Arlecchino x Columbina

The House of the Hearth was quiet, but for Arlecchino, the silence was a heavy, suffocating thing. It was in these hours, when the moon hung high over the Snezhnayan frost and the children were tucked safely into their beds, that the ghosts of her past liked to stir. The "Father" of the House sat at the edge of her desk, her blackened hands resting against the mahogany surface, the crimson polish on her nails catching the flickering candlelight.

Her eyes, marked with those unmistakable red 'X' pupils, were weary. Sleep was a luxury she rarely afforded herself, and tonight, it felt like an impossibility. The cursed fire in her veins—that ancient, Khaenri'ahn legacy—was restless. It didn't burn with heat so much as it throbbed with a cold, agonizing rhythm, a reminder of a lineage she barely understood and a fate she had carved out with her own bloodied hands.

She stood, her movements graceful despite her exhaustion, and stepped out of her study. She didn't head for her own quarters. Instead, she found herself walking toward the gardens of the Northland Bank’s secluded wing, where the air felt thinner, colder, and strangely more vibrant.

She found Columbina sitting on a stone bench overlooking a frozen pond. The Damselette was, as always, an ethereal anomaly. Her long black hair with its magenta highlights trailed behind her like a silken shadow, and the white ribbons around her eyes remained undisturbed. She wasn't sitting so much as she was hovering, her weight barely registering against the stone.

"You are loud tonight, Father," Columbina said, her voice a soft, melodic chime that cut through the frigid air. She didn't turn her head, yet she seemed to perceive Arlecchino’s every movement.

Arlecchino stopped a few paces away. "I was under the impression I was being quite silent. The children didn't even stir."

"Not your feet," Columbina clarified, finally tilting her head. She opened her eyes just a fraction; the pearly, pupil-less depths glowed with a faint, lunar light. "Your blood. It hums like a dying star. It’s very distracting."

Arlecchino sighed, a sound of rare vulnerability. "Insomnia is a persistent shadow. It seems tonight it has decided to deepen its grip."

Columbina patted the space on the bench beside her, though 'beside' was a loose term for a woman who seemed to exist in a different state of gravity. "Come. The moon is full, and the Light Realm is close. I can offer you a reprieve, if you are willing to lower your guard."

Normally, Arlecchino would have declined. She was the Fourth Harbinger; she was the shield and the sword of the House of the Hearth. She did not lean on others. But the fire in her veins flared, a sharp spike of phantom pain that made her fingers twitch. Without a word, she approached and sat.

The transition was seamless. Columbina shifted, her movement a low-gravity glide that defied the friction of her silk garments. She guided Arlecchino’s head down until the taller woman was resting in her lap. It was a position of extreme vulnerability, one that would have seen anyone else’s throat slit by Arlecchino’s sharpened nails. But with Columbina, there was no threat—only a terrifying, serene stillness.

"Close your eyes, Peruere," Columbina whispered, using the name that belonged to the girl Arlecchino used to be, a name few dared to utter.

Arlecchino felt the cool touch of Columbina’s hand against her forehead. The Damselette’s skin was unnaturally pale and felt like polished marble, yet there was a hum of power beneath it that felt like a soothing balm to the Pyro Vision at the nape of Arlecchino's neck.

Then, Columbina began to sing.

It wasn't a song with words. It was a lyricless melody, a series of high, haunting notes that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of Arlecchino’s bones. It was the music of the spheres, the sound of the three moons that had once governed the sky before the world forgot their names. The melody drifted upward, and for a moment, the falling snowflakes seemed to freeze in mid-air, caught in the resonance of the Goddess’s voice.

As the song progressed, Columbina began to caress Arlecchino’s hair. Her fingers moved with a rhythmic, hypnotic grace, smoothing the white strands with their black tips. She traced the asymmetrical line of Arlecchino’s bangs, her touch light as a falling feather.

"Does it hurt?" Columbina asked softly, her song dipping into a low, humming vibrato that mimicked the purr of a cat.

