Chapter Text
Wriothesley stands before Louis’ headstone.
A cold wind comes from the north, but Wriothesley’s heavy, fur-lined jacket wards off the chill. Mademoiselle Chiori finally finished his wardrobe, a series of suits in charcoal and red and black, complete with a heavy jacket he can sling over his shoulders more for fashion than for warmth, but right now, he’s wearing the jacket.
“We did it, kiddo,” he says, laying a single iris across the grass in front of the headstone. “We found the Broker. He killed himself, but we were able to get the people he worked with. Dougier. The Bellecourts.”
Wriothesley crouches in front of the headstone, one hand curled into a fist.
“Gabriel was convicted two weeks ago. Josephine just last week. You know who did it? That fucking asshole, d’Estaing. He was livid. You should’ve heard the speech he gave for both their sentencings.” A smile cracks his lips. “It was incredible.” The smile fades. “Wish you could’ve been there to see it, kiddo. But, hey, maybe you’re up in Celestia watching all this, yeah? Still not entirely sure how the afterlife works here, but that’s what I’m hoping. You and the other kids, you got justice.”
He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut to ward off the burn of tears. Not of guilt or of anger or even regret—but of relief.
“Now, none of you need to worry about those guys anymore.” Wriothesley opens his eyes and rises, shuffling one headstone over.
Teyvat’s Emily is buried here, next to Louis.
A breath shudders out of him.
“I hate that I couldn’t help you back then or here,” Wriothesley says. “But you wouldn’t believe the records the Bellecourts left behind.” He gives a dry, humorless laugh. “Or maybe you would. Their documentation went back years, Em. The Marechaussee Phantom has been hunting their buyers all over Teyvat. Fontaine is cleaning house. Neuvillette can’t sponsor any legislation or anything, but he’s quietly supporting a bunch of laws meant to better protect kids from trafficking.”
He crouches and lays another lily on Emily’s grave. The four behind her, the other kids, they already have their lilies. For hope. For the future.
“No one else is going to suffer. And the ring we uncovered… I think a lot of scumbags are going to think twice before trying to traffic anymore kids for the foreseeable future. It’ll happen again. It always does. But we scared a lot of them. We’re catching so many of them.”
Rising, he sets his hands on his hips, looking at the six graves. All of them gone too soon, innocent and undeserving of the fates they received.
But he’s doing right by them. Every day, he’s doing right by them.
“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette calls out.
Wriothesley glances back.
Neuvillette winds through the gravestones. He had his own ghosts to put to visit. “Wriothesley, we will be late if we linger much longer.”
“Understood.” He turns back to the gravestones. “It’s gonna get better here,” he promises the kids. “It’s gonna get better, and I’m going to help make sure of it.”
Neuvillette’s uneven footsteps come to a stop at Wriothesley’s side.
Wriothesley looks over at him. “I’m good,” he says.
Neuvillette reaches for Wriothesley’s tie, hanging loose around his throat. “I suppose I cannot convince you to tighten this.”
With a lopsided smile, Wriothesley shakes his head. “You can try, sweetness, but it won’t work.”
Heaving a sigh, Neuvillette drops his hand. “Admittedly, it gives you a certain rakish charm.”
Wriothesley leans into Neuvillette, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Just the way you like me,” he murmurs.
Laughing, clearly flustered, Neuvillette steps back. “Not in front of the children,” he admonishes.
“I dunno,” Wriothesley says, straightening. “I think they might approve.” He purses his lips. “Do you think we can just go home instead?” he asks.
Neuvillette exhales and gives him a pointed look. “How many times must we have this conversation?” he asks.
“At least once more,” Wriothesley says cheerfully, playfully. “I’d much rather be back at our place—” Their place. Their townhome, their home. Not that the building matters; home is anywhere Neuvillette is. “—having a good time.”
Neuvillette is too poised to roll his eyes, but they narrow, and that’s enough for Wriothesley to know he’s pushing his luck.
With a laugh, he raises both hands, warding Neuvillette off. “Alright, alright. I get it.” He offers Neuvillette his arm. “Shall we?”
Neuvillette hefts his cane in hand and takes Wriothesley’s arm.
Wriothesley has never liked the spotlight. Has never liked attention on him. But, this time, there’s no avoiding it. After everything that’s happened, this can’t be done quietly.
He stands to the side of a temporary stage, erected in the plaza in front of the Palais Mermonia. Neuvillette stands atop the stage, making what Wriothesley is sure is a very good speech. But he’s not really listening. He’s trying not to focus on Neuvillette, on the crowd, on the flashing kamera lights, on any of it. His focus is squarely ahead of himself, on the rooftops in the distance, his gaze unfocused.
A particularly bright kamera bulb goes off practically in his face, but he doesn’t react.
Clorinde nudges him.
He shakes himself, looking at her, and she nods toward the stage.
Neuvillette stands at the podium on it, looking a little annoyed and directly at Wriothesley.
Oh.
Oh, he missed his cue.
With a chagrined smile, he gains the stairs to the side of the stage. More kameras go off. A pink-haired reporter calls out to him, “Sir, sir!” But he ignores her for now. There will be time for questions later.
