Content Warnings for this Chapter: Minor Mentions Blood

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Wriothesley has a nightmare.

He never sleeps well. Sigewinne makes those terrible milkshakes that taste like sewer water but Wriothesley chokes them down because they offer a somewhat dreamless sleep. Sinking into the darkness isn't restful, not when Wriothesley sleeps with one eye open and his back to the wall. There's one person he trusts in these walls—one—and even Sigewinne has intentionally poisoned him before.

This nightmare slips past the barrier of that draft. Wriothesley goes to sleep with his tongue brined by seaweed and chamomile, and wakes in a flight-or-fight panic that sets his entire being on edge.

Ellie. She'd been a sweet thing, all of his sisters were, but she, she—

Father made her kneel on rice when she got her numbers wrong. Mother's words hit sharper, harder than anything physical ever could. Ellie grew defiant as a result, and defiant children do not get sold off. Defiant children do not get adopted and find new families, they get quietly disposed of six feet under in the backyard.

Wriothesley remembers the last thing she said to him. They'd shared a room because he was the only one she got along with. Her bunk had been above his. She'd lean over the side and watch him with a soft, upside-down smile. And that last thing she'd said to him had been in that way, her, hanging upside down, her auburn hair in a loose ponytail. She'd called him by his forgotten name with a gap-toothed grin.

"Mother said I get cake tomorrow, yellow with chocolate frosting! Do you think I've been adopted?"

Wriothesley knew she hadn't been. By that point, he'd figured out the ruse and seen the ledger. Ellie's name was nowhere on the accounts.

Mother had a saying: "You can't break a horse that doesn't want a master." Ellie would never roll over and show her belly. She wasn't a dog that could be taught new tricks, or trained to behave; she was a wild and free mare who'd buck off anything saddle set upon her back.

And so, the cake, a small concession to smooth over the fact that Ellie would soon be dead. "Do you let an extra mouth to feed go hungry? Or do you just handle the problem yourself and put the damn thing out of its misery?" asked Mother once. Wriothesley has never forgotten.

Ellie, though, was excited about that piece of cake. So, because Wriothesley was a good big brother, he said, "Of course, Ellie. I can't wait for you to finally be happy."

In this nightmare, she asks him that again—"Do you think I've been adopted?" Only this time her face is smudged with dirt. Her nails are crusted brown, soil lining underneath their edges. "I get cake tomorrow, yellow with chocolate frosting!"

Wriothesley wants to look away, but he can't.

"Mother said—"

Mother said many things. How many others did she give cake to before chucking them into their graves? Wriothesley lost count, he stopped counting because there wasn't a point. Nothing could change unless—

"Wriothesley," says Ellie, and this time when Wriothesley looks he sees that her face is melted, gray and mottled flesh falling from bone.

Dread fills him. Ellie was sweet. Ellie didn't deserve this. Wriothesley didn't do anything, he didn't, he couldn't—

But then he did. Wriothesley waited and waited, and then he took action. He remembers how easily the knife slid through skin and muscle, how much blood a person spills. Father was stupid to have him learn and study. Father trained Wriothesley for murder, and Wriothesley doesn't care about the blood that's still on his hands.

But Ellie? There were so many Ellie's, and even now, there will be more.

"Death," she says, then, the macabre word dripping from half-rotted lips, black like poison.

"I—" But Wriothesley can't form words. He chokes on his past, on his shame. There are so many things he should've done, so many things that he tries to do here, but the Fortress of Meropide is an entirely different beast.

"Even for you—" The name she uses is lost to the static of his dream, but the rest isn't. "Death always comes in four." Ellie cackles, clawing at her face, rending the remaining flesh from her skull. It crumples, falling to the ground in wilted pieces until she's nothing but a corpse, the sort you'd find in a pine box.

Wriothesley jolts awake, ears pounding, pulse raging in his veins. He feels the throb in his temple, in his throat. His left arm twinges in a way that makes him heed all of Sigewinne's warnings about heart attacks.

No, no, not that—but a panic attack, yes.

He sits up and shifts on his mattress until his back is pressed against the wall. Wriothesley never sleeps in the dark. There's a small Electro Lantern that's turned on in the corner at the lowest setting. He can see the door. There are no windows, that's the only exit, and he can see it.

Meropide isn't safe but it's safer than where he came from. Here, people are honest about their intentions. Here, people wear their hatred like thick sweaters. Keeps out the chill. Easier to be detached and distrustful.

