#Wriothesley is slowly backing away with his hands up in surrender as you and I approach him

[euthymiya]

Wriothesley cumsicles for a hot day 🥺🤍

It’s summer and the fortress is stuffy what’s a better way to cool down than frozen wrio seed 🫦

[larkspyrr]

chapter vi — i have my freedom but i don't have much time (wc. 5.4k)

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reblogs are appreciated!

You smiled, slanting a dry look at Wriothesley, your arms crossed. You tapped your foot impatiently. “What happened to ‘being ready for anything, with me by your side’?”

Wriothesley, stark pale, stood by your side. He looked stiff. “Miscalculated,” he said flatly. “Forgot about horses.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

He scowled. “I am a duke.”

Your eyes flicked to his boots and back to his face. You delicately arched an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like it from here.”

The sun was high in the sky and beating down on your heads outside your family's stables. The breeze was light and smelled faintly like the sea and leather and hay. It was a beautiful day — perfect for riding.

Wriothesley sighed, unaffected by the auspicious weather, looking over the fearsome beast that stood before him, unmoved by his theatrics. The mare was as beautiful as she was familiar to you — tall and broad with a gleaming chestnut coat and a rich, auburn mane. She blew air out of her nostrils in a huff, eyes gentle and curious as she looked over Wriothesley.

“I am out of my depth.”

“Considering your usual depth is ‘seafloor’, I find that hard to believe.”

“You know? I think I have paperwork to do back at the Fortress.”

“You aren’t even on the horse yet, Wrio.”

If you didn’t know better, you might have sworn he was pouting. “This is going to be how I die,” he intoned, jerking his arm out to gesture at the offending horse. She remained impassive. He shot you a glare that lacked any power. “Horses have never liked me. He isn’t going to be any different.”

You rolled your eyes. “She might surprise you. I chose her with you in mind,” you said encouragingly, as though you were speaking to a student still in single-digits. “I thought the two of you might get along. Give her a chance.”

His expression was doubtful. The eye you could see at his side narrowed in suspicion. “You picked her out for me?”

“She’s a real sweetheart and the most patient mare I’ve ever met," you said, smiling affectionately at the mare. "I thought she’d be able to tolerate a learner.”

He turned a baleful look on the horse again, crossing his arms tightly in front of his chest as if to construct a wall between him and his new nemesis.

“...What’s her name,” he said, defeated. He looked like a deflating balloon, his arms falling from their defensive position back to his sides in a display of clear surrender.

You looked at the mare and smiled lightly, placing a gentle hand on her nose. You stroked her soft fur, chuckling. “This is Lucy.”

You turned at the sound of footfall as Wriothesley approached you and Lucy with slow, even steps, eyes focused cautiously. He sighed, nodding at the horse in polite greeting. “It’s nice to meet you, Lucy.”

She looked at him blandly, still chewing her hay.

Your lips quirked as you watched the two staring at one another in the lowest stakes stalemate in Teyvat history. “You can pat her,” you prompted, jerking your chin at Lucy. “She won’t mind.”

“Will she bite?”

“Almost certainly not.”

“And I can trust you?”

You shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

He looked at you dubiously before turning his tired eyes back to Lucy. He reached out a hand, slow and deliberate. Lucy looked at him evenly, clearly bored with all the ongoing buildup. He finally placed his hand on her snout in a glorious — if anticlimactic — moment of victory.

You clapped slowly. “Wonderfully done. Very moving. I shall write the Palais Mermonia immediately and have them issue you a medal for your breathtaking display of faith and bravery.”

He didn’t bother looking at you, still stroking Lucy’s chestnut nose. She nickered quietly. “You’re awfully funny today,” he deadpanned. “What next?”

“We get you on the horse."

He exhaled, his hand falling away. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Do you need an instruction manual?” You walked over to Lucy, reaching out to adjust her bridle. You looked at him with a smirk. “Shall I hold your hand?”