"Always," Arlecchino murmured, her voice thick with the onset of a heaviness she hadn't felt in weeks. "It is a fire that does not consume, yet it never stops burning."

"It is because you try to contain it all within a vessel of iron," Columbina said. She leaned down, her face inches from Arlecchino’s. The faint scent of Glaze Lilies and something cold, like mountain air, enveloped the Harbinger. "You are so busy being a 'Father' that you forget you are also the flame. Let it go for a moment. I will hold the embers."

Columbina’s eyes opened fully then. The sparkling, moon-like patterns within them swirled, casting a soft pink radiance over Arlecchino’s face. The Third Harbinger reached out with her other hand, her fingers wrapping gently around Arlecchino’s blackened wrist.

Under the influence of the song and the touch, the jagged, red 'X's in Arlecchino’s eyes began to soften. The tension that lived in her shoulders, the constant readiness for betrayal or battle, began to melt away. The world of the Fatui, the Tsaritsa’s cold ambitions, and the endless needs of the House of the Hearth faded into a distant, muffled blur.

"You are very strange, Columbina," Arlecchino whispered, her eyelids fluttering shut.

"And you are very tired," the Damselette replied. Her voice took on a dual tone, a harmonic resonance that sounded like two people speaking at once—one mortal, one divine. "Sleep. The shadows of Khaenri'ah cannot reach you while the moon is watching."

The song shifted again, becoming a lullaby of old Teyvat, from a time before the Archons, before the heavens were fake, and before the fire was a curse. It was a song of the Silvermoon Hall, of gardens that bloomed in the dark, and of a goddess who wandered the looping paths of memory.

Arlecchino felt her consciousness slipping. It was like sinking into a deep, cool lake. The Hydro-like essence of Columbina’s power surged gently around her, dampening the Pyro’s heat without extinguishing it. For the first time in what felt like decades, the 'Father' of the House felt like a child being looked after.

She let out a long, shuddering breath. Her hand, which had been resting tensely against her side, went limp, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of Columbina’s dress.

Columbina continued to sing, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the false stars twinkled. She didn't mind the weight of the Fourth Harbinger. In the grand tapestry of her five-hundred-year existence, these moments of quiet connection were the only things that felt real. The Fatui were a means to an end, the Tsaritsa was a partner in a cosmic play, but this—the warmth of a flickering life resting against her—was a tether to the world she had been cast out of.

"Rest now, little flame," Columbina hummed, her fingers never ceasing their gentle motion through Arlecchino’s hair.

As Arlecchino finally succumbed to a dreamless sleep, the flowers in the nearby garden began to change. The pale winter blooms deepened into a soft, contented violet, mirroring the temporary peace that had settled over the two Harbingers.

The wind picked up, carrying with it a few stray white feathers that dissipated into light before they could touch the ground. Columbina sat unmoved, a monument of lunar grace, guarding the sleep of the woman the rest of the world feared. To the House of the Hearth, she was Father. To the Harbingers, she was a crazed executioner. But here, under the watchful gaze of the Goddess of the Frost Moon, she was simply a soul finally allowed to be still.

The night wore on, the silence no longer heavy, but sacred. Columbina’s melody didn't falter, a constant, shimmering thread of sound that wove a barrier against the cold. She would stay until the sun threatened the horizon, until the fire in Arlecchino’s veins settled into a quiet glow, and until the 'Father' was ready to wake and put on her mask once more.

"I told you," Columbina whispered to the sleeping woman, a tiny, enigmatic smile touching her lips. "The moon always sees the truth behind the mask."

She leaned down and pressed a chaste, cold kiss to Arlecchino’s forehead, the mark of a goddess’s favor. The Pyro Vision at Arlecchino’s neck pulsed once, softly, in a rhythmic acknowledgment of the peace it had been granted.

In the heart of Snezhnaya, amidst the ice and the intrigue, there was a small circle of moonlight where the fire was allowed to rest. And for Arlecchino, that was more than enough.