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amyriadofleaves · 9 months ago

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outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter one

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, clorinde ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.0k

‘EVIDENCE REPORT | POISSON: 43 DEAD, 5 INJURED.’

To savour tea is to indulge. As your lips leave the cold porcelain teacup in hand, you wave your advisor away, leaving you subject to yourself and your thoughts alone. In the quiet aftermath, you willingly embrace the thoughts that fester alone—an intricate tapestry of reflections, good or bad. The shaky sigh that leaves your lips is a limbo between exhaustion and, as much as you despise it, the unwelcome embrace of fear. Your calm, yet frantic eyes skim over the report countless times before noting the words in bold:

NOT TO BE DISCLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Brows knitted, you question the odd desperation at keeping this case classified. But more thought brings you to the conclusion that this is somewhat justifiable; from the moment you stepped into Fontaine, you learned that to rub a Fontainian the wrong way was to critique their favourite opera—or rather, denounce their perception of it.

With another sip of your tea, your hands hover above the prompt for your signature glaring at you on the final page. You don't fail to notice that you aren’t the sole bearer of this matter but instead, share the weight of it with your co-worker, the Iudex himself. You can't help but scoff. It undoubtedly comes as a surprise for you; this isn’t something within his area of expertise. He can certainly provide his input on it, sure, but any measures taken in terms of Fontaine’s state of affairs are your call. Whatever it is, you are already hot on your heels, the thud of your boots muffled by the awfully grandeur carpet that graces the marble floors of Palais Mermonia. Though not entirely focused on the world around you, you certainly are not unaware of the whispers and hushes that arise in your wake. You pay it no mind. Someone of your calibre is sure to be a topic of conversation; it is undeniable that it flatters you, despite how annoying it may be on the ears.

You rap the door to the Iudex’s office once—then twice—to no avail. Feeling a light tap at your hip, you look down to find a recognisable face staring up at you with curious eyes.

“Why, if it isn’t Sedene!” you tease. If the melusine notices the slight quiver in your voice, she doesn’t question it. At the met silence, you let out an airy chuckle. “Is something the matter?”

At your voice, Sedene's expression relaxes. “If you’re looking for your Iudex, I’m afraid he’s in the Opera Epiclese tending to another matter,” You can’t help but feel your smile unwillingly falter upon knowing of his absence. He is your partner in arms for this case, and if others see to it that he is needed, then it is in your duty to oblige, no matter how nauseating the idea of it is.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Bringing the report up to your face, you try to compose yourself and shield your expression from the melusine’s line of sight.

This effort would prove to be futile in the moments that follow.

Sedene reaches up to drag the report from blocking her field of view. You know she despises the idea of being too short and having others take advantage of it, but you are mindful of the emotions crossing your face. With your bubbling rage at the Chief Justice’s involvement, you find that it takes a little longer to press your lips into a fine line and convince yourself that you have to either suck it up or take matters into your hands (by this point, you are extremely unsure which option you'd delight yourself to).

A soft paw-like hand begins to slyly wrap around your wrist. In an instant, your arm becomes captive to the ceaseless tugs of Sedene, who is jumping up and down in elation at her newfound revelation. “Oh! Oh! Sigewinne told me that expressions where smiles are replaced with frowns are signs of disappointment or sadness, or possibly both! So, this must mean that you are deeply disturbed by the idea of Monsieur Neuvillette being far, far away from you!”

The curiosity of Melusines never fails to amaze you.

You bring a hand to her mouth to prevent her from babbling any further. “Oh... hahaha… Aren't you a silly one! My dear Sedene, I’m afraid you've misinterpreted the means of my change of expression! I’m just concerned that his absence might delay the progress we shall very surely make in this situation—though, I certainly cannot disclose it because this is very, very, classified business.”

