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Flowers. Such a fragile thing.
Perhaps that's why they were exchanged at Windblume. Gives the poets something to yap about. Fragility of life and whatnot.
Truthfully, whenever Sandrone had a flower, she would look away for a second and then, Boom. Dead.
No wonder flowers held no emotional value to her, only a pretty impermanent, little thing. Yes, the undying, unchanging machine has no interest in flowers. Cliché? Certainment. But how else could she view them?
Maybe then that's why, in middle of Mondstadt's festival, as full garlands of explosive vibrancy were strung between balconies and twisted around lampposts, a bouquet lining every street, she felt immensely out of place.
Surely what would be left after a few days are the same ugly, brown, dry husks, so the why, the why eludes her. So much trouble for something so fleeting.
She came here for one thing: the Guild.
A relatively new addition to Mondstadt, at long last. Took the Grandmaster forever to approve it, and luckily, its integration is going smoothly. Lenore, the Guild receptionist, has also been updated accordingly, able to react to new stimuli while keeping core functionality. All has gone well. And now, new problem.
Sandrone has nothing to do.
The foredoomed conclusion with the choice to leave the workshop.
...She could spend time with Signora. She did invite her here. Even if she is a bit of a bitch.
Evening began to set in, an orange and purple sky fit the festivities. Sandrone walked the streets in the hopes that a giantess like Signora would stick out like a Gardemek, perhaps busying herself with... whatever she would do. Eat? Drink? Buy flowers? What would Signora do? What do humans do at a celebration?
Either way, no luck.
"Hey-lo, miss!" Speaking of no luck. Some scrappy, red-faced teen with a mop of messy brown hair stumbled over to Sandrone. Notably, he was dressed in the armor of the Favonius Knights, but she couldn't decide if she should reject the notion, or if the Knights were that desperate. Though Sandrone couldn't smell the wine on his breath, but she's certain it was there.
He shambled to a stop and cleared his throat, "So, uhhh, ya come here often?"
...This kid is so far out of his depth, he'll probably drown. Not to say he hasn't tried.
Sandrone crossed her arms and remained stonefaced. His paper-thin confidence shivered in the wind. He attempted to blunder out more pointless gibberish about weather and food, like a sand castle desperately trying to hold on to its shape in the face of crashing waves. Time to end this. Her left eyebrow creeped steadily up. The silence was deafening, increasing in volume each centimeter it mounted.
The boy winced. His forehead glistening with sweat, as he cooked in his metal shell. He might faint! That would be a laugh.
When he dropped to one knee, she thought- hoped- it was her victory, before he opened his mouth again, very notably avoiding her gaze, "W-would a fair maiden, such as yourself, perhaps be interested" he when he produced a Cecilia with a flourish, "in a flower?"
He added in a small song at the end, "Please don't kick me in the balls~"
Damn, he can read minds.
Sandrone took a cursory glance over this whole scene. People of course were looking, amused, the bastards; but her attention was on a group of boyish faces peeking around a corner, snickering to themselves. Hm. I could embarrass the shit out of him.
"You make it a habit hitting on lesbians?"
That snapped him back to reality, "O-oh. My-my humblest apologies! I had no idea. I shall, excuse myself!" He turned to run back with his tail between his legs. At least he has the capability of shame.
"Hold it," Well, she might as well ask, "Are you really a Knight?"
Turning back, extracting the courage from his liquid, "Certainly I am!" He did the salute, in a vague meaning of the word: *did*, "Um... I hope you're not offended... I'd rather not get in trouble."
"...I may require your help. I'm looking for a woman. Blonde hair, probably the tallest person here."
His eyes flashed with recognition, "Ohhhh! That's why she kicked me in the balls!" ...Not going to dissect what that means, but it appears there are respectable parts of Signora's personality. "Yeah, I've seen your girl! Headed up to the Cathedral, I believe!"
"...Thanks," ...Perhaps she can afford a small kindness, "Before you go, I see your mates around the corner. Is that why you... did that?"
"Ahaha..." He scratched the back of his head, "you've caught me. We got a bit of a competition going of who can get the most flowers accepted," Didn't ask. "I must say, you've got a good eye!"
"Then," Sandrone plucked the flower from his fingers to his astonishment, "in return for the information, I'll spare your dignity, and your lineage. What say you?"
"Oh! Thank you, miss! I, Varka Copperspoon, am eternally grateful! Best of luck to you!"
She scoffed. Not sure what the luck was for, but, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, Go humiliate your mates."
"Oh, I will!" He vigorously rushed off.
Turns out Signora's destination wasn't the Cathedral, but the graveyard behind it. Should have expected such.
Annoying.
Sandrone found the giant woman, knelt in front of a monument to the lives lost in the Archon War. She didn't need to actually read the inscription to know that's what it was. Signora's world revolved around her past. Her lover and love lost. Grief. Completely unrelatable. The idea of love and being loved? Unfathomable. Hatred and scorn, yes, that's what's familiar. Love was never something meant for her.
