Chapter Text
Long ago, in the not-so-distant kingdom of Fontaine, there stood a grandiose castle with high white walls and towering spires built as an homage to the sea. Glass murals depicted the rise of the holy Oceanid from the depths, and told of the blessing of life she bestowed on all the people of the land. For many centuries, the Oceanid’s lineage held the castle, soon named the Palais Mermonia, and ruled over Fontaine with a firm, but fair hand, guiding the people to era upon era of prosperity. But not all were so content in peace.
The newly crowned queen, the tyrannical Egeria, decreed that it was not enough for her to have Fontaine and the joyous people within it, but that the very seas themselves must fall assimilate to her domain.
Within days, news of the decree reached the draconic King of the Depths, and he scoffed. Who was this Oceanid—a race that had long since split from his kingdom—to declare herself the ruler of his waters and his people? Such a slight would not stand and he rose himself from his sandy beds to confront Queen Egeria directly.
When the dragon king’s head appeared outside the Palais, Egeria cried out.
“A monster!” She declared. “A monster is attacking the kingdom!” She said, though she knew the king’s status.
Unwilling to negotiate, she ordered her guards to fire cannons and sent the dragon back to the waters from whence he came.
Deeming the response an act of war, the dragon king retreated and gathered together every serpent of able body to join him in retaliating against the violent and unjust rule of Queen Egeria.
From that day forward, no peace was known throughout the lands of Fontaine as they engaged day and night in a bloody conflict. Fields were salted with the ocean waters; the people starved. The tides churned unpredictably; no vessel could hope to set sail. Every day, more and more people gathered below the gates of the Palais and begged the queen to put an end to the war that had raged for years against their land. And still, she refused to listen.
No longer was the strife about land or conquest, but about pride. And the queen, of her many flaws, was a creature prone more than anything to the folly of pride.
It was in her pride that she sought to slay the dragon king. To be the one to pierce steel through his throat and claim victory for her crown and her people. But victory she did not find.
At the moment she pierced the dragon king’s heart, the very sea itself revolted. Stole her Oceanid body until it was not even so much as a wisp. Untethered, her soul was torn apart, scattered through the waters beyond recognition.
Instead of relief, of an end to the suffering the people of Fontaine had endured, the draconic kin were not satisfied with the outcome. The queen for their king was not enough, they said. We must ensure this war will never return! The monarchy of Fontaine must fall!
And so, the halls of the Palais Mermonia were overrun with dragonkin. One by one, they slaughtered the staff and the nobles until the only one left was the queen’s eldest heir.
“You!” the dragons proclaimed. “You will stand as a warning to all the people of Fontaine that no new monarchy shall rise from the ashes of this one’s tyranny. You will stay here, cursed and watched over by the soul of our fallen king until the last drops of the sea are swallowed by the well of time. That is the price you will pay for the unpaid sins of your mother.”
And so it was.
To this very day, the lonely form of the prince still haunts the walls of the Palais Mermonia, still standing as it was 500 years ago at the side of the ocean. Many have attempted to rescue the prince from the halls and claim the boon of the Oceanids for their own kingdoms, but none have succeeded. True to his promise, the curse of the dragon king watches fiercely over his prize and his castle, refusing to allow even the most determined of knights to so much as leave the halls once they’ve entered.
But many still try.
The lands of Fontaine have not been the same since they lost their queen and their monarch. Legend says that if the captured prince is freed, the curse will be lifted, and a new era of prosperity will emerge not just for the triumphant kingdom, but for all the people of Fontaine as well.
So many times, Wriothesley had heard the tale of the Palais Mermonia. Though historical accounts of the building were mixed, none denied that the structure still stood at the very edge of Fontaine’s coast, and it had indeed gone unoccupied since the dramatic fall of Fontaine’s monarchy. What was debatable, really, were the accounts of princes, and curses, and dragons. While dragons were undoubtably inhabitants of the seas, there was surely no concrete evidence that the Palais itself still held a prince miraculously alive after 500 years, right?
Which was where Wriothesley was wrong.
“Sir Wriothesley of Meropide,” King Remus had said, speaking to the mercenary knight bowed at his feet. “My advisors inform me your combat record is most impressive.” He’d produced a short scroll, his stony hands holding the parchment in a delicate grip. “Taming the Cerberus of the north, bare-hand wrestling a Minotaur from the gates of the city, and single-handedly subduing a Vishap in the ring of Meropide. I need not go on for risk of redundancy, but I believe I’ve made my point.”
