Chapter Text
Wriothesley was supposed to be the one to die.
That’s a stupid thought, of course, but in the days following Neuvillette's death, it’s the only one that really leaves an impression. The bizarre, bitter notion that Neuvillette stole his place in the vanguard, or cut ahead of him in line.
Death isn't a cafe. There is no ticket dispenser that organizes customers into neat rows while they wait for their numbers to be called.
Death isn’t a queue at a festival, where one can turn and wave to a friend further back, as if to say, “Look, it's almost my turn!”
Death isn’t a foot race. There are no leaders. No stragglers. No winners, only losers.
Death can claim anyone, at any time. But of all Teyvat's many creatures, Neuvillette should've been the one exception.
He had no ticket.
He was never in line.
He hadn't signed up for the race.
He was supposed to be immortal, and Wriothesley was supposed to be the one to die.
The arrangements for the funeral fall to him, and he chooses to shoulder the burden alone. Not because there’s no one else who cares, but because there’s no one else he trusts with the details of his husband's burial.
Furina falls apart when she hears the news. She locks herself in her house for days, causing passersby to claim the nearby alleyways are haunted by a weeping ghost. When the former archon finally emerges, her face is swollen red with tears.
Clorinde takes the news in stride, as she does with most matters. She grieves in her own silent way, but Wriothesley can’t abide her measured practicality. Not this time.
Maybe Navia could’ve helped, but it's her extensive qualifications that make him unwilling to ask. She has already organized so many funerals in her short life. He can’t bring himself to add another body to her tally.
So it is Wriothesley who signs the paperwork that declares Neuvillette officially deceased. It is he who buys the coffin, designed for burial at sea. He picks out the flowers too: romaritime and lakelight lilies in bursting bouquets of blue. When the day of the funeral arrives, he’s the one greeting guests with a handshake and a tired nod. His wrist grows sore and his fingers numb as he thanks the majority of Fontaine for their attendance.
There are almost as many Melusines present as there are humans, which is impressive given the immense size of the crowd. They lend an unnerving air of levity to the proceedings as they skip up and down the beach, telling anyone who will listen all their favorite stories from Monsieur Neuvillette's long life. As creatures of the sea, they don’t feel grief the way humans do. For them, death isn’t an ending, but a transition. Water is never created or destroyed; it only changes in state.
Wriothesley keeps his distance.
He doesn’t want to hear their stories.
He doesn’t want to see their smiles.
Sigewinne joins him as he stands apart, staring out over the water. She doesn’t offer him tidings or cheer, but her little hand slips into his and gives a soft squeeze. Of her many sisters, she's the only one who seems to understand that the world has been emptied of all reason for joy.
Eulogies are given on the sandy shore next to the dock— innumerous meaningless words that drown out the sound of the lapping waves. Wriothesley doesn't speak. Maybe he should, but the thought of standing before all those grim faces and talking about Neuvillette's judiciousness or work ethic makes him want to vomit. The man he loves is not the Chief Justice that Fontaine knew. Neuvillette was so much more than his obligations.
When it comes time to set sail, Wriothesley is the only mourner to board the small boat. He offers to bring Furina along, out of respect for her many centuries spent at Neuvillette's side, but she declines. She tells him that too many of her nightmares end with loved ones sinking beneath the waves, and she can't bear to watch those dreams become a prophecy fulfilled.
So Wriothesley sails out alone into the narrow channel between Elynas and Poisson. The sea there is calm, and the trench, deep. It will hold Neuvillette, hide him, in a place nestled between the Melusines he loved and the humans he saved.
The casket is still open when Wriothesley cuts the motor, so he stares down at the body within. How could he not? Even in life, Neuvillette drew his eye like a moth to flame. In death, he blazes like the sun itself, but Wriothesley will burn his eyes blind for one last look.
Neuvillette's expression is stern and empty— a passable facsimile of the Chief Justice of Fontaine. All evidence of the wound on his skull has been cleaned away. His hair is a crisp, pristine white instead of oozing, bloody red.
Like the bullet had missed.
Like the gun hadn't fired.
