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Rostam. Rostam was her antiseptic, his gentle touches and affectionate murmurs healed fresh wounds, but antiseptic did little in the presence of festered wounds. Wounds that had healed on the surface but carved deeper than physically possible. Scoring caverns of trauma that would stand the test of time and refuse to erode even in the presence of whirlpools.
Her wounds could heal no more. Time itself had long since grown to neglect her. Scorch marks that reminisced her past anguish painted the body of the woman she’d been sculpted into prematurely. Her story remains hidden in the fine lines of her scars, where it’ll stay for even her mind can not conjure her past trials correctly.
They are not her memories to claim, but her body has undoubtedly experienced these horrors.
She is but a mere weapon of war, a shell of a woman designed to nurture. Yet filled instead with hollow, rancorous anger. La Signora, 8th of the 11 Harbingers, loyal to The Tsaritsa only and an enemy to the rest of the divine. She dare not grieve memories she felt no obligation to commiserate with, nor the prospects of a life outside of the Fatui. Such entanglements would only cease to make her job harder. Being a nuisance to Teyvat and an even further threat to those of higher standing was an easy feat when not chained down by emotional obligations.
There was once a woman so kind to bless this vessel, but such a woman is a kid’s tale to Signora now. For a time she was the girl the bards sang of in the square, a melodious symphony. But only exists now as a cacophonous echo. Anyone who may remember the sounds of her melody have long since wilted in the silhouette of disaster.
And yet in his presence, the mismatched flickers of distant memories make sense. For a moment she can call that life her own, if just for a brief second of unspoken vulnerability as he lays himself bare to her in the name of a challenge. As all things in their lives were, this affair was no different and no easy feat was it for either of them to lay their weapons down. His gaze is familiar as he holds her own and he reminds her of a love long lost. Dare she say such a thought out loud, she’d have to be taunted with the reaper’s scythe.
Ajax is her poison, Ajax ruins her as he makes love to the mantle of Signora. His words run deep, reigniting the sting of her old wounds. He harms her until she’s giddy and when she grounds herself during his aftercare she’s content to exist in the hell of Teyvat. He stamps out any flicker of Rosalyne that tries to scorch him. Yet he remains unsuccessful, only barely managing to hold her spark away from him, as if Ajax’s attempts only fuel Rosalyne further. His narrow-minded passion, nearing on mania, entices her and somewhere at the back of Signora’s mind she takes note of the twisted irony of it all.
To Rosalyne, Ajax is familiar. His features and build are a welcome surprise to the part of Signora Rosalyne has managed to stake a claim on. He is what Rostam could’ve been had he dared to loosen the chains of his moral code of conduct and such a notion entertains her greatly. She would happily trade places with Signora if it meant she could bask in the electricity his body provides her.