He huffed. “I’m sure I can manage, you ass.”

You laughed, a rich sound making its way out of your throat in a surprised burst. “Don’t be like that. I’m doing you a favor. Most new riders start by mucking out the stalls before they get to ride, you know.”

“Well, I don’t have the luxury of time, I’m afraid. No touching coming-of-age stories where man and beast form an impenetrable bond will be taking place here.”

“Never say never, Your Grace,” you whispered with a jaunty eye waggle, taking him by the elbow and guiding him to Lucy’s side. He followed with surprising ease. “You have a few weeks yet. Now up you go.”

He exhaled a rough breath. After only a moment, he planted a foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up, opposite leg easily swinging onto the other side of Lucy’s saddle and coming to a stop, seated very, very still but looking anything but sturdy.

You grinned up at him, patting Lucy’s shoulder. “How is it?”

Wriothesley didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He placed them on either side of Lucy’s neck, his fingers curling in her mane as if to anchor himself. He was frowning slightly. “Nothing special.”

Lucy snorted indignantly and Wriothesley made a noise akin to choking as he doubled down on his grip, hurriedly releasing her once he realized he’d been holding too tight. “Oops, sorry,” he muttered quickly, placing a flat hand on her neck once more in an awkward, apologetic pat.

You couldn’t seem to prevent the smile from spreading on your face. He almost seemed to have forgotten you were there at all. “Don’t worry,” you said, reaching out and scratching Lucy’s nose. She leaned into the touch. “If she didn’t kick me off when I was kid, I doubt she’d do the same to you now. I was an awful student. Impatient and hyper.”

His eyes widened as he froze in his unhurried stroking of her mane. "This is your horse?" he asked, pointing needlessly at Lucy beneath him.

"No, she's not ‘mine’. We're good friends," you said, giving the mare a fond look. “We learned how to ride together.”

He looked at you thoughtfully and cocked his head. The sun filtering down through the slats of the stable roof cast rays of shadow and gold across the monochrome of his hair, gilding him in the morning light. His blue eyes were difficult to look away from. “You really trust her?”

You held his gaze evenly. “I trust her, and I told you earlier it was up to you whether or not you trust me,” you said. “Do you?”

“I do,” he said with conviction.

Your heart hammered in your chest for reasons that seemed to escape you. The sun was warm on your back but it was your face that felt hot. “Well, then,” you said, mounting Lucy behind Wriothesley and clearing your throat. You placed your hands behind you on Lucy’s flank, for lack of anywhere else to put them. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

Lucy slowed to a stop in a wide field, dotted with cypress trees and boulders older than history and riotous, cool-toned blooms, swaying softly in the Fontaine breeze. You tilted your head back to the sky, smiling as you smelled the earth and the sea, the flowers and the salt.

“Come through here,” you said, pointing through a thicket crowned by indigo hydrangeas. You felt Wriothesley’s shoulders shift against you as he turned to look where you indicated. “It’s always been a favorite spot of mine to take a break.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, shifting to guide Lucy in the new direction. It hadn’t taken him long to relax. It had been rough at first — it took Lucy about as long to trust him as it had for him to trust her, walking along with an uncertain gait and the unfamiliar weight of two people on her back.

“Wow," he breathed as Lucy stepped between the brush, following a narrow path made by only her own hooves over the years, and into a small clearing — nestled between trees whose peaks were hidden by the glare of the afternoon sun and the tangle of their own branches, reaching far enough outward to provide a ring of shaded respite around a pool of dappled sunlight. The grass, slightly longer and less trodden than that which you'd just crossed, swayed in the coastal breeze, friendly and beckoning.

You breathed deeply, eyes falling shut for just a moment as you savored the tranquility you had always found when you crossed the blooming threshold into this sanctuary, no matter how many times you found yourself traveling back — unconsciously following a path so natural it felt etched into your heart.

It always felt like passing into another world. Another lifetime.

You let your eyes fall open again, exhaling slowly on a smile. “We can hitch Lucy just here.”

Lucy made her way over to the tree you'd indicated, familiar with your routine.

“She really is yours, huh?” he asked, running a gloved hand across her neck gently. The gesture looked much more natural now than it had barely an hour earlier.

"She’s my friend,” you corrected. You unfolded your arms from his waist, unsure of at which point they had found themselves wound there in the first place. It had to have been a while, as the muscles of your arms felt stiff and resisted you as you pulled away. You shifted your weight, swinging your left leg behind and lowering yourself back to the soft ground. “She doesn’t belong to anyone. Living beings cannot be owned."

Wriothesley hummed, a soft smile on his face as he patted Lucy’s snout fondly and dismounted. He turned away and walked over to a patch of grass just beneath a tree, the lush green soft and sun-dappled. He sat down roughly with a sigh, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head. “Let’s lie down here for a little while.”

You smiled, amused, and walked over. “A nap in the grass?”

“Grass and sunlight are in short supply where I come from. And, come to think of it, naps.”

You laughed and lowered yourself down on the grass at his right, laying back with your ankles crossed. You flashed him your brightest smile. “Well, then, by all means.”

The quiet was as peaceful as it ever was. With your eyes closed, it was all too easy to let the rest of the world fall away; every worry, every uncertainty. All there was, and all there needed to be, was the wind in the grass, the birdsong overhead, and your oldest friend grazing not far away. The other company, while new, was… not unwelcome.

Sharing this peace with someone was rather nice, actually.

The man by your side didn't say a word for a long time.

"Is it everything you'd expected?" he asked finally.

Your eyes opened and you turned your head to look at Wriothesley. His eyes were still shut, their piercing blue hidden away from the world. His lashes were dark against his cheek, the crescent scar beneath them softer, less angry.

“What’s that?” you asked.

He cracked an eye open to look at you, that charming little dimple making a brief appearance on his cheek. "Our arrangement. It's been over a month now."

Had it really been so long? The summer always flew by, but you felt as though it had only been just yesterday that you had met Wriothesley at the debutante ball — all smirks and bluster and spontaneous, underhanded schemes. Wrio was, of course, still full of smirks and bluster and schemes, but in all the afternoons you had now spent together, you had come to see him for everything beyond those things — and all the secret spaces tucked in between, peeking through the cracks of his carefully constructed outward persona.

A persona you had been seeing much less of late.

It had become much too easy for you to fall into a routine with Wriothesley — an unorthodox rhythm that you found inexplicably... comfortable. Maybe even comforting. To know that he had a mask that he wore to protect what he held dear — a mask so similar to yours, with different colors and patterns to suit your respective needs, different fine-tuned expressions, but... made of the same material beneath the paint. Crafted by the same careful hands.

Maybe you had started removing your mask for him as much as he had for you. Candid chats over tea, clandestine smiles shared in a dark theater, raw physicality in the ring, all of it left little room for any masks at all.

And maybe a part of you now felt a little wrong taking a walk around the Fountain of Lucine without him on your arm. Found that the water glittered a little less without the blue of his eyes, the birds sounded a little off-key without the low thrum of his laughter, the flowers smelled a little less sweet without the nearly imperceptible fragrance of bergamot that seemed to cling to him.

You clenched your jaw. Grounded yourself with the way the grass felt beneath your palms.

The beautiful weather must be getting to you. Making you wax poetic.

All of that shouldn't matter. This was all a plot; a ruse. Pretend. The romance wasn't real.

But Wriothesley. He was real.

You remembered his question and breathed an embarrassed laugh, turning back to the canopy above. A small, crimson bird landed in the tree to your right, chirping the harmony to a song whose melody must have been playing elsewhere in the wood, out of your range.

“No.”

He made a noise vaguely like surprise. You could feel his eyes still on you. “How so?”

