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.
"I don't suppose this was part of your birthday plans, was it."
It took a few careful tries before Neuvillette figured out how to power one of Belobog's many portable heaters with Pneumousia, and even then, he had to be cautious and focused while he worked; the devices were not in at all compatible with this source of energy, which was volatile on a good day in any hands other than his own, and he had to be very precise in his calculation to ensure it did not explode.
Operating this one heater for a few minutes took more out of him than operating all of Fontaine without pause. He supposed that was what a conflict in energies that flow through a land felt like in practice. Belobog was truly unfamiliar, and its environment felt strange and almost hostile. There was no pure elemental energy for him to draw upon, and while he enjoyed this... vacation overall - even in spite of recent developments - he found that he was starting to feel somewhat drained.
Still, he still had more than enough strength to power the device, heating up water - the one thing he was never short on - to prepare some local tea he and Wriothesley had purchased during the stay here. He had no qualms anymore about letting the Duke watch him use his power; the man knew, and he knew that he knew, and there was no point denying the known.
Once it was done, he handed the other a cup, then took up one for himself.
"Well... happy birthday, either way. For now, this will have to do. I'm sure Sigewinne will have something prepared for you once we get back."
No, this wasn't how Wriothesley - who rarely expected anything from his birthdays - expected this one to go. It was starting to become more than just coincidence that every vacation he'd been on lately had taken a sharp turn south almost without warning at all. A blizzard, a city-wide power outage, and mysterious monsters surging for the border were, somehow, the least concerning of them all though. Or maybe he'd just started getting used to experiencing so-called once-in-a-lifetime disasters. There was something to be said about always being in the right place at the right time, and through a tense smile, Wriothesley would say that skills borne from disaster might come in handy later.
So sitting fireside with Neuvillette, he did what he'd grown used to doing: bundling his coat tighter around his shoulders and pulling the snow-dusted fur lining close to his cheeks. Weathering the storm, in other words, and wondering what the people of this planet would have done without so many powerful individuals like the Iudex gathered in one spot. Wriothesley took the cup of tea appreciatively and warmed his hands around it.
"It's unusual for you to serve me anything but water," he quipped before he took a sip. "Hah, but you don't have to worry about me. I'm too old for birthday parties, anyway."
No doubt that all of his belongings left unattended in his office were now covered in stickers though, if that was what Neuvillette meant by bringing up Sigewinne. It was ritual now, scraping each sticker off one by one in the final hours of the day, although whether or not the Duke enjoyed such a chore, he'd never say. Only sigh and get to work, just as he carried on with all of his daily tasks.
There were never any shortage of stickers, after all, and this new batch could wait a few more days for his return.
"Thanks though." With a wry smile wreathed in flickering firelight, Wriothesley raised his cup in toast. "The tea's not bad for what's probably just wartime rations."
This was, most likely, similar to the place that Neuvillette knew the people of the Fortress of Meropide had set up for themselves for the sake of "entertainment" and "enjoyment", whatever that meant in this scenario. It was one of the spots in the underwater prison that he had actually never visited (usually sticking to the administrator's office, Sigewinne's infirmary and areas vital for inspection); he was only vaguely aware of its existence, and of the fact that it played a considerable role in Wriothesley's rise in the ranks.
And just like that other one, he had minimal interest in this location as well. Though it seemed like there were a few rich folks and dignitaries around, evidently invested in betting on particular fighters to win big or lose it all - so at the very least, the Iudex and his formal robes did not stick out as badly as he had expected. Still, it would probably take a sweltering desert for him to feel more out of his element. It was crowded, and it was loud.
Even then... there was no denying that, when they passed by the location during their walk through the Underworld, he followed the Duke inside willingly.
He remained somewhat sheltered, at least, in the back of the room for the time being, leaning against a table due to lack of a chair, eyeing the scene around him for a moment before his attention returned back to Wriothesley in full.
"You'll have to explain the idea to me, I'm afraid. As I'm sure you can imagine, I've only ever dealt with the consequences of this..." He gestures with his head towards a group of men eagerly discussing their bets. "... in court."
