smooth, polished wood. Your gaze, once fixed on the deathly white expanse of the ceiling, drifts instead to a forgotten frame resting on your shelf, its surface gathering a gentle layer of dust.

With no one to distract you from the paperwork on your desk, you find yourself moving of your own volition. If there’s no one to bother…then…

Tea it is.

Picking at the drawstring, you reach blindly for a packet of tea, letting whatever god decide which flavour would be bestowed upon you. You hope it’s chamomile.

It ends up being mint. You make a disinterested scrunch to your nose before lazily studying the print of the brand of tea out of sheer subconscious curiosity. Whatever you’ve just read draws you out of your stupor and suddenly you’re sitting up straight.

This brand is so undeniably familiar. 

And yet, before you can make the connection yourself, the way your heart picks up in pace tells just as much. The main cause of your mother’s murder. A harmless tea packet, seamlessly packaged with powdered death. It had long since been discontinued, but you make a whirl in your seat and hold up the tea packet beside the silhouette of the man standing far from your window and you begin to wonder. 

A pair of bloodied hands drag you by the throat to your home. Your mind forcibly tears itself open by the seams, flooded by the quiet, harmless serenity of dawn — shattered by gasps of your mother with her hands clutched, clawing at her neck. Your father’s calm, almost rehearsed demeanour as he offered her the cup, his eyes glinting with sinister intention; one of you which you were too blind to recognise.

As you clutch the packet, the print of tea blurs against the well that rim your eyes. Maybe it was what your father always had on his person: a gift, a kind gesture, a murder weapon. 

Given the period of Neuvillette’s station, it would be an educated guess to say that your father had met him several times. You can almost see it: your father charming the Chief Justice with that same smile, his lies wrapped in the veneer of regard. For the first time, you feel a flicker of doubt. Could he be unaware? Could he too have been a pawn in your father’s deadly game?

With the curtain of silence drawn between you and Neuvillette since the rise of never ending contretemps, you think maybe you should ease it a little, but not too much — you are inquiring only of his acquiring of such tea.

You stand from your seat, reaching for the parasol that leans against a wooden leg of your desk. It worries you not at how you drag it across the floor, the rubber end of it leaving nothing but a squeak of friction.

Ensuring the door to your office is firmly shut, you begin to pace through the opulent halls of the Palais with an almost childlike curiosity that stirs within you, urging you to uncover what solace he finds in standing amidst the rain. Each step is measured, the echoes of your footsteps mingling with the soft patter of raindrops, growing more muffled than the last imprint of your stride. Avoiding Sedene is a calculated move on your part, slipping past her by briskly walking on your toes when her eyes are plastered on something you aren’t able to discern past the counter.

You slip quietly past the back end of the Palais and push through the heavy barricade of the backdoor. A light coolness touches your head in irregular successions, prompting you to look up at the now brighter sky, a marked change from the sombre gloom it had worn when you last observed it from the inside. 

The slide upwards from the metal skeleton of your parasol scrapes against the gentle downpour, and you eye his figure from behind a white pillar. Nothing seems to stir him from his fixed gaze, one that overlooks the expanse of Fontaine, a land belonging, by technicality, to his people.

A wave of hesitation washes over you like a deluge, for perhaps such a matter is best discussed over tea (the irony of it does not escape you, but your preoccupation with trivial details overrides the thought).

Whatever. You loop the drawstring of the pouch of tea in your free hand, twirling it in your fingers as a makeshift fidget toy. The pad of your heels provides a necessary friction against the floor, a main giveaway of your whereabouts, and still he does not stir.

You walk until you are a few metres behind him, amusing yourself with the idea that he has come so far as to ignore your very existence—a foolish notion that has only furthered the distance between you both since the marriage.

He remains unmoved, ever so rigid and uniform in his stance.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” you call, your voice carrying a command that transcends the simple utterance of his name — a subliminal message only he can decipher.

He turns slowly, his expression inscrutable as he realises it is you who has come to seek him out.  For a moment, he simply regards you, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Madame,” he finally responds, his tone courteous. “It is you.”

You take a step closer, the parasol offering minimal protection against the persistent drizzle. “Might I inquire about something? I expect you to not think too much of it.” You feel you know him enough to know of his tendency to over inspect on many a detail that come under his radar, so consider this a courtesy for one less burden. 

