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Neuvillette knew he had a long lifespan. He knew those around him would cease to exist eventually. He knew that. That still did not prepare him for the ache of loss.
At first, it had been easy to keep his distance. The people of Fontaine revered him, respected him, but they did not know him. He was the Chief Justice, the Iudex, an impartial force that watched over the nation. A being above fleeting mortal concerns. Or so he told himself.
And yet, despite his best efforts, a select few had drawn close. A stubborn handful who had ignored his quiet distance, who had refused to let his cold exterior push them away. They had spoken to him not as a figure of authority, not as a creature older than their grandfathers, but as Neuvillette. Just Neuvillette.
He should have shut them out. Forever. Yet he didn’t.
He should have forgotten about them. Yet he didn’t.
He should have never let them enter his personal life. Yet he didn’t.
At first, it had been imperceptible, the way they chipped away at the stone encasing his heart. A quiet invitation to tea, an offhanded joke, the way they would roll their eyes at his stiff formality yet still smile at him anyway. Meaningless moments, he told himself. Insignificant.
And yet, over time, the stone began to crack.
He could have reinforced it. Strengthened it. Pushed them away before they got too close. He should have.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he let them see his raw, unguarded self. Let them speak his name with warmth rather than reverence. Let them stand beside him in moments of solitude, in laughter, in quiet companionship.
And they, too, bled for him.
They spoke of futures they wished for. Of lives they dreamed of living. Of days spent together, oblivious to the cruel inevitability that Neuvillette had long accepted.
They would grow older. He would not.
He had known that from the very start. So why, why had he let himself care? Why had he let them pull him into their fleeting lives, knowing they would leave him behind?
He should have stopped them. Should have walked away before their presence became necessary, before their absence became unbearable.
But he didn’t.
He watched as Clorinde and Navia lived their lives. He smiled at their triumphs, cheered them on as they took the world by storm. They had bright futures ahead of them, filled with joy, love, and endless possibilities. He urged them to be happy, to live as fully as their hearts would allow, knowing all the while that their time was fleeting. Yet, as the years went by, as they laughed and aged, as they began to fade from his sight, he realized something: his heart had stopped bleeding.
Why?
He watched as Wriothesley remained at the Fortress of Meropide, steadfast and unyielding in his mission to provide second chances. He was the beacon of redemption, offering the broken and lost an opportunity to start anew. Neuvillette had admired him for years, not only for his noble work but for the strength he brought to the world. Their friendship had deepened over time—one born of respect, of shared ideals. But it had grown into something more, something Neuvillette had never dared speak aloud. He loved Wriothesley.
He had loved him, deeply, quietly. Yet he never found the courage to speak those words. Instead, he watched. He watched Wriothesley’s ever-present toothy smile, the one that always put him at ease, that had once brought warmth to Neuvillette’s heart. As the years passed, that smile faded, its light dimming just like everything else. Neuvillette kept his distance, though he longed to be closer. He watched Wriothesley age, grow weary, and the ache in his chest deepened. But he had never told him. And so, when that smile was no longer there to reassure him, when the warmth had gone cold, Neuvillette could only ask himself why.
Why had he not told him?
He watched as Furina, entered his life anew. He considered her a great friend, someone who brought brightness and humor to his otherwise solemn world. He admired her strength, her passion, and even her theatrical spirit. He had grown fond of her, and saw her as a daughter, someone to protect, to guide. She was a bright spark in his life, a constant companion in the trials of Fontaine. Yet, as the years passed, he watched as Furina let go of her title as his assistant, chasing her dreams of the stage like she had once before. She pursued the life she had always wanted, singing and dancing with joy, becoming someone entirely different—a new persona. He was proud of her, proud to see her flourish. But with each performance, with each passing year, he also watched as her body began to fail.
He watched as she sang for the last time. He watched as her movements grew slower. She had always been full of life, but time, as it does to all things, caught up with her.
He simply watched when she took her last breath, just as he had been there for her triumphs. He set her favourite blue flowers upon her gravestone, a symbol of her vivacity, her spirit that could never be extinguished by age.
He had grown fond of her as a friend, as someone close to him, but the loss still stung. Her absence left a cold void in him like all the others before her, and though he had let go of her title, he never let go of the bond they had shared.
He watched.
When all of them—Clorinde, Navia, Wriothesley, Furina—were gone, he found himself adrift, lost in a sea of emptiness. He could no longer feel the ache of their loss, for he had bled his heart dry. The flood of emotion he had allowed to spill out when the stone wall had fallen… it had been too much. It had consumed him, swept him into an ocean of vulnerability. But the tide had receded, and in its wake, the ocean remained still and quiet, devoid of warmth, of life.
He sat upon the Iudex’s chair, alone in a courtroom that was empty and silent, as if the world itself had ceased to turn. The walls around him seemed to close in, the weight of eternity pressing against him.
He understood, then.
The wall of stone that had once protected him—kept him safe from the pain of loss—had not been merely a barrier. It was a dam, a holding place for the flood of emotions he would one day have to face. The love, the care, the tenderness he had given. When it was all torn away, it had bled him dry. When the wall of stone had fallen, the tsunami had been unleashed. And now, there was nothing left but remnants.
The stone wall loomed over him, casting a shadow over the still sea that was once so full. The empty, lifeless monument to what had once been mighty and strong. Now, it was nothing more than a reminder of what could never be again.
In the end, Neuvillette understood what it all meant. The realization settled into his bones, a cold certainty. The years would pass, new faces would come and go, but his heart—his weary, emptied heart—would remain untouched. For there was no returning to what had been. No rebuilding the wall. No bringing back the love he had given so freely, so fully.
As a tear ran down his cheek, he could not feel it. As the tear fell, so did the last standing walls of the stone, leaving nothing behind other than the ocean of red. It should have been obvious. It was from the very start. It should have been obvious upon the fall of the very first chip into the void:
He would forever be alone.