Work Text:
(I)
The first time Sandrone discovers Columbina in her bedroom—more precisely, in her bed—it is three in the morning on the one hundred and seventeenth day since they met, the forty-third day after she helps Columbina with her reimbursement issue, and the second Saturday after Columbina crashes her tea party without invitation.
She remembers the dates so precisely not because she particularly values them, but because when her logic module begins to calculate the answer to the question "Has their relationship really become this familiar?" it automatically retrieves these data points as the basis for judgment.
As a puppet with high computational power, remembering such data is so easy, as effortless as breathing for a human.
The conclusion is obvious: they are not particularly close.
They have eaten together twice, greeted each other three times in meetings, and even counting that tea party, their personal interactions are still pitifully few. Her knowledge of Columbina is only the song that drifts into her ears when she passes by the garden occasionally.
The song is ethereal, like moonlight filtering through the gaps in clouds to scatter upon the earth. It is beautiful, but so what? Sandrone is not a music connoisseur, she will not develop any affection for that Moon Goddess merely because of a beautiful voice, especially after hearing that she is collaborating with Dottore, the lunatic.
They are merely colleagues who met recently and don't know much about each other. She has no interest in this colleague, nor has she extended any invitation. Therefore, she classifies Columbina's appearance in her bed as an intrusion and gives Pulonia an unambiguous command: "Get this inexplicable creature out."
The next moment, the Third of Fatui Harbingers, along with the blanket over her and the sheet beneath her, is grabbed and thrown out of the window.
The Seventh of Fatui Harbingers, "Marionette" never showed any mercy toward intruders. After Pulonia remakes the bed, she immediately gets in, activates her sleep mode, and dismisses the entire episode from her mind.
She figures it is probably just an accident, a prank, or whatever one might call it. In her view, the newly arrived Third one, "Damselette", is a strange creature—without any basic knowledge of human society, incapable of even handling a payment, wandering around idly all day doing nothing productive. She seems less like a deity and more like a wild animal raised in the forest. So nothing she did could be considered surprising.
Most likely, she has been strolling outside her room, grown tired, spotted a bed inside, and simply lain down.
Such behavior would be utterly preposterous for anyone else, but for Columbina— Well, it is hardly surprising!
(II)
Sandrone thinks that after this violent expulsion, Columbina will learn how to be polite. But before a month passes, she finds this troublesome colleague in her bed once more.
Columbina lies on her side on the bed, but she is not asleep—instead, she is squirming about in a rather comical posture. She seems to be trying to turn over, but hindered by the key Sandrone installed on her back a few days before.
At the time, Columbina had been following her for seven days. Around the garden, along the corridor outside the meeting room, at the corners of the training ground—Sandrone could always catch a glimpse of that unhurried white figure, like a cloud drifting on the wind. She had reached her limit and she nearly orders Prugina to switch to combat mode, ready to fight this deity whose mind seems filled with who-knows-what, when she confronted Columbina with the harshest wording, demanding why she kept following her. The answer she received was that the woman was simply curious about her key.
"Does the key on your back ever stop moving? Does it change direction? When you sleep, do you remove it? How do you turn over?"
Questions flow out like water. Columbina's eyes are closed, yet Sandrone can still feel the inquisitive gaze hidden behind her blindfold.
The questions regarding her own construction are overly intrusive, and She should be furious. But as her gaze lingers briefly on the small wings behind the other's head which are fluttering gently, the anger about to burst forth suddenly dissipates in an instant.
The moonlight is clear as water, devoid of any ill intent.
Suddenly, she remembers the distant past, when she had just learned to think, and how she had thrown endless "whys" at her own creator.
What would Alain have said? Her thoughts drift for a moment, and she seems to see the path lined with blooming flowers at the foot of Mont Esus, the sunlight warm and the breeze gentle, Alain had shown her two types of energy mediums—yellow and blue—explaining why the clockwork could turn without ever stopping.
But she quickly pulls herself from the overly quiet memories, a mocking smile tugging at her lips. "If you are that curious," she says, "Why don't I put one on your back, and you can see for yourself?"