Wriothesley learned long ago that he can't trust anyone. Mother and Father, their homeland, even Sigewinne—

Even Sigewinne.

"Fuck," he hisses because it's a lie. Sigewinnehas managed to wear down that one rule, and she isn't the only one. Meropide is a prison first and foremost, but the people here... Many of the people here are kind. They don't deserve this life, thrown beneath the waters for petty crimes of theft or less.

Wriothesley is a murderer and belongs here, but he thinks of all the people who don't, who should be above ground, who should have a shred of hope. Instead, all they have is the inky black sea beyond too-thick glass, and the clanging of dark, dank pipes.

One blessing—there is one blessing when it comes to Meropide. It runs on its own rules and even those in opposition are still part of the rough-and-tumble family that has banded together under the oppressive rule of Celestia. An unspoken thing, but everyone knows.

There are no trials in Teyvat. That's something that Wriothesley has known since he was a child, the sort of thing used to scare young folk into behaving.

The Travails, too, hang over the heads of every citizen no matter their age. His Mother would use it. She'd call him by his name and then say: "Bad boys get sent to the Arena because Celestia sees all."

The truth is that anyone can be sent to the Arena, anyone is at risk of being culled, for having their name in that damnable box. But the one good thing about Meropide is that the risk has always been low.

"Four times as many folks upstairs," Wriothesley muses bitterly. It isn't that the risk is actually lower, but there are fewer people here, and so fewer are picked. Wriothesley has been at Meropide for over two decades and has never once seen a Tribute culled from the Fortress.

Until now.

"For the two-hundredth and twenty-fifth Travails, every Tribute that is to be culled will be culled from the Fortress of Meropide."

The Grand Judge's voice had been cold and distant when she'd uttered this. Anniversary games are always a spectacle. The Elite, those who call Celestia home, crave these quarterly games for that damned extra rule. The only prices they pay are the costs of those fancy boons sent into the Arena to ensure a good show once the stage is set.

He groans, rubbing at his face. He can see the door, he thinks. It's okay, it's okay. Wriothesley reminds himself that Mother and Father aren't here. But he is, and he deserves it, and he likely deserves to be culled.

Others here, though; there are so many others who barely did a damn thing. There are sick and infirm here, tossed into the ocean because 'out of sight, out of mind' is an easier philosophy than taking care of your own. Celestia would rather shoot themselves in the foot than ensure the health and safety of anyone on the surface. They don't thrive down here either, but at least they're alive.

All of them, every single person down here.

Dread picks at his spine. He doesn't like the tingle of it, the reminder that he's got a heart somewhere in his chest. Wriothesley has gone soft, too soft for this place.

#

A morose blanket of silence is draped over the Coupon Cafe.

It's usually lively, full of chattering, and inmates poking fun as they steal each other's allotted meals. Today, though, it's too quiet. Chilly. The air is charged and tense.

Wriothesley is so lost in his thoughts that he jumps when Sigewinne drops her food tray onto the table with a loud thunk.

"Don't tell me you've lost your edge," she says, sliding onto the bench. "Do I need to administer a hearing test at your next annual?"

Wriothesley avoids his physicals at all costs because what's the point? He's older, decent enough in health, and it's not like he's going anywhere. Meropide picks away at a person's being no matter what they do. Sigewinne always manages to corner him, though, and once even hired a couple of inmates to kidnap him for a quick trip to the infirmary. She'd learned to not strap him to a cot that time.

Still, he appreciates the humor and offers a quip back. "Aren't you the one who's always going on about men and their supposed selective hearing?"

Sigewinne hums. "I'll have you know that it's a studied phenomenon—third-party tested, and all of that. Besides, it's definitely true for you. How many things have I said just go in one ear and right out the other?"

"Sige—"

"Is that what we're going to do now? Are we just going to ignore it?" Her questions cut through the bullshit as it always does.

Wriothesley refuses to meet her face, opting to push around his food with a fork. "What's there to ignore, Sigewinne? Nothing. We're fucking doomed."

She clicks her tongue. "So that's it?"

Finally, he looks at her, annoyed. "That's it? Sige, what can we do? It's inevitable." She doesn't need to say the slogan of the Travails, but he knows that Sigewinne is thinking it.

"Inevitable," she repeats. "Of course. That's why we've got to get a plan in place."

"Miss Sigewinne—"

"Don't you Miss Sigewinne me," she snaps. It cuts deep, that tone. Wriothesley winces even if he tries not to. Sigewinne sighs, rubbing at her face. She continues, softer, "Wriothesley, you know that this place will fall apart without you here."