Wriothesley’s head had dipped. His hands clasped loosely behind his back. “You flatter me, Your Majesty. I’m just doing my part.” Earning my meals, he’d thought.
“And you do so without the complaint of your kindred.” The king had risen from his throne to meet him, his empty eyes focused on a point well and far away. “Because of your bravery, I seek to assign you a quest I’ve reserved exclusively for my most riotous.” He signaled for Wriothesley to stand. “In the Court of Fontaine, in the cursed Palais Mermonia is a prince—perhaps you’ve heard the tale?”
“At least once. Maybe twice.” Many more times than that.
The king had nodded. “A prince imprisoned within the walls of the castle, bound by a greedy dragon that seeks to keep him and his benefit all for itself. This prince is said to be the lone descendant of a long-fallen Oceanid line, one containing immense power to shift the world’s tides and change the threads of Fate to become most favorable.” King Remus focused again on Wriothesley. “I wish to seek an audience with him to complete the Symphony and usher in a new age of wealth for all of Remuria.”
Of course, Wriothesley was no composer. He didn’t deal in the Symphony’s mechanics, or what it took to maintain the lives of Remuria. However, he’d spent many years leased to the service of King Remus. Enough that he understood the man’s obsession, and just how vital the project’s completion was to he and the nation’s success. How much a boon of prosperity—assuming it was real—would mean to the kingdom. Even if no other knight had succeeded, it was Wriothesley’s obligation to try, lest he be sent back to the disappointed claws of Meropide’s present nobility.
And so he’d arrived in Fontaine.
Once the Court had dispelled its monarchy, the Palais Mermonia had been left to rot with its curse. Appointed administration and common-folk alike hoped it would crumble, swept away to the sea to be someone else’s problem. Someone else’s stain.
But it never did.
Though the years came and went and the moons cycled, the Palais remained ever unchanging. High walls of white rose along cliffs of sharp slate. Blue tiles lined steep rooves like the scales of a great serpent, wrapping up along spires and ramparts woven through with gold railings lying in wait to strike trespassers. Stained glass dripped from every window, refracting down in broken shards of navy and aqua, teal and azure. Every depiction told a story. A woman on her throne. A scepter. The snarling head of a dragon with its mouth open to display a forest of jagged teeth. An Oceanid goddess who looked down on her subjects with one round eye. Her arms opened wide in welcome, in scrutiny. Expressionless, a darkened sky beckoned above her. Not even her followers chose to depict her with love.
At night, the entire building seemed to glow. Built of stark polished marble, it took every shred of moonlight and threw it back, casting itself in a perfect reflection across the ocean waters. A claim to the depths it touched.
No resident of Fontaine itself dared approach the Palais. Not desperate scrappers or valiant heroes. Despite the legend, they all said, it was better to pretend as though that very castle never existed. To even acknowledge it was destined only to bring terrible misfortune. The most anyone talked about was the prince. The man imprisoned within the walls of the Palais and held captive by the dragon until either the beast was slain, or eternity came to a close.
On his second night in the city, Wriothesley himself had caught a glimpse of the prince.
Trekking around over the jagged rocks protecting the land from high tide, Wriothesley had nearly finished his survey of the area when a flicker of movement caught his attention. At first, he feared it was the dragon. The flash of white and cerulean blue that trailed across a high balcony had appeared so light and so ethereal, it couldn’t possibly belong to any of the heavy designs set by human hands. And yet, there he’d been, arms rested on the balcony’s bony railing and face turned towards the open sea.
In a long train, the prince’s hair fell down his back to his thighs in the same way fine silken sheets draped across the surface of their bed. His figure—lithe from the centuries of confinement—was robed in a regal blend of blue satin and white curtains. Three layers came together with a fitted shirt and frilled vest overlapped by a long, tailed coat adorned in a swath of thin embellishment panels that flared out like the many fins of a crystalfish. Even without being close enough to properly see his face, Wriothesley had already known he’d be beautiful.
Part of it came with royalty. So many of them had never had to work or toil. Never subjected their delicate skin to the sun or the wind. Like a collector’s doll, it allowed them to stay perfect, untouched. But if the legends about this prince were true, he hadn’t seemed to have been given a choice in the matter.
And maybe that was the crux of it. The true reason Wriothesley was there, risking his life for a man he’d never met like a naïve child who imagined he’d be the one hero to slay the dragon. He never could just let trapped things lie.