Speaking of, "Leave, Marionette. I'm done with you. Go back to your little hole."
Theory proven. Still, offended, "What the fuck is this, Signora?"
"You ran off the second we arrived and have the gall to ask me that? I should have expected as much."
"Did I not make my primary goal clear when I accepted your invite?"
Signora brushed it off, "Tsk, you and this Guild and your little puppet. It could have waited until after Windblume was over!"
"The same Guild which is closed on holidays."
"Of course. Everything is completely logical for you. I wonder if you even have free will."
"Fuck you, Signora. If you have such a problem with my motives, why'd you even invite me?"
"Because! Out of everyone, you offend my senses the least. Obviously I made a mistake, thinking a hermit with the delicacy of a butcher would make good company. I should have left you in your workshop."
"Don't pretend you know me."
"Really? What is there to know that's not immediately obvious? You're so incredibly simple that it's sad."
"I'm sad? Look at yourself. You crossed the whole continent to spend a holiday in a graveyard."
A perfect bellow for the fire, "Leave! What could you possibly understand!? You barely have a life outside your workshop!"
Sandrone could have kept going. Trading barbs which evolve to blows. But, nothing more needed to be said. Why talk to a brick wall? No matter what Sandrone did, even if she acted with complete rationality, this was the effect. Sad? No, it stopped being sad a couple hundred years ago. Just a disappointing normalcy.
If Signora wanted to rot, let her.
She stormed past the great stained glass of the church. Couples annoyed her. Everything annoyed her. Even a bard clad in green, plucking his lyre, hazardously perched upon the railing that would send him plummeting thousands of meters to his death, was... incredibly tempting. He seemed engrossed in his world, but he called out, "Dear, I see troubles following you. At Windblume? That simply won't do!"
Sandrone felt a wave of exasperation, "Leave me alone."
He bowed exaggeratedly for the amount of peril he could be in, "I, Venti the bard, offer no song, only advice. Your spat was loud enough to wake Paradise!"
"I might murder you."
"Haa.. everyone's a critic." Venti hung his head low, before he hopped back to solid ground, "Freestyle then! I speak true, I might be able to help you! Oops, accidental rhyme. Ehe!"
He's like Columbina, she thought. Not even chucking him off the side could lift her spirits now, "Ugh, listen, I don't need help. Especially from an eavespeeper."
"Hm, well, around here, we more drop from eaves, rather than peep."
"How about you drop off a cliff?" She hoped her morbid energy would dissuade him, but he countered with an enthusiastic applause and a cheer for a good comeback. Exactly like Columbina. "Listen, you don't know her. She's impossible and just-"
"Your fair lady is not without her own reasons," Oh? "I detect, a great sadness. To her, Mondstadt, once so bright, is a dark wood. She is left grasping for familiarity, so she desired a companion to take this trek with her. To guide her if she were to become lost." He speaks as if... Hm.
"I hardly think that is the case... She said it herself. I'm just the most convenient option."
"A gentle flower can hide in a knot of briars, but it can not grow beyond it without hurting itself."
"Gentle? Pft, hardly. Are you telling me it's supposed to be my fault, then? That no one wants to be straightforward with me? That I have to fucking guess!?"
He shook his head, "No, no. Nor is it her fault. Fault is never so easily placed. You didn't know because she didn't tell you. She didn't tell you because it hurt to do so. A miscommunication is easy, in these circumstances."
"Well. What am I supposed to do, 'in these circumstances'?"
Venti hummed, dragged his fingers across his lyre, "Trust she chose you for a reason! I'm sure you can find your way!" He giggled childishly, "It is never too late."
Sandrone tightened her gloves. "My way is- isn't a way anyone would want."
"Come on! Come on!" looping her arm with his, "Have faith! It's Windblume! A time of charity and connection! And love for those who seek it!" he added with a wink.
Love, huh? She could have not moved to his urging and sent his ass to the cobble. She's 150 kilograms of metal. Not much he could have done, so let it be known she decided to go along for now.
There is, of course, the elephant in the room as they walked.
"Why do you want to help her, Barbatos? She probably will never forgive you."
It was an easy thing to deduce, but he took it in stride. Probably because he wasn't trying to hide it, "Ehe~ I know~ but I still consider her one of my people! It's not the way the Fatui does things, nor the way the Tsaritsa likes it, but I've always done things my own way. I think you might feel the same."
Heh, must be nice being free. "And me? Why help me?"
"Can't I want to help others?" the god pouted, "Although, if you want, you can consider it thanks for the Guild!"
Sandrone was surprised, "You don't mind?"