Neuvillette’s eyes flicker with a hint of something — surprise, perhaps, or maybe curiosity. “Go ahead,” he replies softly.

A scrunch of the small paper packets in the cloth brush against each other as you bring it up to eye level. You reach into it almost as naturally as if you were one of the magician prodigies that made themselves known amongst their covey at the grand festivals of Fontaine, producing seemingly impossible wonders from the very depths of their pockets.

“Does this brand of tea seem familiar to you?”

His head dips from the point of your parasol to the item of interest. Despite his speculated age, the rounding of his eyes seem to take off a few years, easing the wrinkle between his brows. “I am afraid it appears to be just about any tea brand. Is something the matter?”

You take a step closer, the rim of your umbrella shielding but a fraction of Neuvillette’s exposure to the rain. “Monsieur Neuvillette, this specific brand of tea hasn’t been manufactured to the public in five years.” 

Those words, once uttered, solidify your qualms, drawing you back to the very heart of your deepest fears. Yet, a part of you refuses to accept it. It could’ve been any other aristocrat! your mind suggests, desperately grasping for any semblance of hope. But you know such thoughts cannot obscure the harsh reality — and this you know well:

He is alive. And free. 

The man standing before you gazes at you with mounting concern, his eyes reflecting a growing unease. Shadows cast the contours of your face to form a mask of denial, yet you are acutely aware that he does not buy into your falsehood.

“Goodness, is the tea horrible?” he questions, the tremble of his voice a comical degree of concern you cannot help but laugh at. 

Scoffing, you turn your head to the left to avoid his probing eyes. “Why would I give myself the trouble of coming here if that was the problem?” you retort, trying to mask the heat trailing down your cheeks as tears threaten to escape. You blame it on the rain, but you know that isn’t why you are ablaze.

“Tell me what ails you, Madame. I shall fix it,” he implores, his voice filled with genuine worry and a desire to help.

“It is just as I said. The brand of tea. Do you have it delivered to your doorstep? Does it come in bulk?” you ask, questions tumbling out, each more desperate than the last.

He blinks, momentarily taken aback by your line of questioning. Even to your own ears, the inquiries sound strange and out of place — but, they are vital to uncovering the truth, to piecing together something you thought you left behind.

“Well — I had it gifted to me,” Neuvillette begins, his tone measured. “And in turn, I requested more with the intention of always having a suitable gift on hand.”

Your eyes flit to every outline of his features as you try to match the puzzle to the one you find is fraying in your very mind. His eyes betray nothing in your search for a tell, a slip. Everything brings you back to square one. Perhaps your father has already stopped in his schemes — or perhaps (you think with foolish aspiration) his age has taken him. But your father is too resilient and stubborn to die a cretin’s death. 

“Then that is that. I shall take my leave — sorry to bother you, Monsieur.” You wish to continue this investigation elsewhere, for you find that the sombre droplets of water that stain the parts of you that your parasol cannot protect is too gloomy and dismal.

As you bow and turn, you miss your husband’s act of hesitation: to let you go, or to be selfish. He is a man of duty and stature, and to stray from such virtues would be incredibly unbecoming. The topic of scandal rises for a brief moment (he seems to be as forgetting as you in remembering such a tie).

“Stay,” he murmurs, voice barely carried by the wisp of wind.

He himself seems surprised that he had gone so far as to reach for your wrist: an anchor, something to hold on to.

Brows knitting, your mind searching for anything to study — because who knows? A man’s intent can be just as malicious as any other of their kind. “What?”

“I am requesting that you stay,” he says, a little louder, before his voice drops again: “here, with me.”

You tip the handle of your parasol backward in an attempt for a better look — or, for lack of a better word: to appraise.

Your eyes scan him from head to toe. “And what for?”

His grip on your wrist loosens slightly, though he does not let go. “Company,” he confesses, his eyes searching yours for understanding.

The rain continues to fall around you, a gentle, persistent reminder of the world outside this moment. You study his face, noting the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability in his posture.

For a moment, you consider pulling away, retreating back into the safety of distance and formality. But something in his gaze holds you in place, a silent plea that begs for you to yield.

“Alright,” you say softly, lowering your parasol. “I’ll stay.”

His shoulders relax, and a faint smile graces his lips. “Thank you.”