Among the Harbingers, there are immortal human, fairy, and that disgusting creature who has sliced himself into thousands of pieces. She does not know if Columbina feels the same curiosity about her other colleagues, nor does she care to ask. she just wants to be rid of this hot potato as quickly as possible. Before sunset, she puts a key on Columbina's back, then tells her to "go wherever you want, just do not bother me."
The key is welded onto a metal belt and fixed with hinges—heavy, very heavy, heavy enough to send a bird flying straight down into the water. Sandrone deliberately made it heavier as payback for Columbina's previous intrusions. She assumes that once the ever-unrestrained Moon Goddess finds it inconvenient, she will simply undo the belt buckle and put an end to this harmless joke. But Columbina goes on living with the key for several days. Even though her steps lose their former lightness, even though she has to keep her back straight whenever she sits down, even though turning over in bed becomes a struggle.
Now she curls up on Sandrone's bed like a boiled shrimp, using her arms and elbows to push, turning the sheets into a wrinkled mess, but still failing to turn over. The heavy key presses against her back like a stubborn shackle, trapping her in the awkward halfway position of a half-completed turn.
Finally, she furrows her brow, pouts, puts on a pitiful expression, and lets out a soft sigh.
"Pfft!" Sandrone laughs, almost forgetting that her bed has been occupied. "You—if it's that uncomfortable, just take it off."
"But I want to experience more of Sandrone's life." Columbina raises her face, her closed eyes turned toward Sandrone. Her voice is very soft, but every word is steady—not a joke, but a serious response.
"Huh? What's there to experience?" The unexpected answer leaves Sandrone momentarily stunned.
Her counter-question seems to stump Columbina. The lunar maiden tilts her head and falls silent for a long time, so long it seems as if she is fishing for a drifting thread in a sea of chaotic thoughts. Finally, she speaks, her voice drifting, carrying a hint of uncertain hesitation: "Perhaps... because your colors are so bright? it's warm..."
Now Sandrone truly doesn't understand. But she doesn't dwell on it，the Moon Goddess is always like this, forever airy, forever muttering incomprehensible things under her breath.
"I don't know what you're talking about. But I need to rest, so leave. Please. You can leave this key on my workbench, I'll deal with it later." She unceremoniously pulls Columbina up from the bed, removes the heavy key, and stuffs it into Columbina's arms. Then she gestures toward the door with a "please."
"Can I rest here?" Columbina asks, her gaze fixed on the bed, a faint trace of reluctance seeping into her otherwise calm voice.
"Of course not. This is my room, my bed." Seeing that Columbina isn't moving, Sandrone raises hands and pushes her out the door and warning: "If I catch you in my room without permission again, I will pluck every feather off your head."
Harbinger are ranked by force, and there is a insurmountable gap lies between the Seventh and the Third. Moreover, the Seventh's power resides entirely in Pulonia, her own strength is no different from an ant's in the eyes of a Goddess. Yet Columbina does not struggle, she simply follows the puppet girl's shoving with compliant steps, ambling slowly to the door.
Just as she is about to leave, she seems to remember something and turns back. The light from the corridor falls upon her, stretching a long shadow behind her. She seems to be smiling—not her usual mask-like smile, but with her lips genuinely curving upward, her voice infused with a gentle warmth: "Sandrone, you should smile more. I think you'd look beautiful when you smile."
Confusion flickers once more in Sandrone's eyes. She opens her mouth, wanting to ask, "Can't you even see?" and also wanting to snap, "mind your own business!" But in the end, she says nothing. She simply closes the door—or rather, slams it shut right in front of Columbina's nose.
After the footsteps fade away, she touches her own lips and mutters at the door: "Ridiculous."
(III)
There is an old saying in Liyue: once it happens once, it will happen twice, and twice, thrice.
By the time Sandrone discovers Columbina in her bed for the third time, she finds herself thinking, "I knew it."
It is a warm afternoon. She hasn't come to sleep, but has realized one of her notebooks is missing and has gone to look for it in the bedroom, then she catches the moment Columbina lifts the cover and slip in.
