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| [ In the aftermath of the Narwhal's defeat, and Neuvillette's subsequent ascension, everyone had rushed out to begin the mass rescue of Fontaine's hapless populace.
The traveler hadn't joined them, because he'd stepped out from the Abyss, told everyone that everything would be alright, and then sank to his knees once they were all gone.
Where's Furina? Aether looks around, but he doesn't see the former "Archon" slumped over in her chair. Clorinde probably carried her out, moved by some lingering protectiveness — or perhaps mere professionalism — over her charge. The Fatui — that's Lyney and Lynette — took Childe for treatment at the House of the Hearth. Even Paimon flew out in a cloud of sparkles to help Fontaine's best rescue as many people as they could, which leaves Aether alone in the Opera Epiclese for the moment.
He's all alone. Just him and his naiveté, licking his wounds at the end of the world.
He's not visibly bleeding, that's why it was easy for him to pretend he was fine, but his arm is broken in one place and his leg is broken in two. The whale was heavy and the Abyssal warrior was brutal. He's not that worried about it; he closes his eyes. Someone like Barbara could set him right in a few hours. Maybe Sigewinne will drop by later, once Wriothesley undoubtedly shows up on his ship with rain in his hair and a storm in his eyes, glorious as Beidou at the bow of the Alcor.
For once, Aether thinks, with some smug satisfaction as he maneuvers himself enough to rest his back against a wall of the courthouse, he's really playing the part of the hero.
(In his own mind, the things in Inazuma didn't really count — he'd been nothing but an angry fool, then, and in Sumeru, he didn't do anything special besides stand against the Shouki no Kami. It was more just that Dehya and Cyno and Alhaitham had found it more convenient to put him in the role of the man who would take the final stand.)
This is it, this is the way things should be, or at least the way they usually are in Yae Miko's light novels. The lone swordsman, battered at the story's end. Aether doesn't have problems accepting help when he needs it, but there's something right about being the kind of fool who would hide the extent of his injuries so that the others would go ahead without him. He doesn't have to play the villain anymore, and he doesn't think he was very good at it, anyway.
He can just be himself. Just Aether, weary and wounded. ]
...The "executor of justice," huh? Prosecutor was enough for me.
[ He seems to be picking up titles in every nation of Teyvat. "The Executor" sounds a little too intimidating, though. Aether rather liked "the First Sage of Buer."
Absently, the traveler wonders where Neuvillette has gone. What the man must be talking about with Skirk in the depths of the Abyss. And then he thinks that he kind of liked being relied upon by someone who had no need to rely on him. ] | |
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| [It is early evening. The people of the Court of Fontaine go about their day as normally as they can; "regular life" doesn't feel like such a distant dream in the air anymore, now that time has passed since the flood and more efforts are focused on proper rebuilding and reinforcing of structures, rather than the temporary cleanup measures in the immediate wake of disaster. While the Gardes may seem a bit on edge as Aether makes his way back into the city...well. In the last while, when have they not? People don't stop being people for very long even in crisis. Tragedies large and small still play out on the various "stages" that permeate Fontainian society. He'll still get mainly cheerful hellos and good-evenings and waves as he makes his way to Cafe Lutece, to his usual out-of-the-way table. Arouet is sure to make quick work of his order.
Against the backdrop of cheerful voices at the outdoor cafe, the whir of the odd patrolling gardemek, and the distant splashes of the Court of Fontaine's main fountain, a letter finds its way to Aether's seat; the postwoman is polite but distant about it, clearly burdened with too many further deliveries to spend any length of time in pleasantries.
The official seal of Fontaine adorns the back of the envelope, pressed into blue wax. Inside is, naturally, a letter; what else might one expect, in a properly thin envelope of standard size and no interesting decoration? The letter itself seems just as unremarkable, at least until unfolded. It is written on official letterhead, and dated two days prior. Whatever else transpires, the penmanship of the sender lives somewhere above critique.
The traveler will find, written elegantly in blue ink:]
Aether,
Good day. I trust your time spent in Fontaine continues to see you in good health and adventurous spirits. To come to the point, I request your assistance regarding a recent, ongoing investigation. Your assessment and insight would be most welcome. Should you arrive outside of regular business hours, please speak with the Melusine at the desk regarding this invitation.
I await you at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Neuvillette
Iudex of Fontaine
[After everything, one might expect he would at least forgo the closing formalities. Perhaps he had a reason to keep them; perhaps it is simply a habit too difficult to break after all these years. There is, on the surface and for a measurable distance below it, no real reason for Aether to think anything more of it than Neuvillette writing him a note two days ago to ask for his help with something.
(Is it odd? What cause would he have to think Aether might arrive at all hours? That he could not simply walk into Neuvillette's office himself, or that someone not Sedene would take a prominent shift at the Maison Gestionnarie's main desk - to the point where he writes specifically to suggest solutions to these minor inconveniences if they present themselves?)