In from the cold they’d come into this sweaty, humid metal box, not entirely unlike the sweaty, humid bucket at the bottom of Fontaine’s sea. Wriothesley had insisted on finding shelter from the new round of snow flurries, but hadn’t been exactly forthright about where he was planning to take the Iudex for such shelter. Now he stood just off to Neuvillette’s right, his arms crossed and a subtle, victorious smile tucked into his cheek as he watched the rowdy crowd that’d captured his companion’s eye.
More than that, his companion and his refined dress, his elegant speech, and his washed and well-kept long hair had drawn the attention of more than half the fight club, whether he realized it or not. It was precisely why Wriothesley stood just at his elbow with his chest puffed and chin raised, appearing every bit the burly, battle-scarred bouncer for a man quite well off. He knew that there were sharks in these waters, but he also couldn’t resist seeing just how Neuvillette would fare in the deep, dark depths of society like this.
Their attention had been pulled to the ring of guests shoving and jostling each other around a pile of credits. Each one took turns plucking credits from each other, tossing new credits onto the pile, and even exchanging a few silver strales, half-shouting all the while about which fighter they thought was going to win this tournament. Under ordinary circumstances, Wriothesley wouldn’t be in the thick of it, but he’d certainly be near enough to contribute. The credits in his pocket were burning a hole.
”Not something you get to experience every day on the surface, huh?” Wriothesley looked a little proud to show off something the law didn’t quite cover, cutting his gaze sidelong toward Neuvillette. “Here. Better just to show you how it's done than explain it.”
He pulled a stack of credits from his pocket and handed them over. Neuvillette probably wouldn’t take them the first time, so he nudged him until he did.
”Now, this isn’t usually how this kind of thing works, unless you’re trying to get yourself robbed, but—“ He nodded toward the nearby group, implicit in his warning about these hungry sharks. “— it’ll work for now. Just enough of a taste to stimulate a ravenous addiction.”
There was no telling if Neuvillette would pick the joke apart from the truth. But Wriothesley quite liked making his own little gambles about that. This time, thanks to a well-timed chuckle, he wagered the Iudex might just be able to tell.
”Go check the list of tournament participants on that board over there. Pick whoever your gut tells you to. If your guy places ahead of mine in the tournament, then I’ll let you keep all those credits. But if mine gets the leg up on yours, I’ll take them back. Simple enough, right?”
How this package has made its way across the universe's endless darkness is perhaps better not asked. One can only assume that where there is a will, there is a way. And, well, one such as Neuvillette does have some ways at his disposal.
Whatever the case may be, a gift awaits Gallagher, having found him regardless of the distance (even if it may have done so with a bit of a delay). Inside, he would find a little trinket - a pocketwatch, small in size, but without doubt made with great care and precision by an expert in the craft - so much so that it has survived this arduous journey in pristine state and continues to work perfectly, softly ticking away. The edges of its casing are decorated with a gentle pattern reminiscent of water's waves.
Alongside the gift is a simple note.
一 To Mr. Gallagher,
I can only hope that this package reaches you, for unless you have a way of contacting the world of Teyvat, I have no method of finding out whether or not it did.
If it does however, I would like to wish you a happy birthday. I was not sure what to send alongside this letter, but since we spoke of the importance of moments and I remember the words of both you and Ms. Robin most fondly, I eventually settled on this. In addition, I believe that last time we met, I got a chance to see a specialty from your homeland, and now, I wished to share something from mine.
May our paths cross again one day.
一 Neuvillette
By some miracle, the gift had reached its recipient. One lucky encounter after the next carried it from reality into the land of dreams, and finally into the hands of a courier who happened to remember that a ‘Mr. Gallagher’ had once held some sort of office within Dewlight Pavilion. The secretary did not recall such a name, but agreed to hold onto the package until someone came to pick it up, believing that perhaps they went by a different alias within the dream. Within hours, it had disappeared from the mailboxes she not-so-diligently watched over for the other members of the Family.