Wriothesley takes a knee on the steel-plated deck, leaning heavily against the altar of his husband's casket. “Hey, chief,” he says, and his voice is full of reproach. “I thought we talked about this, yeah? It was supposed to be me in this box, not you.” He knocks a knuckle against the wooden coffin, and a hollow thud ripples across the water. “You took my damn seat. What am I supposed to do now?”
There's no answer, save for the brushing of the breeze against his back. The sea is sparkling with sickening sunshine, making a mockery of the good cheer bright weather usually brings. Today, Wriothesley would give anything for a sprinkle of rain.
He presses a kiss to that pale, unmarred brow. It’s ice cold. A parallel for both Wriothesley's vision and his heart.
He closes the casket.
He winds chains around both ends so that it will stay closed.
The padlocks click shut with morbid finality, and then there's nothing left to do but push, sending Neuvillette diving into the sea for the very last time. His sealed tomb floods quickly, thanks to the holes drilled at even intervals along the bottom. Wriothesley watches it sink beneath the waves.
Watches for a while after, too.
Considers jumping in after it.
Eventually, he restarts the motor and steers back to the Court docks. He retains no memory of returning the boat, nor of walking through the streets to get home. If life goes on in Fontaine, it leaves no impression on him. Maybe everyone has died. Maybe he's all that's left.
A pile of Steambird issues has accumulated on the front porch, but he leaves them to molder. Each paper plugs the same cover story, rehashed in insignificant ways. Nothing but old, obsolete news.
He kicks his boots off before stepping away from the welcome mat inside the door, because Neuvillette is fastidious about that sort of thing.
Was. He was fastidious.
Wriothesley hasn't eaten in days, but he isn't hungry. Just tired. He drags himself up the stairs to the bedroom, untucks the comforter, and crawls beneath it without bothering to change out of his suit.
He closes his eyes.
A scent hits him then. Romaritime and old parchment— a bouquet in a library. He chases it instinctually, reaching out with searching hands until he encounters something soft. Something yielding. He reels his discovery in, and for one finite, shining moment, there's a chance that the last few days were all a dream. A chance that the nightmare is over, and he's pulling Neuvillette's warm body into his arms.
He crushes his last hope against his chest, but it’s only a pillow.
Wriothesley cracks.
The cracks splinter; they become crevasses.
The crevasses shatter; they become canyons.
Wriothesley breaks apart on a continental scale.
He wraps himself around Neuvillette's pillow and wails— one plaintive, unbroken note that rattles the windows and the door on its hinges. When he runs out of breath, he gasps, then begins to wail anew. He curls inward, and his cries become screams, angry and wretched, but the anger is tempered by tears, and anguish is forged.
The bedroom walls ice over, then melt, then ice again. The paint is ruined. The baseboards splinter. The lightbulbs in the sconces flicker and go out, leaving him alone in the dark. The darkness eats his screams, then spits them back at him, breaching his ears with a voice that sounds possessed by grief-crazed spirits.
His neck burns beneath a faded elliptical mark shaped like two mirrored crescents. Divoted and uniform, it is unique among his many scars.
Neuvillette called it a mating bite.
Wriothesley called it kinky, which made Neuvillette laugh as he licked the blood off his lips.
Now the mark is nothing but a reminder of unfulfilled promises and broken dreams, and it hurts. It burns like fucking hellfire.
Should he gouge it out? Tear at his flesh until the old ache is overwritten by raw pain? He reaches up with one shaking hand, but he can't bring himself to break the skin. Instead he cups it beneath his palm as though trying to staunch the bleeding from a fatal wound.
Suddenly, there’s blood on his hands, but the blood isn’t his own. Neuvillette's eyes are wide open, and his head is leaking all over the pavement, and Wriothesley is trying to stem the tide with his fingers while he screams for help—
He reels to the left and vomits off the edge of the bed. There’s nothing but bile in his stomach to expel, and it scorches his throat on the way out. When his sobs resume, the fresh coating of acid makes every inhale torturous.
“Come back,” he wheezes. “Please, come back to me.” Tears drip off the tip of his nose and join the fetid puddle on the floor. “I can't do this without you. Don't leave me. Don't go. Come back.”
Come back.
Come back.
Come back.
Come back.
Come back.
He pleads with the empty air until his voice gives out. Even once the words are gone, he continues to croak until the last dregs of his energy dry up, and he surrenders to limp unconsciousness.