Noting the puzzled look she gives in response, you pat her head, albeit robotically, and fan yourself with the loose fabric of your blouse for composure’s sake. No one can see the head of Fontaine’s civil affairs under such humiliating circumstances. Confusion swirls when the unwanted heat begins to bloom from your neck up. What is up with you? You hastily bring your cold palms to the apples of your cheeks in a desperate attempt to quell the embarrassment that betrays your professional front. An incandescent blue shines brightly on the fabric of your coat, but that is purely your cryo vision working its magic. Ah, the wonders of Celestia are both a blessing and a curse indeed.

Gingerly, you reach for the report secured under your arm. Your eyes ghost over his name unwillingly, and your nails have begun to dig into the lace of your glove; why does every decision end in his verdict? Do people not understand that his verdicts work only in the Opera Epiclese and yours—more just and logical—work in every other predicament that slips through the cracks?

Deciding to indulge in the idea of having time to yourself, you stride to your office with wavering confidence and slam the door behind you, back pressed against the wooden frame. Closing your eyes for a brief moment, the familiar patter of rainfall cascading down the stained glass windows of your office brings you a sense of comfort because at least there is something—or rather someone, out there who shares the weight of your burdens.

How you itch to search for whoever it is.

Snapping yourself out of your stupor, you force yourself to return to work; there are urgent matters to attend to. Thoroughly giving the report a once-over, you call in a subordinate.

Whether it is the weather or your own gloomy mood, the sluggish pace of whoever is to arrive at your door has you incensed beyond measure. When the foolish boy finally decides to show up, a headache begins to fester like a miasma from your right eye to your left temple. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you decide to keep the conversation short and concise.

“I expect emergency personnel to be stationed in Poisson by the end of today.”

The subordinate, whom you've come to learn is named Iaune, fiddles with his uniform. “But Madame, we lack approval from the Iudex—”

You bring a hand to your desk. “This is an order from me as your superior. The Iudex has proved his lateness in acting on this matter, and so I will be taking it from here.” At your glare directed towards Iaune, he nods profusely and scurries away, slamming the door a little too loudly, sending your migraine into full swing.

You aren't a supernatural being, and with the blurring of shapes and fatigue, accompanied by lidded eyes, it calls for a power nap. Slumping against the plush pillows of a leather couch that sits to the right of your office, you bring your hands to your abdomen and greet rest with open arms.

It is long past midnight when you come to.

Oh, no, no, no.

In a panic, you sit up to find a velvet coat slipping off your shoulders and onto your lap. You fight against the blur of your eyesight to study the fabric. The blazer is a brilliant Oxford blue, its lapels a blur between turquoise and cerulean lined with plates of gold. You feel at the fabric in curiosity; if not for your sleep-induced daze, you would notice that this very blazer belonged to Monsieur Neuvillette himself. Instead, you fold it over the back of a chair. With the paperwork in hand, you set yourself to his office.

One good thing to take away from this is how the migraine that had plagued you for the last half hour you were awake has now softened to a dull throb. You scan the palais for any sign of Segene, and… nothing. The same goes for everyone else really — your steps echo hollowly, and the stirs of gossip dwindle in the truancy of common folk. There is only one thing that brings you comfort and unease concurrently: the likely presence of the Chief Justice behind this door.

A gentle knock is what it takes to garner a muffled 'come in,' from the Chief Justice. Pushing the door open with your free hand, you are greeted with a grandiose office and the man you dread sitting at his desk.

You decide to skip the formalities and cut straight to the chase. "Monsieur, I am afraid that the prophecy is beginning to manifest itself in every corner of Fontaine. For this case, the spotlight lands on Poisson," you say, with a monotonous baritone that betrays nothing.

His ivory eyes widen a fraction, and he brings his fist to his mouth to stifle a cough. "So what I heard word of on the streets wasn't just paranoid drabble…" You can't help but feel your lower lid twitch.

"Well, word had it that you were too busy tending to business in the Opera Epiclese to officially hear it from the professional herself."

A gentle smile plays on his lips. "Very well then. Enlighten me." His gaze is imploring, almost expecting. With a sigh, you lay the report in front of him. You entertain yourself with an extra addition to your resume: experience in coddling the Iudex of Fontaine.

"Is there any reason as to why you lack any paperwork regarding this matter, monsieur?"

"I’d assume it was because of my preoccupation that they sought for you in my stead." With a deft movement of his wrist, two cups materialise as if conjured, a gentle azure glow tracing from his fingertips to the base of the cups. "Care for a drink?"

Crossing your arms, you can't help but order him around a little. "I’d prefer a seat, thank you very much."

He nods his head in complicity. "Oh dear me, my dearest apologies," and with a slight bow of his free hand, you find a chair at the very base of your ankles.

Easing into the seat—or should you say couch—is the easiest thing you've done today. Goodness, when was the last time you had a good night's rest? "Go ahead, you're free to read the report," you declare, the wave of your hand prodding him further. Fancying yourself a drink, you furtively take the cup of water he'd left on the edge of his desk.

To cure yourself of your boredom, you take to observing his mannerisms. A slight grimace, a squint of an eye—the look of surprise when he skims over the last page. Without preamble, he reaches for his quill, and you can't help but descry the way the ink dances across the page.

Once he hands the paperwork to you, you bow your head and turn on your heel to take your leave. The strained silence that hangs is broken with a chuckle from the Iudex. “I’d just like to inform you of your eligibility for trial at the Opera Epiclese.”

You hope he doesn’t catch the hiccup in your step. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Chief Justice.” Back still facing him.

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but deploying personnel to Poisson without due consideration and an unsigned contract jeopardises not only the trust vested in our organisation by the public but also compromises the confidentiality integral to this matter.”

You couldn't help but feel your lips tug into a smirk. “I put full trust in your intelligence to excuse your greatest asset from the scrutiny of your judgement. What I did is justifiable and is justified, Monsieur Neuvillette ,” His name leaves your lips like the slice of skin against a blade.

“Oh? And by the word of whom, exactly?”

“Have you forgotten? I, too, have held your position alongside my name in your absence. I represented the word of the law, I wrote the books, and I am just. I am my own judge. Could you say the same for yourself, oh dear Chief Justice of Fontaine?”

____

IS THE END REALLY NIGH? WILL THE ARCHON ACT?

Clutching a newspaper in hand, diving into the inked sea of critiques and snark, you surf the waves of public disdain for the Hydro Archon herself. Albeit insensitive, the fiery opinions ignite the page, and you can't help but catch the raging tide of anger swelling through the populace. Welcome to the storm of public sentiment.

Despite the exaggerated theatrics of Fontainians, you developed a sense of indifference, your reactions reduced to a mere scoff. The overblown antics fail to provoke any genuine response, leaving you detached from the flamboyant displays of folly that had once captivated your attention.

Clorinde’s abrupt snaps bring you back from your reverie, and only then did you notice the newspaper in your hands, crumpled from your unwittingly tight grip during your trance.

“Earth to you? Now’s not the time to loiter around,” says the raven haired woman standing with arms crossed, a playful glint in her eyes contrasting the familiar tone of the champion duelist you’d grown a soft spot for.

You swat her away with the newspaper as one would a fly and laugh. “As the Head of Civil Affairs, I, too, deserve a break from all the buzz.” Stealing a sympathetic glance at the tabloid in hand, you sigh in defeat at the fact that you never truly can escape the ‘buzz’.

“God, how often have you been burning the midnight oil? I presume my boss hasn’t been too harsh, surely?” Clorinde implores; you had grown to notice that she’d pop a question whenever conversation grew dire — adeptly quenching her curiosity while addressing the pressing matter at hand, a skillful act of killing two birds with one stone.

Letting her in on such affairs wouldn’t hurt a soul, it seemed. And so you decide to amuse her a little. “If you mean ‘harsh’ as in pampering me, then yes.”