How Gallagher, now no longer pretending to be any significant Bloodhound, much less someone important enough to frequent the candlelit halls of the Pavilion, had known that a package had been waiting for him would remain one of his many mysteries. In the corner of some unremarkable cafe in the Moment of Oasis, he laid out the contents of the small, carefully wrapped package across a square table fit for two - a handwritten letter on his left, a hinged box sitting open on his right, and memories of a distant tower of autumnal fire filling all the spaces inbetween. In the palm of one hand nested a timepiece so similar, and yet so different from the clocks that ironically made the foundation of every design choice on the timeless Planet of Festivities.
Was this how Mikhail had felt, he wondered, when he’d first been given a watch? That fascination with the intricate pieces that made it tick and the unstoppable march toward the future had been as verdant as a child’s blooming optimism even by the time Gallagher had met him. And before the mantle of the Watchmaker had been woven to fit around his shoulders, he was the watchmaker. Many a weary evening, the hound had settled in the corner of the office to marvel at the clocks that adorned its walls as Mikhail penned away at letters and drawings and new storyboards, or fiddled with some new or old watch. And still the old hound would take up his post, even when the well-worn chair sat empty, to contemplate the rhythmic ticking of a dozen synchronized hands that never once stopped. They represented something that Gallagher had long resigned to never really understanding.
’May our paths cross again one day.’
As long as time marched ever onwards, the world would remain full of chances and opportunities. He was starting to understand, just a little.
- -
So Gallagher picked up his old friend’s habit and embarked for somewhere else - a city of water far, far away, hosting a film festival that could have been right at home among the cinema-paved streets of Penacony.
When Neuvillette returned to his office at the end of it all, he would find a single can of soda on his desk, colored in pinks and teals, with a pawprint right in front.
Should a certain Traveler pass by the costume racks available to the public during the festival, she may notice the Iudex standing nearby, not engaging with the people - so as to avoid causing disturbance with his presence - but observing, a hint of amusement on his face.
Looking at the group of kids trying out different costumes, it's not too difficult to see why.
Neuvillette waves lightly to Lumine to attract her attention. When she approaches, he says nothing at first, but eventually, he lets out a quiet huff.
"Some things about humans I don't think I'll ever understand," is all he says, continuing to watch the children, two of whom have dressed up as him and Wriothesley respectively and seem extremely excited about it for some reason.
She understands dress-up. Costumes that allowed you to be that which you were so clearly not, if only for an hour, or a day, or so long as you adorned yourself in that manner were fun for obvious reasons, especially for those so young -- allowing you to move beyond the confines of 'yourself'.
It seems a very simple desire -- innocent and jubilant as the children dancing around before them, clad in robes too long for their forms, gloves that don't fit too-small hands, and hair made from foam rather than any fibre that mimics it more closely. The weight of the world was once a tide that attempted to sweep them from existence, and yet, still, they celebrate as though that day had never been here at all.
" When I was in Liyue, I'd stop by to see the children of some sailors there; we'd meet up on the docked boats to play like they were captain and crew. I was the pirate they had to stop from ransacking their ship. In Sumeru, kids acted like academics, carrying around books, and repeating whatever they'd heard the nearest scholar say -- not entirely accurately, but they tried-- or acting like merchants, pretending to make incredible deals with one another. " Her head tilts to one side as she watches them; it seems the competition has started.
Young "Neuvillette" takes his mark behind a line on the bridge, before attempting to see how far he can jump from the position. After a beat, young "Wriothesley" makes his leap, too. She grins as the kids around the duo holler and whoop -- it hardly matters who got further ("Neuvillette" did, she thinks, but its a little hard to tell) because they're celebrating like something monumental has occurred regardless... and then, moving on to whatever challenge is next.