You thought for a moment, trying to find something that felt like the truth, but less serrated. Not as exposing.

It came to you more easily than you expected, simple and straightforward and uncomplicated.

Even if it wasn't the truth... it was a truth, and that was enough.

“Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to like you,” you said plainly. “To... find a friend in you.”

There was a pause. Wriothesley lifted himself so he was propped up on his elbows. He looked down at you with an expression you couldn't read. “A friend?”

You dug your nails into the dirt. “That’s what I said.”

He was still for long enough that you almost gave in to the urge to take it back, exchange that truth for one even further filed down, but then — his expression thawed into something new, something that was devastatingly warm. Open. You thought absently that you hoped to see that dimple again and that you wanted to choose just the right words in order to call it forth, but as soon as the thought hit you, you shoved it away somewhere safe. And private.

“That’s good to hear," he said as though he hadn't just turned your chest inside out.

You looked away, suddenly no longer able to continue watching his face. Emboldened by his response, his dizzying smile, you gave him another piece of the truth: "There have been few people in my life that I have allowed myself to trust as much as I have had to trust you in order for this to even work, and... you have not let me down yet. That counts for something.”

His fingers picked at the grass, his eyes watching the movement. His thumb worried at one blade in particular; enough to bend but not break it. “I’m honored,” he said quietly, eyes still stubbornly glued to his blade of grass. “Trust has been a rare commodity in my life, too. So I know what that's like."

You smiled ruefully, looking away. Inexplicably stung. “I believe that. Our peers do not inspire much confidence in the innate goodness of humanity.”

“Yours and mine,” Wriothesley agreed. A tiny blizzard burst into being between his fingers, freezing solid the singular blade of grass beneath his focus. He let his hand fall and turned his gaze back to you, quiet and thoughtful. “Why do you want to become a Champion Duelist?”

You tilted your head curiously. “You really want to know?" you asked. He nodded. "It’s an unoriginal story. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You could never disappoint me.”

Your stomach flipped and you chose to table those words to consider later in the quiet of solitude, willfully pushing them aside and letting your mind wander in recollection — to the past, a place that was forever safe.

"I was saved by this strange man when I was a girl,” you started. “I'd been playing not far from here, as per usual disobeying my father’s orders ‘not to go far’." You unconsciously found your face turning in the direction of the memory with a wry smile, remembering the little girl with ribbons in her hair and dirt under her nails. Wriothesley followed the movement with a distant expression. You wondered what it was he saw. "As you might expect, a kid playing alone in expensive clothing attracted unwanted attention and I was cornered by a group of bandits. But then... this man came out of nowhere, sword drawn, and they were all gone before I even had a chance to wonder what was happening.

"I remember him tipping his hat to me and then I was chattering on about how much I loved the color of the feather in it. Such a vibrant blue. I was very young and didn’t understand much about what was going on; I don't even know if I knew to thank him. He escorted me back home. My father invited him for dinner, but he declined."

Wriothesley watched you quietly, eyes kind and curious. "And he was a Champion Duelist?"

"Naturally. I didn't find out until years later. I saw him at the Epiclese and stopped to thank him, for I hadn't all those years earlier. I’d have recognized him anywhere, especially with that beautiful blue feather. By that point, I recognized what that meant."

"And did he remember you?"

Your mouth curved into a smile at the memory. You shook your head. "No. He didn't."

Wriothesley's face fell. "...I'm sorry."

You cut him a small smile. "Don’t be," you said, turning back to the trees. "That was the moment I knew I wanted to do the same thing he did. He changed my life in a few short minutes. I will never forget what he did, not for the rest of my years. But for him? It was just another day. He was a hero just because that's who he was. It was just another day. That's who I want to be."

Wriothesley looked at you for a long moment, awed, then broke into a wide grin — eyes wrinkled at the corners and pinned on you, that little dimple making an appearance. You blinked at the brightness of him, finding yourself struck by just how beautiful he was and wondering if he had any idea at all of the power he had.