"Nope! I think it's a good thing! Gives a new voice to the choir, pardon the irony. One that doesn't have to choose between Knight or clergy. How could I say no to more choices! I am the god of freedom, after all."
"Huh. You're... not detestable."
"Thanks!" They stopped right before the cemetery. "Welp, this is my stop. Probably unwise for me to go any further. Whatever you choose, from here on, the stage is all yours! Best of luck!"
She turned around, but he completely vanished. The embodiment of a whirlwind, truly. He lives up to his name.
She looked back to that distant figure. Alone, so utterly desolate, while far-off laughter reached her ears. It... made her angry, but not in a way that exploded outwards. Anger that sunk inwards to ignite some corner of her heart not yet abandoned. Fuel for an engine. A demand for action.
Is she really doing this? Gods, she's really doing this.
She stomped up as crude as the young Knight was. "Hey. Get up."
"What the hell are you doing, Marionette? Did I not make myself clear?"
"Oh, you did. In your words, you made a mistake. Dragged me across the world, so you can be miserable and alone in a graveyard? That pisses me off and I won't abide it."
"What makes you think I care what you think?"
"I fucked up, and I'm sorry. Do you care now?" Signora grew silent as the tombstones she surrounded herself with, "I... gained some perspective. You wanted a companion? Here I am. I would have preferred if you directly communicated your apprehension."
"I am not some child that needs a chaperone."
"...but that would require vulnerability. So, come on. We'll go celebrate Windblume."
"You honestly think I'm going to celebrate Windblume with someone like you? These rocks are better companions than you ever could be."
Remember the flower, Sandrone. Remember the flower. Wait... there is a literal flower. Maybe... it's what she needs.
"Fine. If you want to stay here, I can't stop you. But, I got you something. Here." Sandrone extended the Cecilia.
To say it melted the icy barrier would be an understatement. It completely shut Signora down. She spent a good minute gawking at the Cecilia. Could a flower really be this significant? Her face was completely red, but that could just be the light of the setting sun. She stuttered to life"You! You can't just-! I can't believe you! Oh Tsaritsa, why- You have no idea what that means, do you?! Of all the things... Give me that!" She snatched the flower from a bewildered Sandrone, "I can't believe you... presenting me with a Windblume. You thoughtless, hopeless, moronic machine!"
Sandrone managed to recover enough to ask, "Mind tell me what all this is about?"
Signora scoffed, but got to her feet, Cecilia in hand, "You really are hopeless... Fine! We'll go! But you follow me! I'm not going to be lead around my birth nation by someone the size of a child!"
...Did that really just work? Hard to tell. She didn't throw it away, so... Filing under technical success.
The skies had darkened significantly. To think that girl would offer a Windblume to her. Signora knows she was completely ignorant to the meaning of a Cecilia offered on this day. Remembering that drunken infant, maybe everyone forgot. Maybe... the meaning of true love has been lost to history and time. It would be incredibly fitting, for someone like her... She cast a glance over her shoulder. She was still there, catching up to her like an obedient, little puppet. Good.
Signora almost wished she took her hand when it was offered. Just so she wouldn't lose her. Instead, her grip tightened on the flower she held close to her chest. Delicate petals caressing her heart. Stupid doll.
Upon their arrival to the festival, a transformation had occurred. The cobblestone streets glowed with ambient firelight from homesteads and taverns. A time of jaunty tunes and clumsy dances. It had all the makings of a beautiful dream she had not dreamed for a long time. She smelled the fragrance of the season of Highbloom mixed with the pungency of wine. Watching people in the armour of the Knights of Favonius run about brought light into her soul. It was nice to see that tiny sect Rostam dedicated himself to gaining popularity.
She stood there in a trance. How long had it been since she'd last visited? She just graduated and returned home in time for the festivities. Tears pricked at her eyes. Home. Yes, home. How many years had she been in the Akademiya? 5? 10? %)()? She had longed for home... The Lohefalter Estate was one version of the word, but Mondstadt. Mondstadt was home. Rostam, he would love to hear about her theorems, the friends she made. Her mind thought back to her friends, A...Abdul was one... there was Jo... sephine... Callisto... why... were they so hazy? She just left, didn't she?
"So... I was a better choice than even Capitano?" A voice said. Her smile dimmed somewhat. Capitano was a familiar name... but why?
A tiny hand gripped hers. She expected a child, but instead... it was a doll. A doll... why... was a doll looking at her? There was... never a doll before. Before?
This doll spoke, "Signora, are you okay?"
A wave of sickness came with that name. Signora. A bur digging into her skin, though she doesn't know why, "Why... you have the wrong person. My name is Rosalyne." The doll's expression morphed into alarm. Rosalyne felt panic well up, "Why did you call me that?"
"...Right, how about we sit?" the doll ushered her to an isolated seat, "I... figured you wouldn't be pleased with me using your name... So, I defaulted to a Remurian greeting," Ah, how quaint. A Remurian, of course. Rosalyne's breathing slowed, "Donna Lohefalter, is... there anything I can do for you?"