You toe lightly until the tip of your heels meet the stoop of the balcony, which diverts the path of your stride so that you don’t nudge Neuvillette with your parasol (if it does, he makes no comment of it). The two of you stand in silence for what seems like aeons, the only assurance of him still being there being the slight rustle of his robes that have grown to latch onto his skin like lifelines. 

After a while, Neuvillette breaks the silence with a quiet, almost offhand comment. You know, he begins, his voice gentle, I’ve always wondered whether it is because I am rigid.”

“And what of your rigidity?” For this you find no reason to look at him — but you think he senses your sceptical brow nonetheless, the rain dulling almost when you find another, more interesting thing to latch onto: that being his response to your inquiry. 

“It is the very quality,” he replies, his tone reflective, “that compels you to resist, to fight tooth and nail against even the slightest inclination of giving me your attention.”

The shift of your head carries the weight of your astonishment. What a far cry! Oh, this man was certainly in your good graces for being so utterly unheeding. “You think that’s the problem? If you are having trouble, picture this — and I am talking from the perspective of those netizens that so revere you — you, the Chief Justice, stand between the very apple of the Oratrice. Do you not see? You are reduced to a mere byproduct, an instrument of Fontaine's justice. And justice always prevails; partiality, love, does not. Despite your greatest efforts, your own prejudices aren’t accounted for on the scales.”

You hadn’t expected to find yourself on such a tangent, but the words flow irresistibly, and you surrender to them. “Consider it, mon chéri.” The term of endearment carries no warmth; instead, it is a taunt, a beckoning.

“Is that what you think of me? Detached?”

The parasol now rests on your shoulder, supported by the balance of it as both your arms find a more comforting rest on the cemented railing. “Oh, I like that word: detached. You stand out here, overlooking the city just about how you might an audience at the Opera Epiclese and it makes me wonder if you are even able to dream.” 

“I do not come here to daydream.”

A bitter smile pulls at your lips, its sharpness cutting through the soft rain. “Do not play that game with me. Your pastime is quite what you are doing now, and it makes you look like a defeated dog. Has no one inquired of it? Ever? Have you never been questioned about the shadows in your eyes, the perpetual distance in your gaze?”

“The inquiries of others matter little to me. I am simply here to seek solace,” he responds, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of weariness that speaks of long, lonely nights and endless responsibilities.

The cuffs of your sleeves are now soaked from the rain, but you find it a small diversion to focus on while listening to his rebuttal. “Proves my point,” you murmur, brushing away droplets as you speak. “Your solitude is not solace.”

A low laugh sounds from Neuvillette. “You mistake my solitude for avoidance, for I have long carried the weight of my duties alone — and changing this is no easy feat.”

Without a second thought, you grasp the handle of your parasol and extend it to shield him from the rain, sacrificing your own comfort for his. In doing so, you are left drenched, the cool droplets seeping through your garments. It is the first time in many months that you have afforded yourself the opportunity to truly study the smooth contours of his profile. His opalescent eyes, so often inscrutable, now glimmer with a mingling of hope — sending a sudden chill of the rain upon your skin that nearly causes you to shudder, and yet you endure it, thinking perhaps it would not be so terrible to experience what he does.

You offer a small, tentative smile. “No, it isn’t. But it is not impossible, either. You must allow yourself to be human, Neuvillette, with all the imperfections and vulnerabilities that come with it. This arrangement shall fail without your empathy.”

He immediately extends the parasol back toward you, the fleeting warmth an indulgence for only a millisecond before the chill breeze takes you in its clutches again.  “Madame, your clothes —”

“You sought out my company, so this is what you receive. Take it as a token of my gratitude, and nothing more — for I’d like us to be on good terms, given our ranking and status as of late,” you push the item in his hand away, obliging him to latch onto it like a lifeline before it blows into the pattern of the wind.

“And do not forget, we have a ball to attend to,” you add, albeit very plainly.

It is a warp of the way light catches on the fine lines of his face — you tell yourself — when his lips quirk into a fatigued smile. “I do not forget important things.”

a/n: hey... hi... do you guys even remember me ive been in hiding for so long I am so sorry school is horrible finals are horrible ive completed my FINAL official exam today but that doesn't mean I won't have any tests for the rest of the term I have left when I tell u I RUSHED to complete this .

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog