Archive of Our Own ^beta

Above and below—the surface of Fontaine’s inner sea like a mirror in between the two.

Above, the land of thriving life…

And below, the home of the exiled.

Above, where the sun rises, lazily walks over the sky during the day, then melts into the horizon… And below, where natural light cannot reach. Where, through the small mirroring glass of his private quarters, Wriothesley only sees the translucent, million shades of dark blues that playfully mix and dance around each other as the reflection of the surface’s scattered, refracted light that goes through many layers of water.

The sight of it is beautiful. Melancholic. Lonely. It fits him well.

No matter the weather or the time of the day on the other side, the sea this deep barely darkens more than how it always is—if it does at all. It can be morning or night, it may be the happiest sunny day or the most destroying dark thunderstorm…

The underworld wouldn’t know.

Wriothesley rarely indulges in sentimental objects; though, installing this mirrored glass into his private quarters—which is in the heart of the Fortress of Meropide—has been one of the few occasions. He found a way through the ventilation tunnels, with the magic of reflecting surfaces and a bit of engineering to have the blues mirror here: it’s almost like a window. The closest to one that his room can get here.

Only a minute passes as he allows himself to look at the mixing colours dancing on the surface; Wriothesley then clicks the last chain of his uniform into place and turns his back to his small bedroom and the most spacious hallway with a couch and coffee table that belongs to his personal space.

On the rarest occasions, he and his dearest Monsieur can spare some free time for themselves and they even decide to spend it here, in the underworld, drinking a cup of tea or water in the utter privacy of his quarters… But aside from this, he truly only comes here to sleep—and to maybe look into that mirror.

Sometimes, just seeing the blues briefly is a nice reminder.

It’s one that says: no matter how many years it has been that he lived here, the sky is still the same. The sun still shines above—and it is his chosen duty to make a metaphorical one shine here below. One that doesn’t exist but gives people a schedule. A chance to leave their pasts behind and find a new purpose. A system which believes: everybody has the option to restart and change.

Of course, if someone ever learned of this and asked why he bothered installing this system, he would only say something about the blues, something about their land and how it’s connected to Hydro—it wouldn’t be a lie, but it’d leave out the sentiment of an ageing human.

His office desk is free of urgent reports; Wriothesley barely raises the cup of his tea to his mouth for the first time today when someone knocks hard enough on his door that he’s reminded of Miss Clorinde’s unladylike entrance before. Sipping on his favourite go-to black tea, Wriothesley listens closely as the head of the production zone’s guards tells him a rather concerning story—it leaves Wriothesley to forget the idea of a second cup of tea.

Even though his morning started somewhat later than the workers’ (with his night reaching way into the wee hours), early afternoon catches Wriothesley when he finally considers the case closed. A small group of inmates figured out a system that could trick their less bright fellows into signing a contract and joining their group—all for a little profit of credit coupons, nothing more.

As an inmate, Wriothesley could put together such a sum of credit that when the former administrator stripped him of it all, his decision eventually caused the vast majority to pressure him to accept his fight proposal—the one that made the man flee… And the rest is history.

He’d be a hypocrite to be against legal (as much as this term exists down here) ways of obtaining more resources. After having held an interrogation with the help of his guards and personally consoling those who got hurt in the former actions, Wriothesley found three culprits—and their futile, rather dumb attempt of petty cheating and stealing.

The Duke’s word is the law in Meropide.

As much as Dougier had reached extreme levels with his actions… In the end, even his punishment was mental rather than physical—let alone their public encounter in the Society’s secret room—added with an unkindly measured extra community work for the next fifteen years. Now, the three culprits knelt in front of him, giving up once he managed to discover their true identities; as their actions hadn’t yet led to big consequences, Wriothesley had faith that explaining some things to them and giving a second chance with some extra work could be the most fitting punishment for these three.

His word may be the law, but rarely, he still questions himself. Because who is he to decide…?

Walking towards the lift with the sound of the bending metal from the restarted work accompanying him and his guards saluting as he passes, Wriothesley thinks: if he’s just the Administrator of Meropide, then the current results speak loud enough in his place.

Sometimes, as rare as it is, when he questions himself, the title, ‘Duke’, heavily sits on his shoulders.

He has always believed in the justice of Fontaine’s Iudex… So if the very man bestowed his rank on him then Wriothesley was no one to doubt if he was worthy of it. He could only live to prove that he was, he is, and he will be.

And if he still had some questions for himself that he couldn’t ask anyone or let someone else bear the weight of the said decision, then changing his route to get to the pankration ring has been the best solution for many years, ever since he got here and went to fight for the first time.

Wriothesley is a man of strength who puts away his gauntlets and his Vision—one who still wins over anyone in the Fortress. One who knocks his opponent down but offers a hand to them in the end to help them up. Fair and square. With respect and grind. For the knowledge that he trains to protect.

Once, he was the boy who had to wait years, live on the streets, plan and practice, train and get stronger—only to almost take his last breath with his crimson-drenched foster parents. Once, he was weak: too young, too fragile, too soft on the outside—and his very best attempt to protect those who mattered was almost futile.

Now, Wriothesley stands tall, his buttoned shirt sweatily sticking to the skin on his wide shoulders, his toned legs flexing as he offers his right hand to the man on the floor. He may be the double of Wriothesley’s weight, wearing heavy armour and wielding a weapon, now fallen too—but it was his loss today.

“Good try,” Wriothesley offers lightly as he pulls up his opponent not for the first time in their lives.

“Duke, I am telling you, I will learn your methods before my sentence is over and I will get your pants dusted. Just one time.” Slightly frustrated yet hopeful—it warms Wriothesley’s heart that the man in front of him finally decided to fight. For something that matters—instead of giving up.

“Well, then… I wish you luck.” He allows himself to flash a small smile: it’s frustrating enough that he hopes this inmate will work even harder to better himself, but it’s not mean or condescending—he wouldn’t gloat or pull down a man who just lost and promised to do better.

Wriothesley is on the way to walk back to his quarters to clean himself up and get a new, not sweat-drenched shirt when a tiny figure appears. With all her might, Sigewinne stands in front of him (how did she even know this is where she could catch him?), her hands on her hips, her Melusine horns held upright.

“I believe you made me a promise that you’ll come to see me after your fights, Your Grace,” she says politely, but her red-hued eyes in a rather fearsome manner add nonverbally, ‘You were about to just walk away, didn’t you?’

“I haven’t headed to my office yet, have I?” Wriothesley offers her a sheepish smile—it’s very clear for the both of them where he had been going.

He has to give it to Sigewinne: she cares and she has been caring about him since he was a weak child who landed himself in prison, but she has always had her ways that left him all his dignity. Wriothesley knows he isn’t getting any younger—he has been meticulous enough with his workouts and training that this ageing vessel of his may have some cricks and cranks, but it is healthy and strong enough to serve him well.

“Come with me, please,” Sigewinne sighs, letting the intimidating (as much as a Melusine can) pose go.

Falling into steps with her as they are heading to the elevator, Wriothesley must try to bargain a little, “Shouldn’t you be worrying about the other guy instead? It may not be a surprise: I am not the one who ended up on the floor.”

Sigewinne shoots him a glance and a small, ever-knowing smile that makes Wriothesley feel he is missing something—which is not how it should be in his prison.

In reality, he knows very well the whole base of this situation and the nature of their banter—but the feigned ignorance is blissful.

Sigewinne must have made sure that his defeated opponent was okay enough—she may complain that Wriothesley fills up her infirmary all the time, but she understands the reason why they all fight. Wriothesley knows: he is also one over whom she took responsibility; as much as he’d rather be left alone with some old pains and nags that will eventually heal on their own, Sigewinne would never agree that this is the way to feel human.

Only a second may have passed since Wriothesley fell into his thoughts—but nothing escapes the observant eyes of the Head Nurse of Meropide.

Sigewinne beams at him, her horns happily rising upwards; her words are a sugarcoated threat, “Worry not about my other patients, Your Grace, he’s not the one I have to catch to make him visit the infirmary. Luckily for you, our paths crossed so you’ll be the first I see this afternoon—and I just happen to have another portion of my new milkshake that you can drink after I take a look at your wrists.”

Sigewinne is going to be the death of him.

Telling himself that the shake is full of nutrients and that he does it for Sigewinne’s approving nod, Wriothesley fights down most of it and pretends he doesn’t notice when she’s sneaking a suspiciously looking shark sticker onto his shoulder in the meantime. Contently and only with slight nausea from the drink’s texture, Wriothesley walks away to get back to his office, flexing his wrists almost nonchalantly as he leaves. He must admit: after the hits he delivered today, they would have been sore and swollen, bothering him a lot while working on his stack of papers later at night.

The puzzled look on even two guards he passes creates a spark of suspicion in his guts: later he notices on the polished surface of a metal panel he walks past that quite a set of other stickers decorate the back of his coat.

Today is his loss, again—defeated, he sheds his coat to properly get rid of the cute result of hardworking Melusine hands (but instead of the trash bin, if he can, he makes sure that most of these land in a special drawer). Wriothesley is quite sure now that Sigewinne had some help: after all, the members of the Marechaussee Hunter are allowed down here because he trusts them to be capable enough to avoid danger when they have to.

Once in a fresh shirt, no new report finds him about the production zone’s fiasco, indicating that his job had been done well enough; however, a new hand-penned envelope with elegant letters awaits him when he finally gets back to the quiet peacefulness of his office.

Neuvillette’s letters are always a welcome sight. After the change in regime and the Iudex taking all possible duties onto himself, Wriothesley made sure to offer his help with logistics, and he proposed a way as Meropide’s thriving economy could help out Fontaine after the flood.

With the danger below gone, this required them to continue their often lengthy meetings for a different reason—not like Wriothesley has ever minded (it’s quite the opposite, even without the blossoming feelings in the depth of his heart).

Neuvillette has always stood for the equity and goodness he also believed in; with the new regime and a new justice that was his own, Wriothesley could only try to do his best—as it all served the goal of his Meropide.

The air on the surface is fresh with the smell of earthiness that settles after rain; as Wriothesley strolls through the city to get to the Palais, he steps over a few smaller puddles that have gathered on the ground. The sun had already hidden behind the horizon—still, the soft pastel oranges linger, painting warm shadows on fluffy, lazy clouds.

Sedene at the reception approves his visit to the Iudex’s office where Neuvillette sits behind an enormous pile of papers—a set of tea already prepared, ready for brewing in the foresight of his upcoming visit after the written request and progress update in his letter. Wriothesley remembers most of his visits here; no matter how busy Neuvillette has been all the way, he has always had his means to accommodate the Duke—and he has never treated him, a former criminal, as a rotten person for the crimes he had committed in the past.

For this… For all of these, Wriothesley had been grateful.

He understands the significance of the trust bestowed upon him—it’s even heavier than his title. It was in the job he had to guard the seal over the Primordial Water; it’s in the diplomatic agreement they now have between Fontaine and the autonomy of Meropide.

It’s trust—and something more. It’s the depth of the meaning that the Iudex gave him hand-crafted pottery to join in on a joke; it’s the respect that Neuvillette allowed him to argue and be convinced of a different point of view on centuries-long events and grief he held in the depth of his soul.

An exchange works best if it goes back and forth and is not forced—it’s not even a question that Wriothesley offers a little small talk as the tea brews before they would dig deep into their official business. He doesn’t pressure, but it takes only a light question of the former rain for Neuvillette to tell him about a recent trial and vocalize a worry about the distribution of certain resources amongst the poor—but it gives Wriothesley a base and a way to think of a solution that can maybe even touch the nature of their meeting.

Despite it being official business, working with the Iudex is as easy as breathing; hours pass fast in good company. When Wriothesley stands to leave, Neuvillette rises with him and offers him a heartfelt “Thank you,” his right hand placed over the left side of his chest—an eerily similar sight to witness.

Sometimes, Wriothesley wonders if he is truly doing good or good enough… But then moments like these do tell his heart that his worries are silly and he should keep working hard for even better results.

Fontaine is a peaceful place in the evening, his walk back to the entrance of Meropide is an uneventful, good opportunity to stretch his legs and enjoy some of the wonders of the overworld. The inner sea reflects the moon’s light, slow waves scattering the image as a gentle breeze blows through the open area—the blow barely ruffles Wriothesley’s hair, caressing his cheek like a touch of a feather. He indulges in the feeling for a bit before he heads below—to get back to where he belongs.

The cafeteria should be closed for a while at this hour, yet Wolsey is busy finishing up the cleaning in his kitchen. He waves at Wriothesley, greeting him with a smile and a packed-up lunchbox, explaining that he heard from the guards that he had to go up to the Palais, so he saved a huge portion of a deluxe meal for the Duke.

The gesture is heartfelt even if Wriothesley knows well how to eat his calories and he doesn’t mind if he only has one time a day to replenish his fuel—his body has gotten used to even harsher treatment in the past. Still, it’s quite rare that he would only stop for a proper meal now; his days are often much less busy than today—a result of his leadership’s efficiency.

“Have you eaten yet?” Wriothesley asks back instead of an answer, the question leaving his mouth feeling the most natural—as it is not common that Wolsey is working this late.

Wolsey explains there has been a bad batch of ingredients that made him recook an almost finished batch of soup and side dish; he gestures to another lunch box that he packed away for himself for later. Inviting him to sit at the cafeteria and spend their dinner together is Wriothesley’s eagerly accepted proposal—it also gives him the perfect opportunity to listen to Wolsey’s whole story about the ingredients so he knows which importer he has to check later.

The cafeteria is such a central place in the life of an inmate that Wolsey hears and sees many things—and the old man knows well when he has to mention something to Wriothesley.

Aside from the important matters, it’d be a lie that Wriothesley doesn’t enjoy spending a meal with someone else from time to time—make it a trusted employee, and listening to their stories is also a way to gather more intel. Wolsey is intelligent enough to understand the significance of his observations even if he doesn’t say—he mentions that Wriothesley’s morning visit and interrogation in the production zone resulted in the comfort of many, and in the belief of the Duke’s authority.

Not like he needs this for a misplaced glory or a feeling of power—but it is good to hear that the inmates think positively of his leadership and that they trust him. It’s everyone’s mutual benefit that they don’t rebel and follow the orders, all of which ultimately help them get back to a normal life.

It’s past midnight when Wriothesley finishes up another cup of tea and a stack of paperwork—he contemplates drinking another cup as it feels good on his sore throat, but he can almost hear Sigewinne’s scolding about the amount of caffeine at this hour, so eventually he decides against the idea. Switching on his gramophone, he listens to the piano track he loves dearly while he packs up the data sheets and financial books of Meropide’s business; once he’s done, he sits on the edge of his desk with closed eyes as he waits for the song to fully end.

A moment of peace, alone—but it’s the result of what he does and the engine of the future he’s working towards.

Wriothesley decides on a stroll to see how the Wingalet’s repairs and upgrades are going; he smiles to himself reading the detail-rich but unprofessional, rather bantering and crossed-out notes that his two engineers left for him in the last report. By the time he’s back in his quarters, no one but the night guards are awake—not a rare occasion for him to stay up this late.

A good shower relaxes his muscles, and a short stretching routine keeps him supple; he allows himself a little time to read more of the newest volume he could get from a series (The History of the Decline and Fall of Remuria) before he closes the book and opts for his bedroom.

In his wear for the night, in the quietude of his quarters, most of his scars are on display—Wriothesley is a byproduct of his past.

It’s the same vessel that was once weak but is now strong: and it is so he can always stand up and go against what is wrong. He may have wishes of his own: to lay in the grass, to see the sun, to travel, to have a pet, and so on… But he had learnt that there are things in the world that are worth more—his time, his work, his all he can offer.

It’s only right after what he had done.

It’s only right that despite all, he is here today as a Duke.

Above and below; the deep shades of blues dance on his small, artificial ‘window’.

Wriothesley is here for the same reason Neuvillette has his titles and all of his duties. For the same reason why the Melusines wanted to work for the Court or why many former inmates stay in Meropide—some even do if their lives above wouldn’t be so bad. Some people believe that hard work for the sake of others is worthy enough to prioritize personal gains less in life—and Wriothesley is one of them.

He is who he is because he had a reason and determination to stand up from the ashes of the weak child who committed an anger-induced, frustrated, devastation-borne crime… He is who he is because he saw what he was good at and used this to his advantage; taking up his position (with the approval of a title in the end) to help others was the biggest honour in his life.

Above and below: Wriothesley falls asleep with the dim light of the translucent blues in the background, with the knowledge that his pedestal and position may be lonely, but he is not alone with his goals. He drifts to a dreamless rest knowing he may have sentenced himself to live below—but he did so that others can once again have a life above.

He can be truly alone… But the people he meets, those he helps or shares a vision with, do come back—they are the mirror of his own efforts, just like the surface of the water that separates: the above and below.