She chuckled, "Oh please! You can just call me Rosalyne. And yes... is Rostam coming?"
"...Yes... he went to your estate. He'll be returning soon."
"You know him?!" she exclaimed.
The puppet girl nodded, "Yes, I had met him earlier."
"I just missed him, didn't I?"
"...Indeed. Would you like to return to your room to rest?"
"No! I will wait for him. He'll return soon enough. I can have dinner while I wait. Can I ask, have you ever had a Barbatos Ratatouille?"
"Afraid not. I don't... step outside much. Something I'm trying to change, if a little."
Rosalyne's eye twinkled, "Don't tell me! This, perchance, wouldn't be your first Windblume, would it?"
"I must affirm you are correct."
"A shame, then! Are you alone, little doll?"
The girl made a face, "...No, I'm with you."
"What?" She was caught off-guard before understanding her meaning, "Oh! Haha! You meant literally." This girl says the stupidest things sometimes. Wait, no. That's cruel. Why did she think that? "Ahem, well, I wouldn't mind your company. Tell me if you have any questions."
"Any?" Rosalyne nodded, "...Well... What's the significance with flowers?"
"...Excuse me?"
"Flowers... seem to be important," gesturing at the flowers hanging from the buildings, but more looking at the Cecilia Rosalyne had in her hand, "But the meaning of it all is lost on me. What... point is there to care about something that won't last?"
"I'm sure the Electro Archon would envy such a deep question," Rosalyne joked, but she seriously thought about the question. After pondering for some minutes, she finally said, "I don't believe I can give you a satisfactory answer."
"Why not?" she grumbled, disappointed.
"You asked for a definitive meaning of flowers, but unfortunately that's not how it works. It all depends on perspective. From your perspective, they are meaningless. They will be around for a short time, and then they will turn to ash," she swallowed dryly. "From mine, they are... precious mementos. Something to remember. But each person will have a different view. But if you're curious," she stretched her arms out wide, "all of Mondstadt sees this as the celebration of Windblume."
"A time of connection..." Her eyes lit up with understanding, "I see... I see! The flowers represent one's self, and they loop the stems in garlands as a show of interconnectedness! And so, the giving of flowers means you give yourself to the recipient!"
Rosalyne laughed at her companion's sudden animation made for an adorably earnest display. "Hahaha, I'd say you'd got the right of it."
She sat at the table, steepling her fingers, beaming to herself at her great triumph of new insight, "Fascinating! Terribly fascinating. What then of individual flowers? Assumedly giving a particular one invokes a specific feeling."
"You're correct again. Varies from person to person, naturally."
Her eyes fell to the flower in Rosalyne's hand, "...What about the Cecilia? What does it mean to you?"
Twirling the flower inbetween her fingertips, a warm smile spread across her face. "Love," she said, "of the deepest quality. Love, everlasting."
When she looked up again, the puppet girl seemed to take a profound interest in the cobblestones. It's adorable how quickly things take her interest.
"Excuse me, ladies," A young lad, with Barbatos braids and a green cape that swayed in the wind, approached them. Rosalyne... knows him, doesn't she? A bard, for certain... And yet, something felt wrong. There was an itch at the back of her mind. He spoke again, "I apologise for my wandering ear, but searching for ratatouille I couldn't help but overhear."
"Ugh," the doll made a disgusted sound, "I'm in a good mood, so cut the limericks."
"Ehe~ Just for you, I shall make it quick! I came to give you that dish you so desperately craved. The very last of the day, so I hope you have a wonderful Windblume~!"
Rosalyne stared at the wonderous craftsmanship of steaming bowl of chowder with a surprising amount of nostalgia. It felt like it had been so long. Was her scholarship truly so intensive to invoke this tightening of her heart? She called after him to thank him for the meal, but he was already gone, quick as the wind.
Sandrone wandered off to some stalls, likely for souvenirs, while Rosalyne finished her refreshing meal. Once the bowl was empty, the girl returned and flipped open a golden pocketwatch. "It has gotten late," she said, "Rest does not concern me, but how about you? What will you do?"
"I'm still waiting for Rostam. He'll come."
Her companion hesitated, "Is it worth it? Is he worth waiting for upon this night, when you can see him tomorrow?"
"He'll come," Rosalyne repeated. "We can explore Mondstadt more, if you'd like. We... We are too late to partake in any of the activities," that seemed to make Sandrone shift guiltily, "but I could show you around to music stores. Musical instruments is a cornerstone of Mondstadt culture!"
"Fair enough, lead the way."
With that, the duo entered one such store, rows and rows of violins, violas, and cellos. A smaller selection of woodwinds covered the back wall along with an odd mix of a piano and a bellow-like thing Rosalyne had never seen before.