"Don't say that."

"It's true."

Wriothesley pulls at his chin. And he hates it, that thought, but Sigewinne is right. As much as Wriothesley wants to pretend there isn't a hierarchy in Meropide, there is. Kind of. More like a soft food chain of inmates. Wriothesley is heavily feared and respected, and though he isn't in charge, he is in a position of power that most do not have. This is why Dougier chose to duke it out with him in the ring. Wriothesley's say has weight to it, and beating him in a Pankration match comes with perks.

"I should've never scared that ass off."

Once, there was an Administrator of the Fortress, a mean, cantankerous man who took out his frustration on the inmates. Celestia didn't care. Why would they? They'd tossed them down there to rot away out of sight, so what's another Elite's sadistic tendencies at that point?

Wriothesley's teenage years here were hell, but he adapted. Quick to learn the ropes and rules. Quick to work, to carve out his muscles, to learn how to throw a right hook that'll do the most damage. And, like with most things, it came easily to him. A natural. That's what Father always said.

He learned to be quiet and listen to the words of others, and his tinkering skills gained him wealth in these pipes. Nowadays he's known for the information he carries, for the eyes and ears he has in every corner of this place. Dougier thinks that respect and authority are bought with iron-clad fists and shows of prowess, but he's wrong.

The people here don't venerate Wriothesley because he's strong and throws a good punch, it's because he knows any and everything that goes on in these walls.

He ran that Administrator off with nothing more than the threat of a fight in the ring. Celestia never replaced him and Meropide has operated on its own ever since. Those cogs never stopped. They still make the fancy meks that make the lives of the Elite all that easier.

Wriothesley won his authority with blood, sweat, and tears, as well as the grease that lines his fingernails.

Still.

"I never asked for it."

Sigewinne hums softly. "Those who should be in power never do."

What a nice sentiment. And she's right; Wriothesley doesn't want this, which makes him perfect for the gig. That, and his bleeding heart for other inmates around. As long as they are good, decent people, he'll protect them.

"I might not get culled."

"You might not," she agrees, "but just in case. There needs to be a plan to keep this place together. If someone like Dougier..." They both cringe at the thought.

"Yeah, okay, point taken. But Sige, there isn't... I mean, I don't really do anything. I just keep an eye on others. Take out the bad seeds, etcetera, etcetera."

"So there's the starting point. Who would you appoint as a successor?"

"You," replies Wriothesley immediately. Sigewinne's lips purse at that. "Think about it, Sige," he continues. "Who better than you? Remember why you got yourself locked up in the first place."

"Well, it certainly wasn't for cold-blooded murder," she says dryly. "Also, I wouldn't want that—"

"'Those who should be in power never do,'" parrots Wriothesley, his mouth pulled into a smug. "Sige, you're the doctor. People fear and respect you because you hold their lives in your hands. If someone pisses you off, you have... well. You know your cocktails."

Sigewinne smiles, just a small, tentative thing. "Nothing says I'm in charge like a little poison. Alright, I'll... do what's necessary, if it becomes necessary. But—"

"No buts, Sige."

"But, I don't think you'll get culled. If anything, it'll be me. I've been haunting these halls for far too long."

Wriothesley shoots her a cool glance. "It's random," he says. She doesn't respond, just pushes her morning gruel around. "It's... random, right?"

"Of course, it's random," she finally says. "But don't forget that the Oratrice will always ensure a good show. Whatever that means."

Whatever that means indeed.

Their breakfast falls silent for a comfortable moment. They eat like that, pushing through their stock meals as the weight of the Culling begins to sink in.

"This is miserable," says Wriothesley, eventually. "The waiting. I just want to get it over with, to know if I'm about to be sent to my death."

"Wriothesley, you would win."

"Maybe."

He'd have an advantage, sure. But he's tired, he's so, so tired. And Sigewinne knows that.

"Well, there's one silver lining, I think. If you do get culled, the food would be better. At least, until the Arena."

Wriothesley can't help the roar of laughter that he lets loose.

#

Later, Wriothesley beats out his frustrations in the Pankration ring.

Everyone else gives him a wide berth. His moods are known, so they scatter the moment they see him wrapping up his fists. He never does that. The tape only comes out when he's planning on pummeling a dummy until his knuckles are black and blue, and everyone else wants to be nowhere near him when that's a risk.