Like a hopeless fool, Wriothesley had come to the castle. He’d climbed its pristine steps and crept its way through the gate to crawl in along a side hallway, weave his way through to the entryway, and begin his journey to where he’d caught his glimpse of the prince only a night prior.
Inside, the castle somehow appeared even bigger. Halls with high ceilings lined the foremost chamber from the grounds, sparkling with murals of Oceanids frolicking in and out of cresting waves weaving their way down, directing him towards what could only have been the throne room. Equally high, arched white columns lined the halls like ribs, holding open the lungs of a great beast turned to stone. Eyes drifting further down, Wriothesley paused to stare, unusually surprised, at the state of the floor.
Deep gashes cut their way into marbled gray tile. Cracks and divots broke apart large chunks at the grout. Part of the long blue rug down the center had been shredded, its edges frayed. A bent sword lay discarded, launched away from the central conflict.
How many knights, how many mercenaries, had the dragon claimed so far?
According to Remus, he only sent someone every fifty years or so in the hopes their technology, their tactics, had evolved enough to send the dragon to a well-deserved grave. The sword he’d given Wriothesley, he assured, would be more than enough to pierce the beast’s hide for good. Starsplitter, he’d called it, made from ore infused with the bones of the long-dead Durin, imported directly from Mondstat. The only material who’s edge knew no equal.
As for Wriothesley, he had no intention of slaying the dragon if he didn’t have to. So many knights fell victim to the cruel cycle of showmanship. The need to prove definitively that they were indeed worthy of their position. While there were certainly times and places where a show of status was necessary, anything in excess was just begging for retaliation from the universe. And besides, anyone with real power didn’t need to constantly prove it. And besides, the legend did say all anyone had to do was rescue the prince to break the curse.
No, Wriothesley’s approach was much simpler: get the prince, then get out.
According to his observations, the prince was being kept somewhere on the West wing of the Palais. His balcony was there, and the one local who’d talked noticed she’d seen the prince out there at various times of both the night and day.
At the very least, it made for an easy target. Weave through the main hall to a grand side-hall, down another wide corridor, up a flight of stairs, through one door, then another, then stand before a beautiful white door inlaid with delicate teardrops of the softest white-gold. Find the prince.
Hopefully.
Wriothesley took a moment to straighten himself. The semi-mechanical folds of his armor needed leveling, and the spiked helmet he wore needed to be removed and tucked under his arm like a proper gentleman. Even if he’d come from the lowest echelons of Remuria, it didn’t mean he lacked manners—when they mattered.
A deep breath had him fluffing his hair and squaring his shoulders. Greeting the prince should be no different than greeting King Remus. In fact, even easier.
He twisted the handle of the door.
Completely unlocked, the metal gave way to glide back on silent hinges. Inside, the room for the prince was in much better condition than the hallways that preceded it.
A truly enormous clamshell-shaped bed dominated the majority of the room in silvery silk sheets and embroidered blue pillows. Clouds of plush white carpet covered the floor and led over to free-standing tall closets, a golden full-mirror, a wide dresser, and a modest vanity. Strewn across the vanity’s top, it appeared as though the occupant had only just left with a golden hairbrush and toothed comb laid out beside a pigmented stick of blue makeup. Several long white hairs remained embedded in the head of the brush while a satiny navy ribbon flowed over its handle and curled up against the duplicate of itself in the mirror. All the signs the prince was somewhere, but he certainly wasn’t there.
A small breath left Wriothesley’s lungs as he let himself breathe again.
Technically, there was still one last part of the room he could check. Along the opposite end of the room, the stone wall gave way to a wide glass archway opening up to a limitless view of the ocean beneath the morning sun. However, from the inside, he could see the whole thing, and it was clear to anyone the prince wasn’t out there either.
Alright, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume he’d gone out for a walk or to the kitchen or something. Since the dragon hadn’t been guarding his room specifically, it actually made much more sense he wasn’t there, really. Logically.
On the one hand, he had a theory that if he found the dragon, he’d find the prince guarded behind it, but that was reckless and stupid. On the other hand, he could wander around through every room in the Palais, hoping he’d stumble upon the prince. Which also seemed stupid. What made more sense would be to find the dragon and observe it without engaging until he found the prince. That was a smart move.
Except, he didn’t need to find the dragon.