Perhaps it is because Columbina keeps crashing her tea parties, so they have gradually become somewhat familiar with each other; or perhaps because Columbina is always singing near her workshop, day and night, raising her tolerance threshold; or perhaps because she has just finished maintenance, and the sunlight outside is perfect, putting her in a good mood. For the first time, she does not immediately throw the uninvited guest out. Instead, she asks patiently, "Columbina, why don't you sleep in your own bed?"
The answer leaves her speechless.
"I don't have a bed." The Lunar Maiden says calmly, her eyes still closed, as if commenting on the weather.
"What?" Sandrone feels she might need to restart her logic module. "How can you not have a bed?"
The Harbingers' treatment is excellent, not quite on par with the old aristocracy, but far better than the common citizen. Food, clothing, housing, and travel can all be reimbursed, and each month they receive a generous discretionary fund. She herself signed the contract back then precisely because the terms were so favorable.
Every Harbinger has their own house, and the maintenance and cleaning are handled by dedicated housekeepers. If one needs anything, simply submitting a request form—
No. Wait…
She suddenly realizes the problem.
The one lounging in her bed, though a deity, possesses none of the basic knowledge needed to navigate civilized society. She cannot even handle paying bills or reimbursement, how could she fill out those endless application forms?
"Where did you sleep before?" she asks, still finding it hard to believe.
When Columbina joined the Fatui, Sandrone had been working on an urgent project and had missed the welcome ceremony for the new colleague. But if her logs are not mistaken, that was twenty months ago—meaning Columbina has been here for nearly two years without owning a single bed.
"In the garden, the lab, the corridors, or the house they gave me." Columbina begins counting on her fingers. "Mm... I do not really have a fixed spot. I just sleep wherever I happen to be tired. I used to do that too. But your bed is the most comfortable."
when she says "most comfortable," a look of contentment appears on her face. Her lips curve up slightly, like a small animal that has basked in the sun long enough..
"What kind of savage are you..." The puppet, born into civilization, wears an expression of utter bewilderment. She can't believe such a being can exist in this world. "Don't you see anything wrong with that? You've lived for centuries. You're not some newborn kitten or puppy—no, even kittens and puppies know to find a nest for themselves!"
"It is fine to be like a kitten or puppy. I like that comparison." Columbina smiles, with a response as irrelevant as ever. After a pause, she asks, "May I rest here today? I saw your schedule, you'll be working all day and won't need the bed. I won't disturb you."
Sandrone still says: "No." Firmly. She pulls Columbina up and pushes her out, but this time, she doesn't just shove her out the door. She follows.
"Pulonia, postpone all scheduled tasks by six hours." After issuing this order to Pulonia, she lifts her chin at Columbina with a supercilious air, as if pronouncing an unassailable decree, "Come with me. We're buying a bed. And other necessary furniture."
Instead of calling the housekeeper, she leads Columbina to the largest department store in the city. She walks swiftly, her steps urgent and steady, radiating such intensity one might think she is heading to a duel. Columbina follows quietly behind, like a kite on a string—the string in Sandrone's hand, though she herself is unaware.
Two Harbingers gracing the store with their presence—no one dares even breathe loudly. Sandrone, however, seems oblivious to the heavy atmosphere, making straight for the furniture section and gesturing at a row of beds. "Pick one."
"How do I pick?" Columbina's expression can only be described as lost. In the past, everything she has ever used has come from her worshippers' offerings. She has never shopped before, the concept of "merchandise" doesn't even exist in her mind.
"How should I know?" Sandrone rolls her eyes. "Size, material, color, softness, just choose the one you like best."
"Like?" Columbina tilts her head, the small wings in her hair fluttering gently as if pondering the word's meaning. Then she begins touching this one, sniffing that one, moving among the various beds like a young animal that has just left its den. Finally, she returns to Sandrone and shakes her head, "Hard, soft, they all seem the same. I don't like any of them."
Sandrone frowns. She is not sure what Columbina means—are they all the same, or does she dislike them all? Is she being picky, or simply indifferent?