At the duelist’s raised brow, you stop abruptly. “I — uh, my, have I said something wrong?”

“No, not at all. Go on,” she waves a hand, prodding you further.

“Alright then. Where do I start — he’s an odd one, that man. His demeanour is different in both office and in court, as expected of someone of such prowess — and of course, he is expected to act by status quo. But over these past few days, I’d been greeted with nothing but candour from him — almost as if he’s… compensating for something,” You make a calculated decision to skirt over details as to why this might be. Sure, you have your speculations, but no conclusion you came to was concrete.

Clorinde makes a face.

“This is the second time you’ve given me that look. Tell me what’s wrong or I’ll tickle you.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him going so far as to pamper someone as you say he has to you, let alone seen it with my own eyes.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re rarely at the palais,” you deadpan.

She considers this with a thoughtful silence. “Perhaps, for once, you are correct.”

“I’m wounded that you underestimate me so greatly, Champion Duelist of Fontaine,” you feigned a damsel in distress, eyes shut in faux consternation.

The town clock strikes twelve, its ring echoing throughout the city, and the sun seems to show brighter.

Gently patting Clorinde’s shoulder, a nervous expression plays on your face. “Nevermind that! As much as I absolutely adore the cool breeze of the autumn air, I’m afraid there are to be more problems than there are solutions if this” — you gently wave the now rolled scroll of paper in your hand — “isn’t settled.”

“Didn’t expect you to grow so accustomed to your new job, young woman,” A smile seldom seen manages to creep up and tug on the fine lines of Clorinde’s lips.

Merely shrugging, you return her smile. “What can I say, it is me we’re talking about, I pretty much am the adapter of all — consider me an otter in all its glory.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I’ll have you know that I am greeted with a soft mattress and plush pillows.”

Turning on your heel, you are met with a feathery wall of sorts. With horror, it dawns on you that this was undoubtedly not the type of ‘pillow’ you had in mind; this was no wall, this was someone’s chest.

This elicits a snort from the duelist.

There you are, standing merely centimetres away from the Iudex of Fontaine. Oh my God. You felt a growing flush rise up to your cheeks. Call it public humiliation, call it pride — but you simply cannot stand the image of your flustered self plastered on the tabloids all around the city. It had happened once, and you were certain it would be the last. The blame falls on Charlotte, of course, always nosing in on everyone’s business.

Almost in shock, you take a slow step back — in which the tap of your heel against cement echoes your humiliation, and you can’t help but grimace.

Through gritted teeth, you can only muster a pitiful: ‘Pleasure meeting you here, Monsieur…’ Despite the shakiness in your voice, it is hidden by the authoritative cadence you’d grown accustomed to during your time as the head of civil affairs. If it isn’t for your lowered gaze, you would notice the smile that ghosts over his face. But instead, in a frantic effort to maintain composure, you put on a brave face and take everything at face value, saving the impending embarrassment for later.

For a brief second you wondered how easier things would be if everything went in your favour.

“Good afternoon to you both,” The usual baritone of his voice sounds awfully frail. How odd. Another odd thing was how underdressed he appeared to be — his customary coat he wears in court nowhere to be found on his person. Both of you decide not to question it.

The two of you return the pleasantry with a stunned greeting.

She then offers the roll of paper to the Iudex. “I suggest you take a read. It won’t be long before everyone begins to question the acts of our archon.”

“I will take this into consideration. All actions in order to quell this matter are strictly confidential, Madame Clorinde, so I’m afraid I cannot disclose our methods with you at this moment.” At the word ‘our’, he gives you a side glance, perhaps in mocking, or perhaps in courtesy out of the goodness of his heart. At the thought of the latter, you drop the idea entirely, and entertain yourself with the more likely option — to which you can’t help but scowl.