"It's odd," Sandrone began.
"What is? You can't understand the concept of music?" Rosalyne shocked herself with the bite she casually lobbed at the girl, "I'm... sorry. That just came out."
"Hmph. It's fine, you jackass. I was merely remarking, it's ironic the city of wind's main instrument is strings. You'd expect woodwinds, wouldn't you?"
"Afraid Mondstadt's not that cliché. Mondstadt has always had a rich history with string instruments. You've certainly heard of the town of Luthier, right? Practically the musical center of the world. I got my..." she strained for a second, "viola from there. An Amati, I believe. I can hardly remember now, but it was a gift from my father for me to play when I was little," Her smile turned rueful, "Forced to play, really." She shook her head to dispel the gathering fog in her brain, "Do you play an instrument?"
There was a long pause, before she answered, "Accordion." Rosalyne drew a blank for what that was, so she followed Sandrone's finger to the unidentified instrument from before. Heh, it suited her perfectly.
"We don't serve aristocrats here." The gruff voice of the shopkeeper was like a slap in the face. Even if the comment wasn't meant for her. "Especially not a Lawrence." He instead was speaking to another patron, disgust clear from his voice.
The blue-haired man raised his voice in protest, and Rosalyne wanted to as well, it was hardly fair. She didn't understand why it was happening, but a ball-jointed hand grabbed hers, "Come on, Let's get out of here."
"Hey! What is that about!?" she shouted, being forcefully ushered out of the door by the doll's surprising strength.
"Don't get involved," she ordered.
"What! What's going on? Why was-"
"Don't get involved."
Rosalyne wiggled out of her grasp and stomped her foot, "I demand to know what's going on! You're acting strange all of a sudden."
Sandrone halted, clearly irritated and struggling to phrase what came next. "As a Lohefalter, it will come as a shock to you, the aristocracy is not as beloved as it once was."
Sandrone was right, Rosalyne was stunned. "Are you saying... I'm not welcome?"
"No. I'm not. Your god is the god of freedom after all. It is simply... the will of the people."
"That... doesn't make any sense. This isn't right. How did this happen?"
"You've been away for a while. And well, Fontaine's hardly spreads any optimism."
"But this is Windblume! This is Mondstadt! Why would anyone hate aristocrats? Are you telling me House Gunnhildr has fallen? House Ragnvindr? They're protected Mondstadt from centuries! My family served Mondstadt for centuries! It doesn't make any sense."
She clearly hesitated, "Things... have changed."
Change.
Unstoppable, ruinous change.
A splitting headache came on. The world blurred beneath her feet and she stumbled. At least Sandrone was there to steady her. "I think... I need to sit down."
Rosalyne collapsed on a bench out of the way from the rambunctious crowds. Things were wrong. She could not deny it anymore. Favonius were on every street corner, and while the fact might have made her prideful before, she could now see something lacked in comparison. Rosalyne hadn't seen a single insignia of any of the clans of the Four Winds, let alone a member. That was another thing. There was... no one she recognised in the crowd. Mondstadt gets busy, but she at least she would have bumped into someone she knew. But there was no one. As if they were plucked from existance.
The mental map of Mondstadt feels jumbled in her head. Stores aren't where they should be. Buildings aren't where they should be. Nausea swirled in her stomach and dread crept over her skin.
Terribly wrong. All of it wasn't right.
Sandrone stood level with her, "You look unwell," she observed, "We should go back to the hotel."
Rosalyne... couldn't give up yet. If she did... she weakly shook her head, "No, I... I need to wait for him. He'll find me soon enough."
"Why?"
Such a simple, earnest question threatened to unmake Rosalyne. "I... I have this feeling," her voice trembled and cracked, "should I leave, should I not wait for him, he'll be gone. I'll never see him again," she suddenly gave a low chuckle "It's silly, isn't it? And yet, it feels... too real. He'll come, won't he?"
She had hoped for Sandrone to laugh with her, or even at her, but silence pressed the moment, amplifying all her fears.
"Oui, he'll come," she said at last. Rosalyne could tell it was a lie. "I picked up something for you earlier," trying to change the subject, she produced a cloth that looked something like butterfly wings, "It's a hair-tie infused with anemo crystals, so it's unburdened by gravity."
"You got this for me?" Rosalyne was touched.
"Yes... I suppose, where you find meaning in flowers, I find meaning in cloth, accessories, gifts of a sort, et cetera," she resumed after a pause, "Don't... look too deeply. It's hardly the same as a Cecilia. May I?" Rosalyne consented, nimble doll fingers wrapping it onto a thick strand of hair.
"How do I look?"
"It looks good on you."
"Do you have a mirror? I'd like to see it."
Sandrone pursed her lips worryingly, "I'm not sure if that's a good idea."