Except for Sigewinne. She sits on a bench, off to the side, taking small appointments for free—The Travails discount, she'd joked. Her gaze burns into the back of his head. Wriothesley punches the dummy a little too hard, hoping that the sting of it will distract him enough to forget.

It doesn't. Wriothesley is hyper-aware and expects Sigewinne to yell at him the moment she hears his bones crunch, so he pulls his punches. The routine helps him focus. He rolls through his forms as he thinks.

The Travails. Punch. Celestia. Punch. Meropide. Left hook.

Wriothesley has long since known he'd rot away down here. Murderers carry a life sentence, something he's known since he cut his teeth on books. The same old stories used to scare children. When he became a teen, Wriothesley didn't care if this was the outcome; his future was simple and known—either he'd take over the family business, or wind up buried out back like so many others.

So he split the difference, and while he may never see the sky again, Meropide is not the worst. There are rules, yes, and there is a food chain, but Wriothesley was a natural as he is with most things, and decades later he finds himself at the top.

Another punch. The dummy is hard—harder than it should be because it's made of old clothing and stuffed with discarded paper. The impact against his knuckles burns so good, the string radiating through his bones. Wriothesley likes feeling that pain, likes being reminded that he can still feel it, that he's there, alive, even if in the underbelly of Teyvat.

But the Travails. Right hook. He's caught by the possibilities. There are folks here who don't deserve to be, and certainly shouldn't be culled. Wriothesley should be picked, he should be tossed into that arena like the criminal he is. Others—the sick and infirm, the old and decrepit who just couldn't pay their taxes deserve the peace that they've found here.

Punch. The crunch of his knuckles as this hit is harder. Punch punch punch.

Wriothesley should be picked. He's old and tired, and closing his eyes in that arena to never wake up sounds like a quiet sort of death that suits him. He should, he should he should—

Sigewinne's hand darts out, fingers curling around his wrist. He didn't see her sneak up. "Shit," he hisses, jerking.

"You've hurt yourself." She just states it as a fact, not as a judgment, or critique.

Wriothesley is quiet as Sigewinne pulls his hand closer, smoothing Hydro across the back of it.

He should be picked. It would make sense. He has no one here, no family, no lovers, no one that matters to him. And beyond his close friendship with Sigewinne, there is no one who'd care enough about him beyond his usefulness as a de facto leader.

Wriothesley is, above all, pragmatic. Still.

"Don't want anyone to die." And then quieter, softer, he confesses to Sigewinne, "I don't want to die."

The look she gives him is as heartbreaking and defeated as all of this feels.

#

The title of Lead Arbitrator comes with a mountain of paperwork.

Neuvillette likes the paperwork. Others would find it to be a slog, but it's easy to lose himself in legalese. He doesn't need the distraction, no, it's just that he can melt into his work and ignore others.

Neuvillette is, admittedly, not a people person. It is both part of his personality and a function of his job. There are two types of people in Celestia: those who fear him, and those who think they can bribe him.

The former is merely a misunderstanding—he is a figurehead, designed as such, but ultimately carries no power. His job is merely to oversee hearings and ensure that they flow smoothly. His word is trusted. He is used for the propaganda that keeps the cogs of Celestia running. Any sentences are already laid out and determined by the bylaws.

The latter is laughable—Neuvillette is stern in his conviction. He may not... entirely agree with some things, but it is his job to not question them. Neuvillette has no authority here; his job is to answer that authority.

He is no fool, he knows that there are Elite who game the system. Teyvat turns its eye to many things. Neuvillette doesn't entirely agree but it's a matter of maintaining the bigger picture. Things run smoothly because there is a process. Besides, it is not his job to ask questions, his job is to facilitate. And even if he did, even if he could—

No, there is no point in thinking about that. Neuvillette's loyalty is the same as any other dragon's—their ancestors bent the knee for peace, and therefore Neuvillette upholds these standards thousands of years later.

The paperwork, tho... even if he finds a modicum of comfort in it, there are times in which it can feel overwhelming.

"More hearings, as of late," he murmurs, flipping through another file. He catches words, things like assault, self-defense, ten-inch blade, severe injuries. Neuvillette reads over the details, curiously, then sighs.

It matters not if the woman had justified reason, assault is assault, and it carries the same sentence as anything else. There are no trials in Teyvat, only certainties, and the Fortress of Meropide, which by all accounts could be worse. Capital punishment in comparison is exceedingly rare.