“I shall take my leave, Chief Justice. Send my regards to Lady Furina for me, won’t you? I haven’t seen that walking chatterbox in a while,” She then levels her gaze to yours and winks. “See you in a bit, chenapan .”

“Ta-ta,” Rolling your eyes, you dismiss her with a curt gesture. You can’t help but feel your heart slightly drop; it is inevitable that you will miss her — and as much as you hate it, there is a gnawing inkling that you won’t be seeing her for a while. No one warned you of how being the head of such a department would come with such responsibilities. Yet, the prospect of covering for the Iudex was even more burdensome.

The Iudex’s eyes follow her every move, and when she is finally out of his line of sight, he turns to you. “Which reminds me… I have arranged a meeting with Lady Furina, where you, the Présidence du Conseil d'État, are cordially invited.”

Your brows knit. "And what's my role here? You have more sway with her than I do," Would it be blasphemous to say your opinion on your archon was a mixed bag? Sure, she was the archon of the land of your birth, but to say she brought you any semblance of reverence was a fruitless attempt at grasping at straws. The archon's influence over Fontaine remained an enigma, a puzzle you couldn't quite decipher. Unable to pinpoint why her dominance over Fontaine seemed a façade, you had kept the opinion to yourself and bit your tongue instead.

“Madame, I mean not to offend. You are not only my esteemed partner in arms but also possess a wealth of experience in this field that far surpasses my own. It is only appropriate that you take the lead as the principal force in this case,” Neuvillette interjects, his words attempting to bridge the gap of doubt. At your indifference, his jaw hands a little ajar, contemplating more ways on how to convince you with his flowery prose.

“I beg for you to stop being so stubborn — this is all for the betterment of Fontaine. Please, let's find common ground and work together for the city's sake,” How flowery indeed.

You feel for the lace hem of your skirt and squeeze hard — you cannot lash out in public. “Me? Stubborn? I am promoted to being the Présidence du Conseil d'État, and suddenly all the world’s burdens fall upon my shoulders! Where is Lady Furina? What exactly has that woman done for the people?” What have you done? Your voice renders itself to a whisper in fear that Celestia above might hear your words of blasphemy. Challenge me, then. I dare you.

Spite for the Iudex had been growing since his absence on the very day that news of Poisson had broken out. Maybe it was the comment he had made that night, or the way he had acted as if nothing happened, or how instead of an apology, he had opted to pampering you as if you were his plaything. The morning of, you had noticed that it was indeed Monsieur Neuvillette’s coat that had been draped over your shoulders, but you couldn’t bring yourself to push your pride aside and acquiesce into returning it.

The sun’s rays seem to dim at your brewing anger, followed by the familiar patter of drizzle. Instinctively, you reach for your parasol, only for you to find that you had left it in your apartment. “Oh how lucky I am! The one time I leave my umbrella at home is when it starts raining!”

Neuvillette shifts in demeanour; he takes on a more softened look, hardened eyes now a confusion of regret and sympathy. “My… apologies. This inconvenience has caused you much distress.” Gloved hands reach for his own parasol, and you observe his every action with scrutiny. One can only imagine the look on your face when he opens his parasol, shielding you from the rain that has grown more fervent.

You push the hand holding the parasol away. “I am in no need of your pity, monsieur.” And when the reassuring shade leaves you, the rain seems to cascade with an indescribable ardour — to which you pay no mind; you don’t want the public to misconstrue your relationship with the Iudex.

“...And postpone the meeting for tomorrow. I have… matters to attend to.” Picking up your pace, you leave Neuvillette standing alone, a solitary figure in the midst of the sombre downpour.

a/n : dude I srsly dk how to navigate Tumblr but pls leave your thoughts on this and whether you wanna b tagged when I post my next chapter! im more active on my ao3 but ill probably start using Tumblr more often now!!

#neuvillette x reader #neuvillettexreader #neuvillette #clorinde #genshin impact #arranged marriage #enemies to lovers #divider by truegoist!#neuvillette genshin

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