Rosalyne blinked, and then laughed, with perhaps more apprehension than she should have, "What? Am I hideous or something?"
Sandrone stilled, and got serious in that most endearing way, "Never. You're beautiful."
Not sure why Rosalyne's heart felt warm at that confession. "Please let me see."
She could see the battle on Sandrone's face, but she didn't know why. Eventually she relented. "...So be it," she said. Her movements were laced with hesitation as she produced a pocket mirror and handed in to her.
For a moment, she felt it. The weight of the mirror multiplied tenfold. The simple act of opening this mirror will unleash untold horror. The world will change irreversibly.
But she must. She must know, like always.
She opened it, and--
O-oh...
Oh Barbatos, save me.
Her face...
Her hand covered her gaping mouth.
Horror shone in her single eye. She hadn't even realised...
Her... Her eye... her face... What happened to her face!?
Her fingers touched the scar hidden by her hair. The leathery patch of ruddy, red and black skin extended deeper down the side of her face. She could feel the bumps and grooves of the damage. The sharp, exposed white island of cheekbone. But yet, she could not feel those exploratory fingers. The right side of her face was a dead zone. Was... she no better than a walking corpse?!
Yes.
Memories came flooding back. Death and despair. Maggots swarming a battlefield of corpses. Hideous. Abominable. Fire cleansed the rot, the maggots, the wood, the violence, the war, the past, the present, the future.
Rosalyne was burned.
The experience of remembering came flooding back. Thousands and thousands and thousands of times. To forget and remember in an endless cycle. Too late to stop anything. Everything burned. Everything kindling to The All-Consuming.
Home was gone. She remembered what it was like to have her eye boil inside her skull. Pop! It went. Bursting into tears of magma that claimed the right side of her face. She wailed, choking on air like it was smoke, feeling the fire within flare up. That Flame of ruinous change.
Perhaps this time, the witch will be put to the stake, as Mondstadt custom dictates.
But then, a cool gem was pushed into her palm. No, not cool. Cold. Blisteringly cold. A numbness that bit into her flesh, that could blacken fingers. The essence of an infinite winter.
It was held close to her chest. Her lungs cleared, finally breathing the crisp night air. The heat receded. If only she could freeze her heart. If only the cold could heal the heartbreak. The truth.
Rostam is not coming.
She hunched over, on the border of hyperventilation, and groaned, "...Sandrone..."
She felt that hand touch her shoulder. "...Are you back?" How dare she be so gentle.
Signora breathed out a cold, quiet laugh, "Disappointed?" Breathing felt hard, "I'd... like to return to my room. Help me."
Sandrone thankfully added no commentary as the duo returned to the hotel where she was staying. A room as lavish as she deserves. The room not of a local, but a diplomatic suite. She collapsed upon the extra large bed; complete with silk sheets, goose-down pillows, small luxuries to cocoon herself in. Yet, it felt miserable.
She dramatically laid her arm across her face, "That was mortifying. Don't you dare mention to anyone."
"You do know literally everyone knows about your memory issues, right?" Sandrone unhelpfully added.
She snapped back, "Well, I'd rather they not!"
Sandrone spoke at last, "I'll leave you be." Wait. No!
"Wait!" Shit, what am I doing? Signora caught her before she left, "Don't you dare leave!"
"What? That a command? You still have memory problems? I'm above you, and you should stay where you belong. Beneath me."
GHFKH THAT WORDING! "Good GODS! Don't say that!" This dumb little engineer, nothing but bolts for brains. Rosalyne didn't mind the idea though Gods, I hate her. By the Tsaritsa, I hate her. ...But by the Tsaritsa, I can't let her go.
Rosalyne buried her face in her hands, "Listen, I'll... do whatever you want. Just... don't leave."
Sandrone stood at the open door, "...Anything?"
Signora tutted, "Well, if you say it like that, you're going to make me regret it. But yes, whatever, anything. I don't care."
The door closed. Signora couldn't suppress a tinge of fear that she left again, until her voice rang clear. "...Fine. I'll hear you out. But I hope you're not expecting sex. I can't exactly... do that."
Despite herself, she blushed, "Of course not! I'm surprised you even know what sex is! I... merely..." ughhh, damn it, why won't the words come!
"Surprised you're lost on words."
"Do you have to have a quip for everything? You didn't when we- when I... wasn't myself..."
She sighed in that annoying way, "That's because I was talking the situation seriously. But now you're back to your old self, complete with flippant comments and-"
"I don't want to be my old self! I don't like being like this! I never asked to relive the worst moments of my life! To think I have my old happy life, and watch it turn to ash in hands! I feel like I'm going mad!" Signora, face contorted in rage, felt as boiling hot tears trailed down. Rosalyne began to cry.
