Chapter Text
If there was one way that the plan could’ve gone, being stuck between a gate and frozen Primordial Seawater was among one of the last things that Wriothesley would’ve expected it to go.
Wriothesley didn’t necessarily care much about how the plan went as long as it ended in success, but he has to admit that this was the least ideal situation that he’d rather be in right now—and he didn’t even think that this could be an option.
He’d been too slow.
He lost his balance somewhere along the lines, scraping his leg, slowing him down significantly, and the gate was already down too low for him to slide through the moment he picked his pace up again.
The last thing he saw was Clorinde’s uncharacteristically panicked expression, the Traveler and their companion’s shock along with breathless yells of his name before it all went dark around him.
His fight or flight response kicked in as he heard the water surging from behind. As quickly as he possibly could, he spun around and froze everything over, praying to whoever the hell was up there that nothing more would leak out from the gate behind it.
In hindsight, he thought that perhaps there would’ve been better ways for him to handle the situation—but he was pressured, damnit, there was no room for any more strategy.
He’s alive—cool, that’s great news—but now he’s stuck in a dark, enclosed space, barely able to see and surrounded by sharp icicles hairs away from brushing his body.
One wrong move and a leg wound won’t be the only thing he’d have to worry about.
Gods above, he was incredibly fucked. What was he supposed to do now?
There were muffled, barely decipherable voices heard from the other side of the gate. It was faint, but Wriothesley could make up some of what they were saying if he concentrated hard enough.
“Wriothesley?” He recognized it as Clorinde.
Voice scratchy, he responds, “Yeah, I’m alive.” His lips twitched at how hoarse his voice sounded.
“Wriothesley! You’re okay!” Paimon cried.
He winces.
He was most definitely not okay, but it was better than being fucking impaled and bleeding out as they spoke, he supposed.
“Now’s not the time to relax,” he manages to squeeze out. He really wanted to shift into a more comfortable position, but he wasn’t risking that today— no, thank you. “Call for Neuvillette, be quick. I don’t know how much longer this can hold.”
“Will you be okay there?” asked the Traveler, and Wriothesley seriously mulled the question over. He was barely moving a muscle as is trying to stabilize himself, breath labored to the point that he could almost hear his own heartbeat over their voices.
The odds right now are that his uninjured leg will give in soon and he’ll fall to puncture his chest somewhere on one of these icicles. Or multiple. Maybe it’d even go through his heart.
Fuck, okay, he doesn’t know if he’ll actually make it out of this alive.
“I’ll be okay,” he lied. “Just be on your way. Right now. Any longer and I might not be so okay.” Well, that was half the truth.
Wriothesley could hear Paimon let out an ear-splitting shriek even through the thick gate, yelling at the Traveler to get a move on already. He suppressed a groan. A headache is already thrumming along at the back of his skull.
He slipped his eyes shut, tuned out everything, and focused on composing his breaths.
It’ll be fine.
He has great trust placed in Neuvillette—he’ll be out soon.
He blocked out as much noise as he could, but he could still hear Clorinde sighing all the way from the other side. “You lied, didn’t you?” Wriothesley stiflingly hummed. “What makes you say that, Miss Clorinde?”
“Just a feeling.”
“Well,” Wriothesley’s shoulders shook. No point in trying to get around Clorinde of all people. “You’d be right about that.”
“Relate your situation to me."
Now that she mentioned it, he actually hasn’t gotten a clear look at the state of himself just yet. Wearily, he blinks his eyes open to examine himself the best he can with the finite light he had.
“I’m—mostly fine,” said Wriothesley as he carefully assesses his surroundings. Thankfully, there wasn’t any serious damage besides small scratches done to his upper body, but it was difficult to say the same about the regions below his waist.
Quickly, he added, “I think.”
“You think?”
“Okay, well, I can’t really feel my legs.”
“Wriothesley.”
“Alright, alright. I’m pretty sure there’s… a gash somewhere down there—I don’t know.”
“Archons,” Clorinde takes a deep breath. “Under any circumstances, don’t move.”
“I’m not that stupid, Miss Clorinde,” chuckled Wriothesley. “I’d almost be offended if you thought I was.”
“I’m not- you are impossible.”
“Why, how insulting of you to say.”
Wriothesley could vaguely hear her sigh exasperatedly again. He could picture her pinching her nose, shaking her head, perhaps even pacing around the room—an atypical display of anxiousness from the Champion Duelist, and he even quite felt sorry to be the cause of such behavior. He’s maybe thinking of forfeiting from the bet now.
Absurdly enough, these thoughts were grounding; it helped with keeping him conscious enough to keep himself upright by thinking about small moments in his life away from danger.
Clorinde spoke again, this time quieter. Wriothesley could barely hear her.
“…Hang in there.”
He swallowed a lump in his throat. “No guarantees, I’m afraid.”
“No.”
“What?”
“You are making it out.”
Wriothesley’s face falls. The amount of confidence in her voice has him biting his lips harsh enough to bleed.
“Believe in us.”
That, at least, brought a minute smile on his lips.
“Of course I do.”
Then Wriothesley hears a small crack.
A fucking crack.
His breath stuttered inside his chest, and he shifted his position just the slightest before he knew it to search for the source. His eyes narrowed.
Clorinde must’ve heard him shuffling inside, because she’s already asking him rapid questions, and she is most definitely alarmed. “What is it? Is it the seawater? Wriothesley?”
He’s too focused on the noise to give her a proper answer.