Yet no matter the hour Aether chooses to go through the Palais doors, Neuvillette's happenstance-allusions prove true: a different Melusine, lemon-yellow and prone to wringing her hands, waits in full uniform at the main desk, and there are multiple Gardes posted at the entrance and at the door to Neuvillette's office proper.] | |
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| [The world beneath the surface of Fontaine's great sea is an artist's dream, washed in soft light, smeared in brilliant color, fields and forests of sea plants that undulate with the tide rather than the wind. Much like the world above the waves, its caverns, thickets, valleys, and ruins hide a great many secrets, most entirely inaccessible to the humans who call dry land their primary domain. There are always whispers. Fish tales, they say, that grow with every telling, rumors of things that can't be found, can't be caught.
None of these things are on Neuvillette's mind as he pushes his way through a tight cluster of snaring sea grass. Deft, careful fingers disentangle a Bubbly Seahorse from the uncooperative stems and leaves. Its cohort waits warily nearby; Neuvillette has only a smile for them as he gently works their friend free and releases it into the water.
As he turns to leave, already probing the ripples of the nearby currents for a new destination, a flash of blue against the greens and oranges of the sea grass stops him. Soon enough the otter slows itself. At a respectable distance it turns in frantic circles, squeaking, combing over its own hands one after the other. Familiar as he is with the otter's signals of distress, Neuvillette lifts a hand in farewell to the seahorses - a gesture of the overworld - and swims slowly closer. Clever black eyes meet his.
You have my attention.
He cannot truly say whether the soft little creature understands, but it turns another few circles and swims away, stopping to look over its shoulder.
Neuvillette glances upward, gauging the light from the surface, the distance between himself and the place where water meets air. The next nod is for only himself, and he swims deeper down, to follow the otter at the level of the sand bed. If he loses the creature among the sea stalks, he trusts it will be able to find him again. After all, he cuts a noticeable figure, even as he tries his best to mar his silhouette with the natural distractions of the world below.
Soon enough they glide together over the sinking depths of the Elton Trench. Luminescent plants - and Neuvillette's softly-glowing blue fins - only enhance the darkness of its shadows. Down there are many wrecks, of overworld ships and special diving automata and research vessels and clockwork data collectors. Some of them he has dealt with personally. Neuvillette is all too aware of the less ethical practices the researchers from above employ in the farce of "environmental regulation".
He slowly trails after the otter, down into the depths. They are friendly, social creatures; he often sees them in small groups, sunning themselves on the surface or playing with shells in the shallows. Perhaps one of its companions is in trouble - ensnared, as the seahorse was.
It's murky, the deeper they go into the trench, and even his eyes take time to adjust to the change in light. He recognizes the faint red glow of human-laid clockwork traps. Often, they release nets or floating cages, the better to contain and note the wildlife underwater "without causing it undue harm". Yet - as he carefully avoids a piece of torn metal, the skeleton of an old long-dead ship - he knows that sometimes those nets are unusually large. Heavy. An otter would struggle to free itself of something so cumbersome, and they are rather deeper down than any prefer to venture-
Neuvillette stops. He draws back, there at the evidence of one such sprung trap.
For what is contained inside is, instead, a man.] | |
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| [ Drown, the girls whisper, and then there is screaming, and then all is silent.
When Aether comes to, it's to the shrill and slightly panicked cries of Paimon's voice. He likes his little companion, most of the time, but in the immediate aftermath of having his consciousness restored to his body, she's giving him a little bit of a splitting headache; as he pushes himself up from the pavement, he winces, which only makes her even more worried.
"A-Aether, P-P-P — Paimon will go get you s-some Fonta!" she stutters, and then flies off in a hurried half-stumble, zig-zagging like an Electro Seelie in flight.
That almost makes the traveler laugh — sure, yes, whatever, Fonta, it might help, only Paimon would think about how to help him with a drink in the moment — but he knows the real reason she was so outrageously frightened: the man once known as Vacher is still lying dead on the ground next to him, and good riddance, probably, for the entire world.
There are Gardemeks surrounding the entire fountain. Neuvillette must have summoned them, but there's no need for an investigation, and he knows it. No crime was committed here save perhaps an unlawful execution outside of the boundaries of justice, but the perpetrators of that execution are well beyond the reach of the legal system now. There's nothing to do with Vacher's corpse but draw some chalk around it, or have it hauled off to a graveyard somewhere. Maybe the bodies of criminals in Fontaine are simply given sea burials. All things to the ocean, all things to the shore.
Still feeling dazed and sick from the whole ordeal, Aether tries his best to look at the Chief Justice's face, and he doesn't quite succeed.
He can't see the man's expression, but the traveler has the faint impression, from his general body language — the broad stance of his shoulders, the slight slope of his head — that he isn't surprised. Maybe he knew this would happen. Maybe it was a surprise. He couldn't have known that Vacher was the killer, or what he was doing with the Waters of the Primordial Sea — but did he know? About the girls? Did he know, did he suspect, did he think that what would be in the fountain was...
This request, the Chief Justice had asked, is it worth as much to you as your life? ]
You...
[ He's still a little dazed. Aether can't push himself to a standing position, as disoriented as he is, so he just stares vaguely at Neuvillette's gold-heeled boots for a time, working up the effort to flick his eyes upward. He gives up after a moment, covering his mouth with one hand and breathing out hard into it to try and alleviate some of the pounding nausea in his head. The traveler's usually a little sun-kissed from his travels, but in the moment, he looks rather pallid and ill. ]
Did you know that would happen? | |
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