Before making it so much as halfway down the hall from the prince’s room, Wriothesley was stopped in his tracks by the clicking of long nails across tile and a slither of something big and heavy over the already fully worn carpet.
Wriothesley ducked into a side room and closed its door as delicately as he could with metal-clad hands.
Heart in his throat, he dropped to the floor, setting down his helmet beside him lest it block his already meager view. Beneath a crack under the door, he peered out through what he could see of the narrowed hallway.
One click at a time, the footsteps grew closer. The floor trembled in time with each regular beat. A painting of a seahorse on the wall rattled in its frame.
Just as rich blue scales and long, iridescent lilac talons came to dominate Wriothesley’s view, the dragon paused. One clawed hand scraped up. Its knuckles came to rest on the floor. Against the door, a snort of warm air fogged a wide ring along the tile floor.
The smooth tip of a finely scaled snout appeared in Wriothesley’s vision. A slitted nostril flared.
In his chest, Wriothesley’s heart stopped beating altogether. Maybe if he held still, maybe if he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t care to exist it would be fine, it wouldn’t matter. Dragons probably didn’t hunt all that much by scent, right?
With a roar, the door shuddered.
Wriothesley’s armor shook and he scrambled back. Metal from his greaves scraped across stone as wood splintered. Claws appeared, then gouged away a wound in the door. Thin white pupils swept across the room and locked briefly with Wriothesley’s through the protection of the wall. Their width narrowed.
A bone-rattling boom sent Wriothesley to his feet as cracks spidered out from the wall. Starsplitter flew from its sheath up into both hands.
As the wall began to buckle, he couldn’t help but think what a poor plan observing the dragon would have been, and at least this way, he’d get things over with quickly. Hopefully that didn’t mean his death, but he’d probably been through worse. Probably.
Dusty white stone collapsed into the room in a wave of coarse powder. Close behind it, the dragon’s form pushed into the gap it had made. Its bulk was long and muscled with ragged fins that made it look a whole lot bigger than its skinny body actually was. Still, its neck snaked around. Its mouth opened with hooked teeth and it roared, pulling its lips back and snapping for Wriothesley as he jumped to dodge it.
The beast’s arms scrabbled along the floor. In a final push, it fully entered the space.
When Wriothesley stepped sideways, its tail was beside him. Sweeping for him, he stabbed down. With little effort, Starsplitter’s point sliced cleanly through flesh, spearing tail to floor.
A ghastly cry sent Wriothesley’s spine into a shudder.
Though pinned, the dragon’s tail dragged forward, bleeding a line of silvery lavender that smashed into Wriothesley’s stomach at full force.
Briefly, his world flipped. The breadth of his back collided with the far wall while the reverberation of his armor rang in his ears.
Before his vision was fully regained, his instincts urged him to his feet. A man on his ass in a fight was a dead man, and he wasn’t about to die before he was dead. Instead, he lurched forward, stumbling out of the way of a clawed arm as it swung and dropped into a clumsy roll that most certainly was about to make him lose his breakfast.
A back foot planted in front of him kept Wriothesley from reaching his sword.
Feeling the heat of a body not a moment too soon, he rounded his arm back, cracking an iron-clad elbow across the dragon’s face; staggering it.
Wriothesley’s feet carried him onward.
Just a few steps from Starsplitter, he felt the dragon rearing up again. Watched its tail curl.
A mighty foot came down behind him; the air shifted.
Heart beating too hard to properly track, Wriothesley wrapped his hands around Starsplitter’s grip. The blade pulled fully free.
Pivoting back, he found that the dragon had gone completely still. Its head hunched like it would attack, its eyes glassy. Blankly, it watched the space where Wriothesley’s body would have been only moments ago. Its mouth hung half-open.
A shiver along the dragon’s spine brought them both back to their senses.
In the added moment of hesitation, Wriothesley bolted for his escape. Vaulting over the opened stone wall, a crack of claws followed his armor-weighted roll into the hallway.
Head swiveling around, there was clearly no sign of the prince anywhere in the open. No open doors nor furniture piece he could hide behind. If he was commanding the dragon in any way, he clearly didn’t do it too directly. But if there was the dragon, then the prince had to be around there somewhere, didn’t he?
A mass of scale and muscle flew over Wriothesley’s head.
Shaking him enough to stumble back onto one knee, the dragon’s body rammed into the opposite side of the hallway and crumpled down in a quickly squirming pile beside him.