Finally, she just takes a deep breath and says, "Fine." She turns to the trembling shop assistant. "Find out my purchase records and send the exact same set to her address. Immediate delivery and setup."
She has piles of work waiting and doesn't have time to waste. Since Columbina keeps coming to sleep in her room, it means she has no problem with her bed.
Thus, she makes the decision for Columbina. While filling out the reimbursement forms, to avoid accusations of being dictatorial or mistreating a colleague, she says: "This is just a temporary solution. You can come back another time and pick something else you prefer. Just put it on my tab."
Large crates are soon delivered to Columbina's house. Setup, inspection, verification—by the time all is done, six hours have passed. Sandrone points to the bed—same with hers—with barely concealed pride in her voice: "From now on, sleep in your own bed. Don't steal mine."
If Sandrone had any prophetic ability and had known those six hours would ultimately be wasted, she would have burned all that furniture on the spot.
(IV)
On the third afternoon after that, she returns to her room after forty-eight consecutive hours of work, intending to get some good rest. But as her gaze falls upon the bed, she immediately spots a familiar bulge—black hair and white wings overlapping, visible above the covers.
"Wake up. Up!" She roughly shakes Columbina awake. This time, she is genuinely annoyed. "Why are you here again? We just set up your room!"
"Mmm... it feels so safe here..." Columbina shrinks deeper under the covers, burying most of her face in them, leaving only her forehead and the slightly quivering wings visible. Her voice is drowsy, as if rising from deep water. "Your coffee, even though it is bitter, smells so good. That is something my bed does not have."
Just like that, her voice trails off as she speaks, as if about to sink back into sleep.
Sandrone feels something throbbing at her temples nerve—though she does not actually have nerve, beneath the smooth metal plating are only delicate sensor circuits. But the throbbing feels so real, as if some long-suppressed emotion is frantically battering against her logic module.
Safe? What does that mean? She does not understand.
Of course she knows the meanings of the word "save", what she does not understand is the feeling of safe.
Alain had once explained the meaning to her.
It was another warm afternoon. She and Alain had gone to watch an opera together. Her memory is excellent—even centuries later, she still remembers every line of that story.
The protagonist was a fisherman from the Fleuve Gris. After an accident, he fabricated a new identity, reinvented himself as a Fontaine noble, and infiltrated high society. Through one lie after another, he amassed countless riches and glory. But because he constantly had to maintain his facade, each day brought greater anxiety than the last. He even developed insomnia. To hold onto everything he had gained, he kept crossing lines, betraying friends and family. Even his beloved was dying. In his final moment, his conscience won out. He confessed his deeds, gave up everything, returned to his original humble cottage, and listening to the sound of the waves, fell peacefully asleep.
The last line was: "For the first time in a long while, he felt safe, and closed his eyes to the sound of the waves."
After the curtain fell, Sandrone asked Alain: "What does 'safe' mean?"
What had Alain answered?
"...Probably a sense of security. The feeling that your heart is safely held in place, no longer hanging in midair. No fear, no worry about danger or accidents—no one can hurt you..."
Sandrone's memory banks store every detail of that day: the angle of the sunlight, the dust particles floating in the air, the faint rustle of Alain's clothes as he sat beside her, and the sound of each word as he speaks them.
Alain had explained it carefully, yet she still could not understand, so she pressed further: "But that cottage was very old and shabby, it might collapse in a strong wind. I do not think it was safe at all. How could he sleep? He even had insomnia." She paused, then complained, "I do not like explanations that talk about the heart. I cannot understand them because I do not have a heart."
And then? Then Alain had smiled and said: "This is still too complex for you. Perhaps when you have experienced more human emotions, you will understand. But it is also fine if you do not."
When he said "it is also fine if you do not," he reached out and gently patted her head. That gesture was very light, light as the wind, but she remembers the warmth of that hand—warm, dry, steady.
That was a very long time ago.
Now, centuries later, she has encountered many humans and learned many human emotions. She has seen joy, sadness, anger, despair. She has even learned to mock and to be sarcastic. Yet she still does not understand what "safe" feels like.