"I understand,” he said, his smile smaller but no less arresting, making your brain go blank with static.

You took a calming breath, willing yourself to look anywhere but him and failing, unsure if your grasp of language wouldn’t abandon you under the blinding light of that smile.

“Why did you get sent to the Fortress?” you asked without thinking, desperate to get the force of his attention off of you.

You regretted asking the moment the words left your mouth. You barely had time to mourn the loss of that smile as he exhaled a shaky laugh, laying flat back once more, hands folding behind his head. “You're asking a very difficult question.”

You winced. “I’m sorry. Don’t answer if you don’t want to,” you said quickly. "I just want to know where you come from, too."

He was quiet, scanning your face with a hard eye — an eye that almost seemed to simmer — and you fought not to fidget under his scrutiny. You wanted to withdraw the question, remind him again that he could just ignore it, but something stayed your hand and word.

Finally, Wriothesley sighed. Looked away. “I know,” he conceded quietly. “But it’s complicated.”

Ignoring the twinge of disappointment you felt, you followed his gaze. Nothing above but the canopy and the sun. You recognized a dead end when you saw one and hummed, sympathetic, hoping to diffuse the awkward energy. “At this point, I think ‘complicated’ is our area of expertise.”

Wriothesley huffed softly. “You might be right.” He went still for a moment. It had been long enough that you blinked in surprise when he finally spoke again. “I was young and… hurt. And I did things that I’m not proud of.”

Your mind buzzed. A thousand questions swirled around inside you, like koi in a crowded, turbulent pond, shifting and looping over, and over, and over one another. Tangled.

What did you do? What don't you want me to know? Who are you?

Why is your smile so sad?

"Do you regret it?” you asked instead.

He smiled — a heartbreaking reprise of the one that had so effortlessly stolen the breath from your lungs only a few minutes before. “Another difficult question,” he murmured. “...No. I know you want me to say that I regret it, but I don’t.”

“I don’t want you to say anything,” you said. “I’m just trying to know you a little better.”

“I know. It’s not something I’m used to.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” you said with a conspiratorial smile, willing away the clouds in your heart. “Getting you used to things you’re not used to?”

He laughed, and the rest of the somber atmosphere was carried away on the wind. The gloom, banished. He eased himself down once more, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his arm without touching it. He laced his fingers together over his stomach, inhaling the air of the thicket deeply. The curve of his mouth was tiny and fond, intimate, and you felt your breath catch in your throat.

“I haven’t done this since I was a boy,” he whispered, and you watched the rise and fall of his chest as he spoke. “Just lie in a field and breathe. I still remember the first time I came back to the overworld as a technically free man. I cried, you know.”

You turned so that you were lying on your side, your weight balanced on your left elbow, nestled into a tiny patch of dirt. You flicked the frozen blade of grass that still stood between you, firm and sparkling, resistant to the pull of the breeze. “You did?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, laughing, rough and gravelly and wonderful. “At first, it was because the sun was so... unfamiliar and too bright for my eyes. It burned. But I think that was just the excuse I needed to really let loose. I’ll never take the freedom of a nap in the sun for granted ever again.”

You smiled and closed your eyes and... breathed.

"For what it's worth," he said after a long while. "I was surprised to find a friend in you, too."

Later in the month, Wriothesley met you once more at your father’s stable, joining the already growing crowd of gentlemen, milling about in their gentlemanly vestments and chatting about gentlemanly things. Lucy stood by his side, as steadfast and loyal as if she’d known him all her life, and not just for the handful of riding lessons they had spent together.

Wriothesley looked almost the same as always, having left his preferred coat behind and opting for something more appropriate and comfortable for a late summer ride. The way his riding trousers fit him could have been described as... distracting. Perhaps even a riding hazard, depending upon who you asked.

Not you, of course.

He was fiddling with Lucy’s saddlebags as you walked around the horse to stare into the kind amber of her eyes. "Look after him for me, would you, Luce?"