Neuvillette stills, that thought triggering another. "The Travails," he murmurs. For all of his detachment towards others, it is still an event that he... holds mild reservations about. It merely is a thing—a thing that is as part of his job as anything else. He rubs his face tiredly.

"Monsieur?"

He looks up to find his office door propped open and his secretary's head peeking out from behind it. "Ah. Sedene. Yes?"

She hums softly with a nod and steps in. "Another round of cases," she tells him, standing on her tippy-toes to drop a fresh stack of files onto his desk.

Melusines are sweet, hardworking creatures that Neuvillette is incredibly fond of. Celestia is not particularly kind to them, but neither are they cruel. The Elite in the floating city have come to care for the Melusines as a result, endeared by their sweet naiveté, and cute disposition.

Neuvillette knows better. Sedene keeps him on his toes and is not above giving him stern feedback.

He sighs softly, massaging at his face. "Thank you, Sedene."

She hesitates. Bounces up and down on her round little feet, arms held behind her back politely. "Monsieur," she says, "perhaps a rest?"

He doesn't need a rest. Neuvillette also doesn't tell her that, wavering her away instead.

Sedene doesn't relent. "Monsieur Neuvillette, even you—"

"I am sleeping, I promise."

"That is not what I was going to say."

Neuvillette gives her a look and Sedene stares him down.

"The Travails—"

"Ah."

"—affects everyone. This year, particularly, will be..." Sedene's face scrunches up slightly. "This year's Tributes will be of a different sort, I suppose."

Right. That. Neuvillette rests his elbows on his desk, bracing his chin against his knuckles. Those in Meropide are... different, and even within that group, some are ill-suited to potentially being culled.

"I am unsure of how I feel about it," she continues.

"Rules are rules, Miss Sedene," says Neuvillette.

"Yes, but..." Sedene's face twists slightly, falling. "Are they not there, paying their dues?"

Most of them, yes, but even in Meropide some are only there to be out of sight. The sick, the infirm—Neuvillette's mouth frowns at the thought of Eleazar.

Karma. The Withering. These are the remnants of the Cataclysm, the curse of the Third Descender chipping away at Teyvat's life force. Eleazar is a crippling disease as a result of this curse, so Celestia has hidden away those affected.

Neuvillette doesn't quite agree but...what can he do? He might be the Hydro Sovereign, but it's a no-good title meant to show his deference, that Celestia has true, ultimate power, even over who—some would consider to be—the rightful rule. Neuvillette trusts his ancestors—he does—but there are times he wishes that such a mantel allowed him a louder voice.

But then Celestia would fall apart. They run a tight ship, a carefully curated system that has been proven to work.

"The Travails are a necessary thing," he tells Sedene. "'A divine reminder that Celestia can and will strike down those who oppose them,'" he recites. "'There is a saying we have for this, a simple thing. Death comes in fours, inevitable and unerring.'"

Sedene's expression hardens slightly, turning contemplative. "Is that why you so enjoy being a mentor?"

Truthfully, Neuvillette rather dislikes it. It's a morose thing, and it should be Focalors's job, but she refuses, and so it's delegated to him. Aside from her, there has never been another Winner from Fontaine. Neuvillette might have a distaste for interpersonal relationships, and though he has never been close with the Tributes he's overseen, he is... not an unfeeling man. And so he has detached himself from it all.

It is necessary.

As the Hydro Sovereign, he has a standard to uphold. Those of Teyvat trust him and they trust his judgment.

But he is still only a man. He clears his throat and straightens his paperwork. "For anniversary games, such rules are to be expected. However... I will admit that this, particularly, seems to be a little ill in taste. For the reasons you earlier offered."

Sedene's mouth twitches into a soft smile. "Good to see that you have a little humanity about you."

"Sedene—"

"You are a dragon, I know, I know. I still think you're more human than most of the folk up here."

The irony is not lost on him. Neuvillette doesn't even agree, he barely knows what feelings are, and how to function with them. No, he's very particular, and for a man in his position, he cannot risk being anything but impartial. Anything else would be blaspehmous. Treason.

"I've told you this in confidence, of course." He says this for his comfort, not that he thinks Sedene would tattle.

"Of course, Monsieur. Don't forget to check your calendar," she says then, pivoting the conversation into an entirely different direction. "Many hearings today, with as many sentencings."

"Blessed is she who is Celestia, and our Heavenly Principles," mutters Neuvillette out of habit.

The older he gets, the emptier those words seem.