His smile grows genuine as he approaches Neuvillette.
Neuvillette has his hand on a box on the podium, and he removes the top as Wriothesley stops in front of him. From the box, he pulls a silver brooch, the size of Wriothesley’s palm. The insignia of his new station, some weird cross between wolf and dragon, a perfectly crafted ambiguity, one that Neuvillette designed himself over the past two weeks.
Neuvillette’s jeweler of choice, a young woman named Chaumette, works fast with her Geo Vision.
Neuvillette steps forward, reaching for Wroithesley’s chest.
“With the power invested in me as Chief Justice, Iudex of Fontaine,” Neuvillette says, very serious as Wriothesley fights against a stupid and inappropriate sort of smile, “and in light of your tremendous service to the children and people of Fontaine, it is my greatest honor to name you His Grace, the Lord Incognito of the Murky Depths, Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide.”
It’s kind of relieving when a cheer goes up from the crowd.
Neuvillette made this decision pretty much on his own, without much input from anyone else, and Wriothesley was pretty sure half the nation would be furious that Neuvillette was putting some no-named stranger in charge of Meropide.
And conferring upon him the title of duke.
But, no, everyone in Fontaine seems to know what Wriothesley did to bring the Bellecourts to justice. Even the majority of the Beret Society likes him, now that they’re free of Dougier’s coercion.
It’s a weird thing to be liked. To be cheered.
Neuvillette pinches fabric between his fingers, his eyes on Wriothesley’s as he pins the brooch to the chains on Wriothesley’s new uniform.
“Congratulations, Your Grace,” Neuvillette says, “in finding your place in the world. In changing it.”
The crowd roars with applause, kamera lights blindly bright.
“Thank you, Monsieur Chief Justice,” Wriothesley says, trying to keep a straight face. Not because this isn’t a sober moment, but because it’s just so absurd to him. He’s fucked up so many things in this life, but, this time, he’s finally gotten it right.
He’s finally done right.
Well.
Almost right.
They’re stuck at the Palais for the next five hours as Neuvillette introduces Wriothesley to everyone who’s anyone—who isn’t now in jail because of the Bellecourts—within Fontaine’s society. He fields questions from the upper classes, from the politicians, from more reporters than he can keep track of. He puts all the reporters off, except for the pink-haired young woman. The idea of giving interviews has his skin crawling, but she, at least, seems tolerable.
Lights flicker on as dusk covers the Court, as the food dries up, as people begin to leave.
He and Neuvillette are forced to linger, since the party is in their combined honor as much as it is for Wriothesley alone.
They are the last to leave the Palais, doing so only when Sedene, ostensibly Neuvillette’s aide, all but pushes them out the front door.
“Lord Incognito, huh?” Wriothesley asks as they make their way through the winding streets. He veers to the right, and Neuvillette follows, a faint smile on his face.
“It is the traditional styling for Meropide.”
“Can’t say I’m very incognito,” Wriothesley says.
Neuvillette’s smile grows. “Your fame will fade with time.” His expression falls. “Wriothesley,” he says, somber.
They make their way into a park, the same one where Neuvillette revealed the history between him and the nation, where he told Wriothesley about Fontaine’s prophecy, where he opened himself and gave Wriothesley so many truths.
From here, Wriothesley can see the terrace where he first stumbled into Fontaine.
“Neuvillette,” he says, reaching for Neuvillette’s hand.
The park is not empty, but it is quiet, lit by faintly glowing lamps.
“Will… Will you not regret choosing to stay?” Neuvillette asks.
They’re not far from that bench, now, where they sat that one night when Neuvillette told him of the prophecy.
Wriothesley cants his head to the side. “What do I have to do to convince you I’m happy here?” he asks.
Neuvillette looks away. “I… Please understand, it is not that I do not trust your word. But this is not your…”
“My home?” Wriothesley guides Neuvillette onto that bench, holding both his hands. “Neuvillette. Home is with you. In rain, in sun, through good times and bad, you are my home.”
Neuvillette balks, just a little.
“Being here has changed me, fixed me,” Wriothesley continues, still holding Neuvillette’s hands. He looks down at Neuvillette in the soft lamplight, in the brilliant moonlight. “I am more real, more myself, than I ever was before. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.” He takes Neuvillette’s hands in one of his, going to one knee between Neuvillette’s leg.
This isn’t how people in Fontaine do things. He learned as much from that same jeweler, from Chaumette, but he doesn’t care, because he’s never really done things the way people in Fontaine have. And that has worked out for him.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small box.
“Neuvillette,” he says.
And Neuvillette, understanding that something important is happening, certainly, looks at him with a stunned sort of expression.
“Neuvillette, I will never find home without you,” Wriothesley says, thumbing open the box to reveal a ring of yellow gold. “So, would you marry me? Would you be my home forever?”
Neuvillette stares at him, at the ring in its little box, at him again. And then he’s laughing, he’s on his knees, too, he’s in Wriothesley’s arms with one hand folded over the ring box. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, of course, beloved, I would have no other.”
And there, on the ground in a park in another world, in Neuvillette’s arms, Wriothesley is finally where he belongs.