If measured in centuries, the time she spent with Alain is not truly long. She is still in the early stages of learning in that time, overwhelmed by countless new questions every day. This matter was merely a trivial one among many. She has long since forgotten it. Yet Columbina's words now have brought that long-buried question back before her eyes.
Her core processes spin at high speed, retrieving countless relevant data points—security, trust, belonging, relaxation responses in non-threatening conditions. But no matter how she pieces together these cold definitions, she cannot construct an answer to the question "what does safe feel like?"
A sudden irritation floods her emotional module.
"Get up." She reaches for the covers, her voice now carrying obvious impatience. "Your room was just set up, new bed, new covers, new pillows, no different from mine. If you like coffee, brew yourself a cup. I did not invite you, so you—"
Columbina finally wakes. Slowly, like a flower bending under morning dew, she sits up. Her face still holds traces of sleep, her lips slightly pursed, looking soft and dazed.
Sandrone thinks she might hear more about what "safe" means. She has prepared her rebuttals, her follow-up questions, ready to dissect that elusive concept with the sharp blade of logic and see what lies within.
But Columbina just lets out a small yawn and then gets out of bed.
"Sandrone, you are going to sleep? Alright then." A trace of regret colors her soft voice, but she obediently leaves. Before closing the door, she says, "Good night. I hope you have sweet dreams."
Sandrone looks at the closed door, then at the rumpled sheets Columbina has left behind. The black hair and white wings are gone, leaving only tangled wrinkles—like some silent evidence of a presence.
She stands by the bed for a long time.
Long enough that her temperature control system automatically lowers her surface temperature to accommodate the prolonged stillness. Finally, she sits down, lifts the covers, and lies inside.
She remembers what Columbina said, takes a deep breath, and indeed detects a faint scent of coffee—it must have clung to her sheets from the times she has read in her bedroom.
It is time to have Pulonia do a thorough cleaning, she thinks. Just then, Another scent reaches her.
It is a a delicate scent of flowers—sweet, soft. It is hidden in the fibers of the bedding, in the hollow where Columbina had curled up, in the spots where a few white feathers brushed against the pillow.
This isn't a smell that belongs in her room.
She shoots up like an over-inflated balloon, bundles up the bedding and sheets in a rush, and tosses them out the window.
"So annoying!" she shouts at the empty air.
(V)
After that, a kind of unspoken understanding forms between them. Columbina still comes to sleep in her room, but she comes when Sandrone is away and slips out just before she returns.
The Seventh, "Marionette," is busier than a top whipped thirty times over. It is common for her to stay in her workshop for days on end, leaving plenty of time for Columbina to use.
At first, Sandrone furiously throws out any bedding that carries the scent of flowers and threatens to wring Columbina's neck. But as time passes, she grows used to it—especially after Pantalone says he will deduct the cost of those sheets from her research budget. she resigns herself to accepting the lingering traces of another person in her room.
She has always been good at self-adjustment. Besides, as a puppet, once she enters sleep mode and closes off her senses, she can't smell anything anyway.
Fine. Whatever. As long as it does not affect her rest, Columbina can do as she pleases.
But the puppet's repeated concessions only prove the old saying: boundaries exist to be crossed, lines exist to be overstepped.
It is a very cold night. Her experiments have finally come to a temporary conclusion. After leaving her workshop, she first checks her bedroom to make sure the bed is empty, she finds no signs of usurpation, the goes to wash up. But when she returns, drying her hair, there is a bulge under the covers again.
She blinks. Rubs her eyes. Even steps out to check the door.
Yes, this is her room.
But that bundled-up bedding, the black and red hair interwoven, the white wings—clearly, it is her again.
"Co-lum-bi-na!" She grabs the covers through gritted teeth, ready to yank them off and fling that boundary-trampling wretch to the floor.
But her hand stops before putting any force into it.
Something is wrong with Columbina.
