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amyriadofleaves · 2 days

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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 frantically intend on patting her arm to stop, but you think you accidently smack her face.

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 funny thing about it is that you’ve had your number of tighter corsets and you could do with it being tighter, but yet the problem still stands; the countless reassurances you’ve given Neuvillette over the past few days were nothing but diversion. You were still very much in pain.

The week had been nothing short of eventful. From boutique to boutique, bakery to bakery, both you and Neuvillette took the painstaking sacrifice to your schedule to make time for the wedding plan. Though arguments weren’t exempt from discussing what croquembouche would best fit the theme. Though, the responsibility of booking the venue was left in Lady Furinas’s hands, and from neeuvillette’s opinion, it does not disappoint.

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 fit.

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 your 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

#neuvillette x reader #genshinimpact #neuvillette fanfic #neuvillettexreader #neuvillette genshin #neuvillette #furina genshin #genshinblr

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