Thrusting his sword to the side, he struck out in a wide gash along the beast’s belly.
The dragon’s voice gurgled as it roared, shifting down into a whine. Its middle writhed. Arms lashed out at nothing. Bleeding a pool across the rug, its body twisted and shuddered so violently it loosed more plaster from the opposing wall.
Stepping back once, then back further, Wriothesley’s own insides twisted as he looked on at his handiwork. His shoulders slackened.
Even if the dragon was wicked, it didn’t seem right to leave it dying like that. Alone, injured. Even if it kept thrashing, it was his responsibility to finish the job he’d started. To give it a last moment of dignity.
Moving towards the dragon’s head, Wriothesley held Starsplitter out in both hands.
His breath drew in.
Just as his arms raised, the dragon’s body went still.
Before his eyes, its size began to shrink. Blue scales melted away into equally rich blue fabrics. Spines retreated and were replaced with white hair—bright as the moon’s face—that fell over shoulders and curled over a hip. Long glowing horns melded into a hairline. Polished fingernails replaced claws. Head hung, a human arm pressed down on a profusely bleeding gash while its owner trembled.
Wriothesley’s own heart came to a standstill.
Of course no one had been able to find the prince before the dragon. The dragon was the prince.
A chorus of echoing clatters shattered the air as Starsplitter’s blade fell to the ground. A silver neck guard followed suit against the wall.
Wriothesley dropped down to one knee. Freshly crusted blood smattered across one cheek and he moved to wipe it away. A new trickle followed its wake, metal armor tugging apart the tender knitting of his skin. “Your highness, forgive me. We didn’t realize-“
“Silence!”
The prince’s one command pierced through Wriothesley’s core to freeze the blood in his veins. Against his own sense of preservation, he raised his head to meet the prince’s starlight-speckled eyes with their thin pupils and draconic intensity. There had never been any Oceanid at all, had there?
“Ignorance does not absolve your actions,” the prince said, lip curling with disdain as he spoke. Even disgusted, he sounded regal, collected. “If you wish to redeem yourself, your only course is to leave this place and urge the flow of your brethren to act in turn.”
Wriothesley’s eyes flicked to the wound at the prince’s side, still running thick with faintly shimmering blood. “I can’t leave you like this.”
The prince’s gaze followed Wriothesley’s eyes as though only then realizing the extent of his own injury. The slender length of his fingers separated, dripping in the very lifeblood that soaked through the many layers of his vest and jacket. “I will survive the ordeal.”
“While I appreciate the confidence, I don’t think now is the time to act tough,” Wriothesley said. “Besides, I’m the one who did this to you, it’s only fair I try to make it right.”
“Is the damage you’ve enacted not already sufficient?”
More from habit than anything, a thin smile wrapped its way across Wriothesley’s lips. “I seem to remember you attacked me first.”
A growl bubbled through the prince’s throat. His body gave another shudder and a fresh surge of blood flowed between his fingers. “Very well. If you wish to be useful, return to the entrance and venture straight back into the throne room. Draw water from the fountain and return it here to me. I am not partial to which vessel you select.”
“Well, if that’s all, I’m sure I can oblige you,” Wriothesley said, his heart still steadying despite the ease his voice let on.
A half dozen questions raced through his head as his feet carried him away from the prince. How had word never reached Remuria that the prince and the dragon were one and the same? Would anyone even believe him if they told them? Why had no one ever amended the story of the Palais to reflect the truth? Did the prince only change back so Wriothesley wouldn’t kill him? Was he walking himself into a trap?
No, probably not. If the first thing the prince told Wriothesley was to get lost, then he probably wasn’t looking to kill him. Probably. Wriothesley had seen his fair share of liars in the prison of Meropide, and none were as straightforward as the prince.
Water flowed down from a tall, softly cascading fountain into a golden-lipped pitcher in Wriothesley’s hands, adding to its weight and soaking down into the fabric liner beneath his gauntlets.
Archons, Wriothesley had been so close to killing the prince. Just one more swing and it wouldn’t have mattered what Remus wanted, how he’d come back empty-handed, because there would have been no prince to return. Meropide would have taken him right back and wrapped him in the cold embrace of the iron mill until he rotted away. Another corpse to be discarded.
Against the one wall only cracked, but still whole, the prince leaned with his back to the stone and his eyes cast down to the still-sputtering wound at his side.