Wriothesley moves to lean back against the gate, trying not to stagger in his steps. Another crack bounced off the metal walls once more and it was only a few seconds later when he heard water drop onto the floor.
He sucked in a breath.
There was a leak somewhere and he needs to plug it the fuck back in before Clorinde ends up finding puddles by the gaps of the gate.
Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, he didn’t know, but the only thing that he could hear was the sound of water steadily dropping once every few seconds. His ear twitches.
He kept trying to look for the source of the leak, even having to move around every once in a while to scan every inch of the area, scrutinizing every bit of room his eyes could reach.
As he shifted to his left, Wriothesley hissed. He’d put a little too much weight on his legs, a sharp sting traveling from his thighs to his entire body. Quietly, he curses and his right hand dives down instinctively to his legs only to pull itself back up again accompanied by a loud shout of pain as uncomfortable heat seared in his veins.
Of fucking course he had to accidentally scrape his arm across the sharp ice now of all times. Unlike his legs, he could feel the blood trickling down his arm, landing in drops on the floor alongside the seawater, and he immediately brought his other hand to press against the wound.
The pressure stung, like he was engulfed in flames, burning, but he kept clutching tight, tighter, tighter—like he’d die if he let go.
He will die if he lets go.
“Fucking hell.” He hisses out, “Clorinde,” the honorific drops, “How long has it been?”
Clorinde, who seems to be on edge, stammers out a relieved breath. “Don’t avoid my question,” she replies sharply, “but it’s already been a few minutes since the Traveler left.”
“Alright, well,” Wriothesley took in a breath, “I don’t want to alarm you or anything—”
Distinct footsteps cut him off. They weren’t from Clorinde, he had half the mind to realize, because he’s heard her frantically pace around the room for the past five minutes now, and the noise that the new addition made sounded heavier, much regal, much confident.
He realizes that he didn’t need to wait much longer.
Neuvillette was here.
Wriothesley severely underestimated just how relieved he’d be at the thought that Neuvillette was finally here. It hadn’t been long, but he was itching to get out already, like he was already deprived of light and warmth.
Warmth.
That alone made him realize just how cold the space was.
He’d gotten accustomed to the cold, that was a given when he began using his vision more often—he could even say that he’s built up quite the tolerance to frigid environments, and perhaps that’s why he hadn’t realized until now. Perhaps, if it were any other person confined in this cramped, ill-lit and meager area, they would have succumbed to hypothermia before the seawater could even wash over them.
Wriothesley hadn’t even noticed when his teeth started chattering, jaw aching. It felt downright glacial, something he hasn’t quite felt in a long time.
Very quietly, he could hear Clorinde and Neuvillette exchange pleasantries, yet as much as Wriothesley would like to listen in on them and even chime into their short colloquy, he was still very aware of the cracks in ice that are steadily breaking and spreading. It won’t be long until the damn thing shatters.
Truthfully, he was quite impressed how the seawater hasn’t soaked his skin just yet.
Behind him came the sound of a knock. It vibrated against his back, the sound ringing proudly. In response, Wriothesley cranes his neck to the source.
“Wriothesley?” A new voice. He nearly shuddered.
“Took you long enough,” replied Wriothesley with a drowsy smile.
“Please, bear with this.”
“I’ll try,” he croaked out. “Need me to do anything before you start your weird restoration shit?”
Neuvillette didn’t find the comment laughable.
As he waited for Neuvillette’s instructions, he took one more scan around the space around him—dark, enclosed, cold. Barely any room to fit a person, let alone someone like Wriothesley and a bulky wall of ice.
This could be his own distinctive catacomb, hundreds of feet beneath the unknowing citizens of Fontaine, oblivious to what may be the moment where the esteemed Warden of Meropide takes his final breath, never to exhale.
His final resting place.
“—thesley. Wriothesley.”
Wriothesley blinked himself back into focus. “Yes?”
“Build a barrier around yourself,” came Neuvillette’s sharp instructions. There was no room for negotiations, and the atmosphere grew grimmer than ever. “The gate is about to collapse.”
Wriothesley stared at the hard metal, gaze hardened. “Okay.”
As much as his body detested the idea that he let go of his wounded arm, he didn’t have much of a choice. As though he were ripping a bandaid, so did he yank his hand away from the vice grip it had over the injury.
Barely, he could see his palm caked with blood yet to dry. The sight made him sick.
With every bit of energy he could muster, Wriothesley curled his fists into a ball and threw his hands up—along with it came a new wall of ice, encompassing him. His arms fell with a stabbing cry. It hurt, damnit, it fucking hurts.
The ball of ice was thickly layered, shielding him completely. Protection wasn’t guaranteed with his weakened muscles, and he had to clasp his hand back to where it was to stop more blood from flowing.
Wriothesley threw his head back. He didn’t care about the loud clang he made as his skull collided with metal, nor did he care about the way his head spun along with the dull pain.
He heaved, chest full and vision dotty. With eyes squeezed shut, he vaguely remembers the pair outside waiting for him as time ran thin.
Swallowing down bile, he spoke loud enough for them to hear, “All—done here.”
There was shuffling.
“Very well.”
Wriothesley’s legs gave up.
He dropped onto the floor with shaky breaths and a dry mouth. Revoltingly, he could almost taste the metallic tang on his tongue. The smell, the way his palms were slippery with crimson—it made him want to retch.
As his eyes roll up into his skull, Wriothesley passes out in a fetal ball, drifting into perpetual darkness.
The gate bursts only milliseconds later.