" That's to say, I think.. the desires of children are usually very simple -- something like: 'I want to be a part of this, too.' " Her glance flickers to the Soverign beside her, eyes crinkling with mirth. " Duke of Meropide.. Chief Justice -- it's not so hard to think they'd want to follow in such impressive footsteps, right? "
Seated on a bench just a few feet away, Neuvillette watches in silence as a group of people of all ages attempt, with varying degrees of success, to throw a colorful ring in such a manner that it lands on a bottle placed in the middle. At least, through observation, he assumes that that is the goal, based on the fact that a girl who managed to achieve it walked away cheerful and proud with a mechanical armored crab toy as a prize.
The manager of the game appears to notice his mild curiosity, and waves towards him, his hand holding one of the rings as he does. The Iudex blinks in surprise, taking a moment to process the situation, then shakes his head with an amused huff. What kind of idea is that.
Instead, he casually gestures with his head towards the man standing nearby. He only very vaguely recognizes him, recalling the face and clothes from that bizarre island from a while ago. In spite of that, being more familiar than most with the idea of outworlders, he is not too surprised to see him here.
"I think they want one more participant. Why don't you give it a go?"
"Hmm~?"
Sampo points to himself, head canted to the side in question.
"I, errr..."
How to put it bluntly? That he is no longer permitted within a four-foot radius of the stall? Ah, how unjust, this world, that a man might be punished for simply being That good.
(Does it count as cheating if you're scamming a scammer? ... Don't answer that.)
"Ahem," he clears his throat into a closed fist, sheepish. "I think I've already had my fill, good sir. Are you sure you'd not rather have a go?"
The other is about as familiar to Sampo as Sampo is to him. To be fair, in the Fool's opinion, one of the two of them sticks out much more than the other. This tall fella would be hard to forget.
Hrm.
Sampo hadn't accidentally launched a bomb his way, back then during the Harpastum Toss, had he...? Or had he perhaps been among the audience?
"You should really give it a try, hee hee! It might be fun!"
Sampo was definitely, certainly, one hundred percent not in a sudden hurry to get out of here - nope, not at all!
"... Also, I passed by Mr. Lyney and his siblings by one of the filming sets earlier. It seemed that they were enjoying the festivities."
It is rare for him to be able to simply sit at Café Lutece and enjoy a cup of coffee without being constantly bothered (save for an occasional stare from across the street, but that has become so normal by now that he is able to tune it out entirely). To that end, an opportunity like this should be appreciated.
And it is rarer still to do so in the company of none other than The Knave, especially in the absence of pressing diplomatic matters that they would have to discuss in a formal, transactional and at times rather ruthless matter. Neuvillette would have to admit if asked that he did not expect to run into her in Fontaine at this time, but he supposes that the Harbingers too have breaks, time off and at least some degree of freedom.
"Well. It's nice to get some air, but it looks like I will have to return to the office soon. If you intend to have a look around the festivities, I hope you enjoy your time here."
it is quite strange, perhaps, to find herself sitting in the open patio of a café with the iudex; stranger still that this has gone on uninterrupted by any party that would otherwise concern themselves with either person sitting at the table. but maybe it is her presence that affords him a brief reprieve and an uninterrupted cup of coffee, and his in turn that has kept the children at bay. she has sat here in the café for some time as the children enjoyed the festival, wanting little to do with it if she can afford to stay away from the spotlight films tend to draw.
a polite answer to the first comment comes with ease. "lyney and his siblings are quite fond of these sorts of affairs. to be fontainean is to revel in festivities such as these in some capacity, no matter if it is by blood or by history... is it not?"
( and her role was always better served in the audience than on the stage. )
and furthermore, she must consider... was his role in a performance not uniquely segregated, an audience member whose opinion could sway the trajectory of a narrative? almost akin to the highest order of critic... so, to sit here with her when judgement could be passed on the quality and arc of the films featured in the festival was an oddity, considering they had so little business to discuss. but as the iudex starts to dismiss himself after oddly comfortable silence falling between them, she offers one last thought:
"...fontaine is still our home, chief justice, to those of us who were born and grew up here. snezhevich and snezhevna are little more than a substitute for parentage; we cannot change the culture that raised us. the house of the hearth in fontaine wouldn't dare miss out on festivities that embody the very spirit of this land."
