#// that also doubles as a headcanon post about wriothesley's relationship with his birthday haha

[dukemeropide]

Fading in Time

2024 Birthday drabble | gifts received from @huntersoath, @iustitians, @fanfaire, @dellarosula

(Wriothesley character story spoilers)

Wriothesley could count the number of birthdays he’d celebrated on one hand. The very concept of them had become, by now, the stuff of fantasy, consigned to the place in his memories occupied by fables spoken by ordinary animals and humans that could fly all on their own. In other words, something for innocent-minded children with the kinds of well-adjusted families that only existed in fiction. He had been that, once.

For a long while, it had been hard for him to reconcile the happiness and love he knew conceptually to be a part of celebrating one’s birthday with what he had witnessed to be little different than throwing a party for a lamb set for slaughter the very next day. Three of his siblings had disappeared before he realized the truth, but he had eyes, and he had ears, so he denied himself the excuse of age. He should have known, even as young as he was. 

Cake tasted like dirt from that day onward. His own birthdays passed in hazes of fury and grief. It had been someone’s birthday when he laid on the floor of his parents’ manor, drenched in their blood, choking on his own. That had been the last one, he’d made sure of it. And it was, for a while.

The Fortress of Meropide had hammered him down into an insignificant number in the years that followed, but he’d come to enjoy the anonymity. The fools who celebrated their birthdays down here might as well have put a sign up asking to be robbed, or beaten up, or both. Wriothesley had taken advantage of his fair share of fools. It was either that, or risk going hungry in the dog-eat-dog world under the sea. It was their own faults, he reasoned, and pretended like it wasn’t the resentment that festered just skin-deep during those first few years. Even so, the Head Nurse always had something for him on the same day every year, usually little more valuable than a piece of buttered toast, so that Wriothesley didn’t catch on until he’d been conditioned to expect it.

One year, as he sat on a cot in the empty infirmary while Sigewinne, humming a little song, poured peppermint tea into a nondescript cup, he realized just how talented the Fortress’ Head Nurse was.

Birthdays became easier to stomach after that, although he was still a prisoner of no importance until the day he scared the previous administrator from his post. Rumors followed the fearsome Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, among which was a distaste for birthdays, and yet he’d find his office collecting little trinkets, wrapped boxes, desserts, and a dozen or so hand-drawn stickers every year from then on.

There is far more clutter this year, even if “clutter” might be too harsh a word for the gifts and letters carefully delivered to his desk. The Duke has tried to clear space to work, to no avail, so he stands over the spread with a look that can be described as none other than fond exasperation. Little blue, pink, and yellow stickers speckle the tall back of his chair, and a shark sits on his shoulder. He’s left them all for the occasion, because he knows it’s futile to remove them today. More will soon take their place.

Where to start, he thinks, and his eyes land on a neat, no-nonsense signature he recognizes at once. Clorinde knows his preferences well by now, for how often they trade bets over life’s trivialities. The box and the thoughtful letter accompanying it showcase the champion duelist’s pragmatism, but it’s the new gloves that capture Wriothesley’s attention. He lifts one from the box to try, and it fits perfectly. She’d always had a good eye, but it seemed she knew him even better than he thought. With a soft laugh, he carefully returns the glove to its pair. A duel would be in order if he wanted to break them in, so he makes a note to invite her to the Pankration ring next time he sees her.

Alongside this box is a smaller one in beautiful wrapping, topped with a letter signed unmistakably by the Iudex’s precise hand, with the Iudex’s characteristic apologies. Wriothesley reads through it with an amused smile and then with the shake of his head, sets it aside to open the gift he knows deserves no such humble preamble. The tea within is wholly new to his collection, which lacks much of anything from Natlan, and when he opens the lid, out rolls the scent of bonfires and warm spices. It’s no legal codex, certainly, but it's at least something more practical. 

Wriothesley thinks he might prepare himself a cup now and contemplate the rest of his cleaning project, but the massive iron doors down below suddenly rumble open.

”Another delivery for you, Your Grace,” calls the courier. “From Lady Furina.”

”Bring it up,” he directs, studying his desk like one might a puzzle. Where to fit a new box…

But it’s not a box that arrives at the top of the stairs. Instead, tray after tray of cakes, cookies, macarons, and other finger treats file into his office, which the Duke stands by to watch helplessly. Only when his tea table has been covered in a spread fit for a small party does the courier finally leave. What has he done to earn such extravagance from the former Archon herself? he wonders, and, still bewildered, approaches one of towering gift baskets to inspect what else she might have sent. There, he finds the gilded tickets for a show at the Opera Epiclese nestled in the filling, as if it were the real gift hidden under layers and layers of the most ornate paper one could find.

Another knock at the door. Wriothesley quickly slips the tickets into his breast pocket and goes to the top of the stairs to send back whatever else might be on its way up.

”Just leave it down—“ Eyebrows raise with surprised pleasure at the sight of a familiar, albeit entirely unexpected face. 

“Now, to what do I owe a personal visit from Madame President?” he asks cheekily, following her to his desk to clear a space for the box she carries. It’s the result of the bet he’d technically lost, as it turns out, which Navia sets in front of him like a mafia boss presenting a suitcase full of mora.

”Let’s see what you’ve got here…” Leaning down for a better look, Wriothesley picks through the selection carefully, inspecting each tin as if searching gemstones for flaws. Lifting one in the middle from its bed of velvet, he spies the little note hidden beneath. If Clorinde is straight and to the point, Navia is anything but. With a soft huff, Wriothesley sets it back down.

"To be honest, I can’t remember if I’d tried any of these during my trip to Liyue last year. I guess the only thing to do is to have a taste test.” He shrugs his shoulders like it’s a matter of course, then flashes Navia a smirk. “Care to join me? I have a whole spread of desserts I need to figure out what to do with, too.”

So he sets his kettle to boil, because he expects that she won't say no. And after years and years of his birthday passing without any fanfare, Wriothesley thinks that, for once, it wouldn't be so bad celebrating it. Especially with someone else.

- -

He'd need a second hand to count them now.