Sandrone looked off to a wall, calculating a solution. Well... not like she can make this any worse. Or maybe she could. It is a skill of hers. She approached and sat beside her fellow Harbinger. "Hey," she spoke softly, "I have a compromise."
She looked at the carpet, but could see Signora shift out of the corner of her vision, a little cue that she was paying attention. "I will hear you out. And I'll return what you give me. Dismiss me, insult me, be a massive bitch, then I will do the same. But if you try to be vulnerable, no bullshit; then... I promise to meet you halfway. Does that sound amenable?"
"...I hate that you're the mature one."
"Shall I trade barbs with you then?"
"...No." Signora stood up, before stepping into the bathroom, "I need a moment."
Signora stood in front of the mirror, her hand tracing the ruined part of her face. The inalterable change. Scarred, malignant flesh. The Truth of what happened. The Mark of the Crimson Witch.
But her eye locked on to something else. That little red ribbon tied in her hair by an odd, little doll. She brushed it gently, as if it was a butterfly perched in her hair. She didn't realise she was smiling. Sandrone is gruff and blunt, but this... spoke of a gentler nature.
It was quite nice.
She exited now only in a simple, flowing, white silk gown, as well as the red ribbon in her hair. Her treacherous heart sighed in relief that Sandrone was still there.
Signora laid down on the bed, though she felt far from restful. Sandrone was at the foot of the bed, posed like the Nightmare, a ghoul of Mondstadtian lore, a harbinger of restless dreams. Fitting. The very idea of sharing her feelings put a tension in the air. Sandrone probably didn't notice a thi-
"You don't have to talk to me." Oh no, she can read minds. She turned around from her spot, the glow of candlelight illuminated her features quite beautifully,
"Like I said, I'll return what you give me. Silence is valid. ...If incredibly dull."
Signora did not speak for several minutes, boring a hole into the ceiling as the candles dripped their wax sweat. The sounds outside were growing quieter, the parties of drunkard jubilation were beginning to slump into slumber.
Quieter still was their room. Sandrone, true to her word, said nothing. Unmoving, better than any statue. Crossed arms and closed eyes. A heart that did not beat. Still as the vestiges of old Mondstadt. And yet, she wished to stir it.
"I..." Sandrone's eyelids fluttered open as Signora bit her bottom lip, "I'm not sure where to begin."
After a minute of thought, "Try your reasons for coming to Windblume."
"I have no answer. It was a foolish idea from the very beginning."
"Okay. Try again. This time without self-flagellation."
"...The Tsaritsa's plan will soon be set in motion. The old world will be burned away like she promised. This trip was just a fleeting fancy, that's all."
She sighed, "You know I don't buy that, right?"
"That so? Then how about you tell me what you think my reasons are."
"I feel like that defeats the purpose of this."
"...Fine. I... wanted to see Mondstadt again. Not as La Signora, not as the diplomat, but just as myself." She ignored the look from the fact they're in a diplomatic suite, "I won't get many chances left to see it. And... I don't know how I feel about that. Windblume feels like it hasn't changed, and yet everything has."
"You wanted to be Rosalyne again."
Signora's breath caught in her throat. N-no... she threw that name away. She threw that identity away. Rosalyne, the kind, foolish, academic girl was burned at the stake. Rendered to ashes. Cremated. The wind did not catch her, but the cold hands of a queen of snow did. When she gave her a second chance, gave her a new name, how could she refuse? Signora was her name. The cold urn that could hold the dying embers of a long dead girl. Denial yet died on her lips. Why? Why does she yearn for a ghost? Why did the embers refuse to die?
"I hate it." she gritted her teeth, "I hate this. I hate my body. I hate not being able to remember my life. Literal centuries, Sandrone. Literal fucking centuries I can't recall for the life of me!" She clasped onto her arms, suddenly feeling a sickly chill, "The worst part is, I fear everything I forgot is all the better for it. It's better to not remember. How horrible I've become. How horrible I must continue to be." Her wretched sadness threatened to spill out. "Tell me, Sandrone. Is this what I have to be?"
The doll girl by her bed left a poignant silence. Signora could feel a porcelain hand brush against her knuckles. Shivers went down her body. From the cold? From fear? She couldn't tell. Signora instinctively twitched to bat the hand away. This time, Rosalyne caught it. "I..." she began.
"If I'm honest," Sandrone interrupted, "as Harbingers, we don't have a choice in what we become," despite her words, she still held that hand, "I won't lie. Your dilemma is alien to me. I haven't dealt with amnesia or split between personalities. All I was before Sandrone was a nameless puppet. Sandrone has always been who I am."
"It must be nice. To not change." Sandrone's eyebrow twitched.
"But. Maybe, if you're unhappy, you can try. To be different. To be someone you like to be."
"Even if it's against the Tsaritsa's will?" she whispered, the sugar of blasphemy on her lips.
Sandrone scoffed, "You think I care what she wants me to be?"
