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By the grace of the Tsaritsa, the flame that engulfs you, the one that will devour everything, will be shackled.
The flames subside, suffocated and deprived of oxygen until they fizzle into nothing but a dying ember. Dying, dying, dying. Dying and destruction.
The burning calms.
But it will never vanish.
It's like a barrier has been placed around her conscience. A sheer veneer, thinner than the sheets of paper that once held the music notes to which she would sing to. A divider that she can push a hand through and escape from. Pop the bubble, stretch the walls around her figure, unsnare herself.
But she won’t.
Cleanse the world of distortion, of crookedness and corruption. Cleanse it, until it becomes without stain. Until the canvas in the next footstep turns elysian.
There are some that share her goal, it seems. So she willfully surrenders herself, allowing those flames to be quenched, to become a tool, to follow another's bidding as it benefits her. To forget her past. And so the heat is contained in a crystalline stalactite.
By the grace of the Tsaritsa, Rosalyne becomes glacial ice.
—:—
Rebellion against the divine, Rosalyne—no, Signora thinks. Rebellion against the divine, but not against her. The Tsaritsa is not the same. She is a beacon of hope who shares her goal and will allow her by her side. Signora is no longer the Crimson Witch of Flames, but the Eighth Harbinger, the Fair Lady, walking in tandem with Her Majesty.
She is Eighth in the ranking, not First, or Second, or even Third. Yet why does that frigid stare seem so different when it is aimed at her? A frozen thread pulls them together, and she is unable to resist it.
It is not love, for Her Majesty seems to have lost the ability for that and so has she, but it is something.
—:—
A hard shell must encase a gentle core, for that is the only way to achieve peace. Such is the Tsaritsa’s philosophy.
She is an enemy of the world, of all but those within her grasp. Signora is one who stands right in the center of her palm, in the deepest cavern, where water would gather if the ice she surrounds herself with were to melt.
If. Because this is only a hypothetical, not of reality. Which is why she allows it, encourages it in fact, as her lips descend on Signora’s, as skin meets skin and the languid drag of tongues grows intense and as Signora calls not her title but her name. Formalities cast to the side for just these brief moments.
In Signora’s skin, the Tsaritsa feels that hidden swelter underneath layers of her own ice. It will not rupture, she will make sure of it. The Delusion is an anchor, a lifeline she has thrown for Signora, and it will protect her. The power of ice, the power of the cold, comforting and encasing. Burn away the old world, and freeze what is left. Fire is the past, ice is the present and the future.
She takes Signora’s hand, encasing it within her own. An expression of chilled purity. “You are mine,” she says before their lips meet once more. Searing heat despite it all.
A droplet falls.
—:—
The Tsaritsa does not bother to hide her favor for her Eighth. It is not love, no, but it is something. So she chooses Signora to initiate the main segment of her plans—obtaining the first Gnosis.
The time spent apart is noticeable, but she manages.
It is no surprise when she returns to Zapolyarny Palace with just that, kneeling in front of the throne, head bowed. She has done well. The other Harbingers will do her bidding, but Signora will do it better. This woman may be her Eighth, but she is first in her mind.
Though this is all unimportant in the conquest for peace. Her ultimate focus.
Regardless, Signora has proven herself again, and is now tasked with retrieving yet another Gnosis.
Once more, it will be a long time before they speak face to face again, but she will manage.
—:—
Signora has lived amongst frost for hundreds of years, no qualms with the powers she has been given by Her Majesty—notably, a Delusion of her creation, and of her element too. This connection is precious, and she thinks of her each time the powers are activated.
But what the mind forgets, the body does not.
So now, the frozen cage suddenly becomes too constricting, too inhibiting, too cold, and it melts away beneath a burning palm. She casts aside what the Tsaritsa has given her. But it is okay, because this act in the end will be to the Tsaritsa’s benefit. She lives for Her Majesty, breathes for her, walks for her, kills for her. This too, is for her. And she will not be bested.
The flaming butterflies of rebirth emerge, the power is insurmountable. The sear she has not felt for so long, though she cannot recall how it once went.
A stain on her heart, once so pure. Now, she wonders if the organ is recognizable at all beneath all the zeal. Has it too been singed? The blood that flows through her veins is not blood but magma. Once dormant, alive once more.
Until she isn’t.
—:—
The absentminded tapping of fingers ceases when the news is delivered.
If the Tsaritsa were not gentle, she might have sent an icy gust hurling at the messengers, or maybe frozen them in cubes. But she is gentle, and she curses herself for it. All this time spent building barriers in order to achieve her goals, only to reach a subpar level. Ambition as strong as what she possesses cannot thrive on subpar.
There is a piece missing now, from the roster of Gnosis’, and a rogue Harbinger that she will have to deal with.
And Signora… that is a shame too. She had completed this same task before, yet this time, she failed. The Tsaritsa had been sure the brewing heat would not overflow, yet she was mistaken. She allows herself a brief sensation of sadness, mourning this loss.
And then, whatever ice had melted freezes now once more. She’d let too much slide, really. There is only one goal that she has dedicated her existence to ever since the cataclysm, and it must be the only thing she focuses on.
It was not love, no, because even as the god of love, there is none left she has to give. But it was something. Something no longer.