At Wriothesley’s appearance he tucked his legs under himself, making to stand before Wriothesley cleared his throat to halt him. “With all respect, your highness, I have to insist you stay down.”
The prince’s posture swayed. Not too unlike the rumbling voice of a dragon, he huffed his displeasure. “I do not require your coddling.”
“Well, if you’d prefer to bleed to death on your feet, be my guest.” Wriothesley hauled the pitcher he’d brought between them. One at a time, he stripped his gauntlets from his hands and laid them out at his side. “But, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
The prince scoffed as he drew the pitcher to himself. “What interest do you have in my survival?”
“I wasn’t exactly stabbing you to be malicious.”
Holding the heavy pitcher in one hand, the prince portioned water in small pours, dotting them across his wounds where it pooled and soaked into the raw flesh, returning clean, knit skin in its place. No wonder Remus wanted him for the symphony. “You are by far the first to admit such.” A soft sigh left the prince’s lips. His shoulders eased. “I apologize for my initial aggression. Those who have come before you did not have the same calculative personality. I have found it beneficial to deal with them proactively.”
Wriothesley settled back onto one knee, adjusting his armor in an attempt to at least have it partially out of the way. “You didn’t think to approach them like this?” He gestured over the prince’s elegant human form.
“I do not have control over this matter.”
“So, like a werewolf situation?”
The prince’s head tilted. The beautiful arc of his brow knit inward, no longer focused on treating his miraculously mended wounds. “If you mean to imply I change form with the cycle of the moon, no, I do not.” He curled the pitcher to his side, one arm loosely hugging it. “I have other restrictions.”
“I see.” Wriothesley’s shoulders rolled. Beneath his chest plate, his sides began to dully throb. Given the hit he’d taken earlier, he’d be surprised if he hadn’t bruised or even cracked a rib or two. It made it hurt to chuckle. “Already brushing the specifics and I haven’t given my name.” He crossed an arm over his chest. “Sir Wriothesley of Remuria, sent by King Remus himself.”
The prince’s head inquired further. “I had not anticipated Remus would remain in power for so long.” He smoothed down the ruffles of his shirt, the motion drawing attention to the way the blood on both himself and the floor had entirely disappeared. “You may address me as Neuvillette.”
“Well, Prince Neuvillette-“
A bitingly indignant hiss cut off the remainder of Wriothesley’s address. “Prince?” Neuvillette stretched his back up, sitting at attention with his legs drawn neatly at his side. “I have not spoken with humanity in many centuries, but I do believe the terminology is used to refer to one in line for, but who has not yet ascended to the title of ruler. Am I mistaken?”
A dusting of pink rushed to Wriothesley’s cheeks. He shouldn’t care what Neuvillette thought of him, but he wouldn’t deny that the way the man so easily slipped to an air of factual superiority was both admirable, and adorable at the same time. “Nope, that’s still the right definition.” He ruffled his hair back. “Are you…not royalty?”
“Royalty,” Neuvillette sneered, curling the top of his lip at the foul odor the word came packaged with. “I do not associate myself with such self-proclaimed overseers of the human domain. My authority as king predates the establishment of Fontaine, and if Egeria had not seen fit to imprison me, I would have grounds to banish you for your ignorance.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be the first,” Wriothesley said, easing himself onto his backside and crossing his legs as best he could without removing his boots.
“I would not exile you a second time.” Neither a joke nor a tease, Neuvillette’s words drove home as a statement of fact. “I do not blame you for your misinformed assumptions. I have been absent here for many centuries.”
“Imprisoned, right?”
Neuvillette’s eyes trailed up to the wall opposite. One at a time, the bricks pulled themselves from the floor, collecting their dust and fusing together to fill the hole dragon Neuvillette had created. “Yes, imprisoned.” Neuvillette’s voice grew softer. “You king has sent many knights as assassins to end my life. Had you not elected to stop yourself, I believe the cut from your blade would have very well done the job it intended.” He looked up, locking glittering draconic eyes with the icy blue of Wriothesley’s. “I would like to thank you properly for your mercy.”
The throbbing in Wriothesley’s ribs dulled as his heart squeezed. He played it off with a shrug. “Any knight who can’t control his blade isn’t really worthy of wielding it. Given how wrong that legend is, I’m glad I didn’t go through with it.”
Neuvillette’s neck twisted around to Wriothesley’s direction. “What legend do you speak of?”