Against her will, a smile bloomed on her face, "You know, I've always hated your free spirit. Or, I guess, truthfully, envied. You. Dottore, The Knave, Pantalone, Capitano, you all build things. You bring progress, and I... all Signora does is be the diplomat."
"Diplomacy is important."
"You think I don't know that? But... my role can be filled by others. I have a diploma from the Akademiya! I'd at least like to use it."
Sandrone hummed. Rosalyne tugged on Sandrone's arm, "Could you..." her cheeks burned with what she was about to say next, "Could you lay with me? Literally," she quickly added to not be suggestive.
"Are you sure about that?"
"Aren't you the one who flaunting that I belong beneath you!?"
For a rare moment, her mouth hung open, "I... am beginning to understand... my words were not... perfectly said." Her awkwardness was adorable, of course, she would never- "Fine."
Signora's eye bulged, "You'll... seriously indulge me?"
"Was it made in jest?" Signora- Rosalyne shook her head, perhaps a bit too earnestly, "Then, I'll indulge you. For tonight."
It was an awkward arrangement. Sandrone was obviously unaccustomed to her physical presence being desired. Yet, per Rosalyne's request, Sandrone slowly lowered on top of her body, the weight of a person. A truly addicting feeling. Ohhh, liquid flame could never burn as hot as her face was right now.
"The noises you're making are too erotic for this situation."
Embarrassment burned hot when she realised it wasn't just the bed groaning. "Sh-shut up! Don't ruin this for me." She captured her little doll in her embrace. Burying her nose in the crook of her mechanical neck. Her perfect little doll.
"You're right." Rosalyne whispered in her ear, "I want to be her again." she breathed in, "Could you... indulge me? Call me by my name."
"Rosalyne."
Her heart fluttered, "Again."
"Rosalyne."
"Yes."
"Ro- Sa- Lyne."
Okay, now, she was going too far. The noise Rosalyne made doesn't need to be mentioned. Nor does the fact this is unexpectantly doing something for her. Sandrone gave a low, mischievous laugh. She... honestly could have never expected the solitary hermit of the Harbingers to make such a noise. Enjoying how she could cause Rosalyne to melt. ...Is it bad Rosalyne allowed it? That if Sandrone wanted to take control, Rosalyne would relinquish it readily? She dare not say.
Certain events may or may not have happened afterward. Hardly important.
But, as Rosalyne cuddled Sandrone, a burning question bubbled up from within.
"Do you think I'll be forgotten?"
"What?" It caught her companion off-guard.
"Do you think I'll be forgotten?" repeated Rosalyne. Briars choked her heart, "No one... remembers Rostam. It was He who created the Favonius techniques, but... but no one remembers him. No one remembers the Boreal Knights, the Wingguard, the Paladins, all of them! ...are gone. Everyone I- from my time are gone. And, I'm scared... I'm scared, Sandrone, that I'm one of the few left, and... I worry I'm next."
"I think that's a very silly thing to be afraid of." Before she could offer obstinate objections, Sandrone cupped her cheek, a touch Rosalyne couldn't help be lean into, and she continued, "You've lived for, what, 500 years? You've been one of the longest lived Harbingers, and you'll live longer yet. I doubt anyone could forget you."
"Maybe. But... they might forget Rosalyne. Even I might forget her..."
Sandrone affixed her with a level, deathly serious gaze of cerulean blue and a promise.
"I won't forget Rosalyne."
Such a promise could flood a heart with love. For indeed, that's what it did. Could she blurt out a proclamation of love? She bit her tongue. No, never. Instead, she wrapped her arms around Sandrone and hugged her as tight as she could.
"Sandrone," the girl hummed in response, "Come with me. To future Windblumes."
Her expression twitched, "I wouldn't be opposed... the Guild would require my attention, but... are you sure that's a good idea, after today?"
"Yes... it would be. To be honest, I wouldn't mind... forgetting, every once in a while. Forgetting Signora. And as long as I have you by my side, it'll be fine. Even if I lose my memories, perhaps I'll remember you."
"Sounds painfully optimistic. And deeply unhealthy."
"It is."
...
"Don't know what to say to that. It's not like you'll never be happy again unless you keep reliving your past," Rosalyne kept quiet, making Sandrone sigh in her cute little mimicry of humans, "...Fine. I'll do it. Today wasn't... bad, by any means. Know that I'm a poor excuse for a caretaker though."
She laughed airily, "Such a distasteful doll," she peppered her with unfelt kisses, "I'm hardly helpless."
"Indeed, I'd need to protect them from you."
"Oh? I see how it is," she teased, "Never took you as a protector of Mondstadt."
"You mock," Sandrone grumbled.
"You are easy to mock," Rosalyne giggled, gliding her hands along the doll's back. Little affectionate gestures she would never feel, never know. Affections to keep secret.