She nickered softly, shaking out her mane. It sounded like an agreement.

Wriothesley rounded the corner, coming to your side with a winsome grin. "Lucy and I are good friends," he said with a wink, voice low. "We’ll look out for each other. Don’t worry."

"I'm not worried about her," you said flatly. "I'm worried about you forgetting all your etiquette lessons. What if you choose the wrong fork? What will the peerage say?"

He sniffed. "I'm sure my bungling of silverware selection today will be minimal. Plus, I had a great teacher — beautiful too, made it very hard to focus in class, but I will be fine."

"I'm sure you will,” you said, bumping into his side playfully. You knew he was nervous — knew that the tide of the vote happening in the near future might somewhat rest on the impression he makes today, and he very well knew that, too — but were relieved to see that whatever anxiety he felt he was keeping well under control. “Ride safely, Wrio. Knock 'em dead."

He returned the bump with a chuckle before mounting Lucy with practiced ease. Wriothesley had taken to equestrianism as it seemed he did to most things — like a fish to water.

"I'll see you later," Wriothesley called down to you as he and Lucy trotted over to join the rest of the group. You watched them go with a wave. He turned back just in time to offer one back.

"Hello, dear," came a voice from behind you.

You spun around to the source, smiling in relief once you saw the familiar, portly man standing in the shade of the stable, the reins of a stunning black mare in his hand. "Lord Paquette," you greeted with a polite nod. "Good to see you. I'm sure father will be pleased to have you along."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it for anything," he said. He leaned to glance behind you, eyeing all the other attendees of the day's ride. His eyes slid back to you as he returned to his original place, rod-straight. "But I was hoping to steal you for a moment to discuss the business I mentioned the other day. If you have a moment."

Your eyebrows lifted, having almost forgotten the comment he’d made weeks ago now, regarding business — with you and not your father, you remembered again with a hint of confusion. You stepped aside to allow him past with a gesture of your arm. "Lead the way."

He nodded tightly and made his way out of the stable, leaving his mare behind as she kicked a bored hoof. You followed closely in Paquette’s wake, listening carefully for his scratchy baritone. He didn’t speak again until he had almost made half a rotation around the stable, coming to a stop beneath a sprawling cypress at the rear of the wooden structure.

He folded his arms behind his back. “I heard through the grapevine that you have aspirations of becoming a Champion Duelist,” he said as casually as though he were remarking upon the weather, robbing you of your ability to think. "Is that true?"

Your smothered your shock as soon as you felt it, instinctively slipping on the guise the Court so liked for you to wear, fitting it on as easily and comfortably as a well-worn pair of slippers. You schooled your face into an approximation of detachment, the picture of unimpressed boredom. "Where did you hear something like that?"

He scoffed, rolling small, brown eyes. "One of my staff,” he said wearily, as though he had the weight of Teyvat resting solely on his shoulders. “They do have a penchant for gossip, you know."

They did indeed. But how his staff had come to be in possession of such gossip evaded you. You and Wrio had been careful, excruciatingly careful, to ensure that both your clandestine training sessions and etiquette classes had stayed strictly out of the public eye and ear. To maintain the facade of a normal courtship, complete with all the expected bells and whistles — chaperones, public appearances, wistful dances, and all.

Clearly something had not been as airtight as you had previously thought.

You mastered yourself, not willing to give anything away.

Paquette peered at you knowingly. "No need to feel defensive, dear. I'm not here to criticize you. Quite the opposite, in fact, " Paquette said. He began to pace, fingers gripping each other tightly at his back. "I find myself dealing with a situation which is… sensitive in nature," he continued, brows narrowing in thought. "I have had stolen from me some documents which might create rather a... problem if they were to fall into the wrong hands."

You arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Documents of what nature?”

“I’d like to keep that to myself," he said airily, brushing the question away with a dismissive hand. He came to a stop, turning his stare on you. "You understand how volatile things like this can be."