“Right, you…haven’t heard it.” Wriothesley dragged his hand through his sweat-slicked hair. “There’s a legend in Remuria about a war between Egeria and the sea dragons in Fontaine. At the end, Egeria and the dragon king both kill each other, and the remaining dragons curse her son to be held prisoner at the Palais Mermonia by one of their kind for the rest of time. I’m starting to think Egeria’s son was more of a specter than an Oceanid.”
Neuvillette’s eyes narrowed. The curled tips of his fingers hooked to the lip of the pitcher still cradled in his arms, one digit slotting into a groove formed where a chipped fragment had fallen away many years ago. “In his life, he was indeed a tangible Oceanid. However, I did not imprison him here. When his mother fell in combat, it was he who lured me here under the false pretense of peaceful negotiations and used the opportunity to bind me to the castle. More similar to a living thing, it shares my immortality, and is capable of repairing nearly any wound it receives.” A quick gesture was tossed to the fully whole wall beside him. “In turn I share its presence, my body unable to leave, and my transformations dictated by a tidal pool in the courtyard. Despite my own knowledge of the magical arts, I have determined no way of breaking the curse without also dismantling my soul in the process.”
“I see,” Wriothesley said. “That’s quite the predicament.”
“It is indeed.”
A silence settled over them cut only as the last few loose stones righted themselves and a painting returned to the vacant wall.
Alright, so the legend was wrong. That wasn’t exactly the biggest surprise to Wriothesley. Plenty of stories got muddied or exaggerated in their retellings. Neuvillette’s wasn’t the first.
But since the legend wasn’t true and Neuvillette couldn’t leave, then Wriothesley had nothing to go back with. No bargaining chip for the table. He could always become a deserter. Run off into the hills of Fontaine and never come back. But what then? The only other skill he had apart from fighting was machining, and there was no way news of a Remurian machinist residing in Fontaine wouldn’t make it back to Remus himself. Or worse, Meropide’s earl. He could also go back to Meropide and hope a disgraced knight would still be welcome instead of turned into Wednesday’s “secret ingredient”. But probably not.
There was one option, though. It wasn’t the best, maybe, and it definitely went against everything Remus had said about his character—though maybe that was just legend too—but it would definitely afford him enough time for Remus to consider him dead and ignore any Wriothesley-like persons who might appear later along the line.
“Why don’t I help you break your curse,” Wriothesley said, pulling himself to his feet before offering a hand to Neuvillette to do the same. “I’m no expert in magic, but I’ve worked with a handful of enchantments in my time. Maybe all you need is another pair of eyes.”
Neuvillette set the pitcher beside him to take Wriothesley’s hand. “Perhaps.” He paused while his eyebrows quirked. “You are injured.”
“Oh this?” Wriothesley rubbed the chest plate of his armor, bruised ribs aching in protest. “Eh, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”
“It is not nothing,” Neuvillette said. His expression turned to a scowl. “You need not continue on with your physical body damaged.” His fingers interlaced with Wriothesley’s, squeezing and holding them tight.
Heart suddenly fluttering, Wriothesley stared down at the contact, noting just how soft Neuvillette’s cool skin felt against his own. The lack of callouses certainly had their benefits.
Between their palms, a soft blue light transferred between them.
With no input from himself, Wriothesley’s back straightened. His ribs moved beneath his skin in a way that was alien, but not uncomfortable as they righted themselves. The pain ailing them eased and soon all he was left with was the tension of disbelief in his own lungs.
“That’s an impressive party trick,” Wriothesley said.
Neuvillette kept their hands together while their hold fell to his waist. “It is not a party trick. To resonate my mending abilities with you in exchange for your previous mercy is only a small token of what I offer.” He tilted his head up just a hair to meet Wriothesley’s eyes. “Now, you wish to assist me with my curse, correct?”
Wriothesley’s eyes passed over his helmet and sword still abandoned on the ground. “Only if you’d want that.”
“I would fully appreciate the assistance,” Neuvillette said, allowing his hold on Wriothesley to slip. “I will arrange a room and accommodations within the castle, or we may devise a schedule if you wish to make your lodging elsewhere. As long as you are not alarmed by the repeated sight of a dragon throughout these halls, I do not foresee any issue with your residence.”
“I think I can work with that,” Wriothesley said with a chuckle. “As long as you don’t try to attack me again.”
“I would think of no such thing, Sir Wriothesley.”
Sir Wriothesley. A title its owner had heard many times over the course of his life, but never once had it sounded so lovely.