Judicial Temptations :: WRIOLLETTE

45 :: Reflextions of Eternity

I am Neuvillette, the Hydro Dragon Sovereign. Immortal. Eternal. Bound to the laws of nature that govern both the land and sea, my existence stretches beyond the comprehension of time. I have seen empires rise and fall, rivers carve new paths through the earth, and oceans ebb and flow. In all my long existence, I have witnessed the fragile nature of life—the delicate balance between creation and destruction. Yet, there is one truth that has always loomed above it all: I am destined to outlive everything. Including him.

Wriothesley.

Of all the beings I have encountered, of all the fleeting lives that have crossed my path, none have anchored me as he has. The man who commands the police station with such fierce loyalty, who faces his own pain with courage, who carries the weight of his past with unyielding strength. I love him. I have chosen him as my mate, the only one I will ever take. In the depths of my heart, in the core of my being, he is mine, and I am his.

But there is a cruel irony in that.

I will live forever, and he will not.

The thought has haunted me since the day I realized the depth of my feelings for him. No matter how long we are together, no matter how many days, months, or years pass, there will come a time when I will have to watch him fade. I will watch his body succumb to the weight of mortality, see his strength wane, his spirit dulled by the inevitable decay of age. And when his heart finally stills, I will be left alone—unchanged, immortal, forced to carry the memory of him while he becomes nothing but dust.

The idea is unbearable.

But there is a way. A path that would allow me to escape the chains of eternity. A path that would bind me to Wriothesley not just in love but in time itself. I could become mortal. I could choose to live as he does—to age, to weaken, to die.

The process for a Dragon Sovereign to relinquish immortality is ancient, bound by the laws of our nature. It is not simply a matter of will, but of transformation. For a dragon to become mortal, we must sever our connection to the elemental forces that sustain us. The essence that binds me to the hydro element—the source of my powers, my longevity, and my dragon form—would slowly dissipate. My control over water would fade, leaving me vulnerable in ways I have never been. The rain that responds to my emotions, the torrents that bend to my will, would become foreign to me, no longer a part of who I am.

My hair, which has always grown quickly, a sign of the vitality that courses through my veins, would slow. The crystalline strands, which have always glistened with an ethereal sheen, would dull, becoming more like those of a mortal. My dragon form—my true self—would cease to exist. I would no longer feel the pull of the tides, the whispers of the deep sea, or the call of the storm. I would become as human as Wriothesley is now, vulnerable to injury, to sickness, to death. I would lose the ability to regenerate, to heal from wounds that would normally mean nothing to me.

The process is irreversible. Once done, I would be severed from the celestial plane, from the life I have always known. I would live out the rest of my days as a mortal, growing older with Wriothesley, eventually succumbing to the fate that awaits all living things. It would be a sacrifice—a sacrifice I would gladly make for him. To live with him, to die with him, would be a far better fate than to exist for eternity without him.

But what of the alternative?

There is another way, though it is fraught with danger. Wriothesley could become immortal. There is a ritual, known only to a few ancient beings, that could bind him to the elemental forces in a way that would grant him the longevity of a dragon. He would no longer age, no longer fear death. His body would become imbued with elemental energy, making him nearly as resilient as I am now. Together, we could live for centuries, millennia, perhaps even eternity.

But the process is not without risk. The human body is fragile, designed for a finite existence. The infusion of elemental energy is a violent transformation, one that his mortal frame might not survive. For a dragon or any other elemental being, such energy flows naturally through our veins. It is a part of us, woven into our very essence. But for Wriothesley, it would be foreign, invasive. His body would fight against it, rejecting the power that was never meant to be his.

The ritual would push him to the brink of death. His organs could fail, his heart might give out, his mind might shatter under the strain. And even if he survived the initial transformation, there is no guarantee that his body would adapt. The elemental energy could continue to burn through him, slowly eroding his humanity until there is nothing left but a shell of the man I once loved.

There are stories—terrible stories—of mortals who have attempted the process and failed. Their bodies twisted, their minds broken. Some became nothing more than elemental husks, driven mad by the power they could not contain. Others simply... died, their hearts stopping mid-ritual as the energy overwhelmed them.

If Wriothesley were something more than human—an elemental hybrid, or a being with a natural affinity for the elements—there might be hope. Creatures like the Adepti or elemental spirits, for example, have a higher tolerance for such energies. Their bodies are naturally attuned to the elemental currents that flow through Teyvat. For them, the risk would still be great, but the chance of survival would be far higher. Wriothesley, however, is fully human. His body, though strong and resilient, was never designed to bear the weight of immortality.

And so I am left with an impossible choice.

Do I ask him to risk his life, to endure unimaginable pain, for the chance to live with me forever? Or do I sacrifice my immortality, my powers, my very nature, so that I can live a mortal life with him?

There is no easy answer. Either way, one of us will suffer. Either way, one of us will lose something fundamental to who we are. But the alternative—living forever without him, watching him age and die while I remain unchanged—feels far more unbearable than any sacrifice I could make.

I know Wriothesley would never ask me to give up my immortality. He would never ask me to become less than what I am, to relinquish the power and responsibility that comes with being the Hydro Dragon Sovereign. But I cannot ignore the gnawing fear that, one day, I will wake up and he will be gone. And I will be left in a world that feels empty and cold without him.

Perhaps, in the end, the choice will not be mine to make. Perhaps it will come down to what Wriothesley wants—to what he is willing to risk for the chance at eternity. But I know one thing with absolute certainty:

I will not live forever without him. One way or another, I will find a way to stay by his side, for as long as fate will allow.