You did, though what 'things like this' entailed, you couldn't say. "And what could this possibly have to do with me, sir? I'm afraid I don't follow."

His voice was clipped, straightforward. Sharp eyes observed you coolly. "I'm offering you a chance to distinguish yourself," he said, taking a beat too long on each syllable, allowing each individual one the time to sink in.

Your eyes widened as the implication of what he was saying dawned on you and the suspicion in your gut was drowned out by surprise.

"You want me to fetch the documents,” you breathed.

“I do,” he confirmed. “They are in the hands of Treasure Hoarders, it seems. Your father and I have been friends for a very long time and I know that you can be trusted for your abilities, I hear, as well as your... discretion. And I do mean to stress the word 'discretion'. You are the hero who dispatches a troupe of meddlesome highwaymen, making the nation safer, and I have my belongings returned to me.”

You had gone utterly still. Your mind raced. “That can’t be all there is to this,” you said at last. Skeptical. “You’re asking me to risk my life for some paperwork and the chance to be recognized?”

"Well..." He paused, eyes darting between your own, narrowed in thought. “You're right,” he conceded after several seconds. “There is more. Though I was hesitant to discuss it here, due to our present company.”

"We currently have the benefit of privacy." You watched him carefully, weighing his words. “I’m listening.”

The look he gave you was hard and calculating. “I’m a good deal younger than your father, as you know, and we are both under no illusions that his time is unlimited. His health has been declining for a while now, hasn’t it?”

Your frowned, forgetting yourself. "What are you getting at?”

He held his hands out to you in surrender, a sympathetic tilt to his brow. “My apologies. Nothing nefarious, my lady. Merely pointing out a fact, one of which I am sure you are well aware. Your father has no heir and so your family will be thrown into chaos upon his passing. And I've noticed his... coughing seems to be occurring more often of late."

You swallowed, disliking the dread you fought so hard to suppress being thrown into your face so casually. It was true — your father's age had only played a small hand in his decline, and the wisp of a man had seemed only to continue fading in recent months, fits of breathlessness increasing in frequency and severity. It had pained you to watch, but you'd hoped...

"Of course, I can’t offer you any guarantees regarding the future of the Viscountcy of Vellerot and who will inherit the title after such a tragic event, but I can promise you this: if anything were to happen to your father before you and your sisters are situated, I will do everything in my power to keep you — and them — safe until such a time as you are," he said, taking a step closer. His eyes were piercing. "I'm offering time and sanctuary. That's what you want, isn't it? Security for your family?"

You began to pace, worrying a path parallel to the one he had previously tread, hoping that the movement would aid the turning of your mind as you considered his proposal and the creeping unease you felt. You wondered how much more he knew which he wasn't saying — what else his 'staff' may have gleaned. You had known the man forever, had spent many, many childhood afternoons playing tag around his estate with his son, and yet you were certain you had never said anything of the sort to him yourself; about your dreams, about your anxieties. Nothing. You would remember if you had. The people who were aware of such matters could be counted on one hand; you treated you and your family's futures with no small amount of care, to avoid giving anyone the gunpowder they'd need to eliminate you.

And they would eliminate you.

Paquette was right. Your family's land and title were highly coveted, and it was all-too-well-known that your father's days were numbered, his age and his health being what they were. When he was gone, whenever that day might be, only one thing was certain — there would be no shortage of vultures descending on the ruin of your family and only one would emerge victorious: the new Viscount of Vellerot.

As for the nature of the documents he was evidently so keen on protecting... You pondered what information they could possibly contain which would warrant such precautions. Such 'discretion'. You were afraid you did not want to know.

You continued to pace the ground, boots leaving layered, dusty prints on the dirt behind the stable, over and over and over one another. Your eyes flicked to Paquette. “This task is what I must do to ensure your protection for my sisters?”