She is not curled up comfortably as usual, does not have her face buried in the pillow with steady breathing, and certainly does not mumble something drowsily before shrinking deeper into the covers when she hears movement. She lies on her side, her body tense as a drawn bow. The small white wings behind her head no longer flutter lightly but are tightly folded, perfectly still, with the edges of the feathers trembling faintly—like the last leaf stubbornly clinging to a branch in autumn wind.
Her breathing is shallow and rapid, her chest rising and falling more than usual, yet something seems to be suppressing it, preventing her from breathing too loudly.
Sandrone releases her grip on the covers and leans closer.
Moonlight streams in through the window, falling on Columbina's face. Only now does she see clearly—that face, always serene as still water, is now consumed by some profound emotion.
Her brows are tightly knitted into an unyielding knot, her lips slightly parted as if trying to speak or call out, yet no sound emerges. Only breath escapes through her teeth, making the faintest sound—like a sigh, or a sob.
She is having a nightmare.
Sandrone recognizes it.
This is exactly what Alain looked like during nightmares. Many times, she watched him wake drenched in cold sweat, his eyes holding a bone-deep exhaustion and a lingering fear that, even in its residual form, he could not quite erase.
So even that eternally carefree, unfathomable creature who smiles without a care in the world—she can also have nightmares? Does she also flee from unseen things in thick fog? Does she also hide in the deepest shadows, wearing such a vulnerable expression?
Sandrone reaches out, wanting to shake the nightmare-plagued girl awake. But her hand hovers above the covers, barely an inch from those tense shoulders, for a long time without descending.
She once tried so many things to improve Alain's sleep—medication, music, aromatherapy—but nothing worked. In the end, the frail, sickly old man lay on his bed, his clouded eyes gazing for a long while at the ceiling light. Then he handed her a book and said, "Read to me please."
It was a collection of fairy tales.
The founder of the Fontaine Research Institute, the inventor of controlled Pneuma-Ousia annihilation energy modules, the innovator of clockwork mechanism technology—the great Alain Guillotin—had turned to fairy tales in his final years.
Fairy tales always ended with the same line: "And so they lived happily ever after."
Back then, Sandrone scoffed at such things. She thought fairy tales were lies.
There was no such thing as "happily ever after" in the real world. The nobles of Fontaine schemed against each other; the poor of the Fleuve Gris struggled just to survive; the prophecy of the rising waters hung over them like a shadow that would not fade. No matter how bright the lights of the Opera Epiclese shone, they could never illuminate the mud of the Fortress of Meropide. The portraits on posters always showed smiling, happy faces, but in reality, most people's eyes carried bitterness.
Even now, the world she sees has more suffering than joy.
Rosalyne is not happy. Arlecchino is not happy. She can feel the flames of pain burning within them. And Columbina—Columbina is no exception. She is a Goddess beyond the reach of ordinary people, yet she still struggles with nightmares like any mortal.
"What is so good about fairy tales?" she complained more than once, her tone impatient. "They are childish. Illogical."
And Alain—
Alain had said: "Perhaps because... they hold hope. They make one feel safe."
The Warrior will slay the dragon, the princess will escape the tower, the villagers will dig a well in the parched earth and finally welcome a harvest. The world will be saved, children will fall asleep with happy dreams, and no longer fear the dark night.
Ah, "safe" again. The narrator's voice from the opera's final act, Alain's voice, Columbina's voice—they intertwine and overlap in her mind, weaving a melody without beginning or end, echoing deep within her core.
She has a vague sense that she almost understands something, but upon closer thought, she still does not quite get it. The answer seems separated from her by a thin mist—close, yet forever out of reach.
But it is also fine if she does not understand now. Over four hundred years is a long time, yet compared to the vastness of history, it is also brief. She still has plenty of time to observe, to learn, until she masters all the knowledge she needs—all the knowledge she wants.
And now, in this moment before her—this is not so bad.
Sandrone does not wake Columbina. Instead, she goes to brew a cup of coffee and places it by the bedside.
The bitter fragrance of coffee slowly spreads through the room, intertwining with the faint scent of flowers.
"May there be hope in your dreams," she murmurs softly, then turns and leaves the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her.