“Oh, certainly I would do my best regardless. As a long-time friend of your family. However, you see... having those documents back safely where they belong would certainly help me to accomplish that, as having them elsewhere would surely threaten my position. Hence, this request.”

“Request,” you repeated. But you could read between the lines — you do this for me, and I do that for you.

"For you to do with as you will," he went on almost nonchalantly. He cocked his head, surveying you. "Though I did have other prospects to take on this job, I am giving the opportunity to you, as you are someone I trust. However, I would like to reiterate the need for your silence regarding the matter. I'd like only a very select few of my choosing be privy to the situation, so I'd appreciate if you kept this discussion to yourself. If you are to accept it, it would need to be a solo ordeal. These documents really are quite confidential, and I'd hate to think of the repercussions for my family if this were to get out. Surely you can understand the need to protect family, yes?"

You paused in your pacing as you heard your father on the opposite side of the stable call for everyone to gather, likely getting ready to depart. You turned to face Paquette, satisfied that your face would betray none of your thoughts.

"Thank you, Lord Paquette," you said with a small, vague smile and a curtsy. "I will consider your offer."

"No, thank you, dear," he said good-naturedly. "Do take care and let me know what you decide.”

He turned his back on you and made his way over to the group, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder.

He never turned to see your returning wave.

Wriothesley caught your eyes as Paquette returned to the group — raised a questioning eyebrow.

You smiled back, a reassurance, but you doubted it reached your eyes.

All things considered, the ride was going more smoothly than expected.

No one had yet called Wriothesley some horrible name or trudged up the past; hell, most of the men had been downright civil to him. More than that, Lucy was a magnificent animal. His hesitation — and he will call it hesitation, for he certainly had not been afraid — could not ever have been more misplaced when it had come to her. She was not only equally beautiful and powerful, but graceful and gentle as well. He had been enjoying his time with her immensely over the last weeks.

Wriothesley could see why the two of you got along so well.

He took a brief detour away from the main group to a nearby brook, allowing Lucy to have a drink of fresh water as a reward for all her hard work and patience. Many of the gentlemen had continued on, barely sparing Wriothesley a glance as he cut off from the group and down the gnarled trail to the water.

He was leading Lucy back to catch up to the main group when he was halted in his tracks by a low laugh that sent a chill skittering down spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Lucy shifted the weight on her hooves nervously at his side, seemingly equally disturbed by the sound. He placed a reassuring hand on the side of her neck and she settled.

“— Just like her father,” he heard a posh voice faintly through the brush, followed by tinny laughter. “... know what’s good for her.”

A second voice responded, slightly deeper and scratchy like aged tree bark. Just as unpleasant. Wriothesley couldn't make out what he said.

“— son will be looking for a woman soon, will he not?” said the first voice. “And while you have a wife to warm your bed, I..." — more muffled chatter Wriothesley couldn't make out — "...her to good use. Women do have one or two.”

The other barked an unsettling laugh, chilly and humorless.

Wriothesley’s blood went cold as he silenced his steps, focusing as much as he could on hearing their words as the passed on the parallel trail.

“A shame..." the voice faded off again before picking up volume as they got closer, easier to hear. "...a rebellious bitch, isn’t it? I daresay she could have her own good use or two if you could get her to behave for more than a few minutes.”

Wriothesley stood rooted in place, legs numb, fingers frozen, having nothing at all to do with the vision pulsing with icy fury at his back. He dared not look, but he easily identified one voice. The other was only distantly familiar.

That first, reedy voice belonged to Lord Thibeault. He would bet his life on it.

“You are certain she will bite?” asked the other man.

Thibeault made a noise that sounded like a considering hum. "You know what they say about hubris —”

The voices continued to fade as they continued back to the main party, but it was another few seconds before Wriothesley regained control of his limbs and followed, one thought screaming through his mind on repeat like a broken record in his gramophone.

Something wasn't right.

a/n: title from 'wild horses'—rolling stones