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Time cast its spell on you, but you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me
I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you
You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you
Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac
…
…
The night was heavy with snow, drifting like pale feathers over the frozen courtyards of Silvermoon Hall. It was here, among the lunar arches and quiet bells from the Hiisi Island, that Sandrone’s long-forgotten mechanical projects often whirred into the hours past midnight. But tonight, she had abandoned her creations. She stood alone beneath the open field, where the world tilted toward the heavens, and waited for the song that was not hers.
It came — soft, fragile, a hum that seemed to weave itself through the air like silk. Columbina. The Damslette. The one they called the Moon Maiden, though never dared to reappear as one to her people.
Columbina sang as though her words were dreams, her voice less a sound than a spell, and it slipped into Sandrone’s ribs like smoke, settling where her heart should have been.
“Soon,” Columbina whispered, her lips barely parting. “I will become what I was always meant to be.” Sandrone’s hands clenched at her sides. She was no stranger to losing pieces of herself — machines demanded sacrifice, flesh for steel, nights for completion. But this was not a gear she could replace. Not a bolt she could tighten.
“The Moon?” Sandrone said, the words sharper than she intended.
Columbina’s pale lashes lowered. Snowflakes caught in her hair like fragments of stars. “I was never meant to stay on earth. I was borrowed light.”
Sandrone nearly laughed, though the sound scraped raw at her throat. “Borrowed light? Don’t speak like some poet, Columbina. You’re still a woman, not a star.” She faltered on the last word, but it left her lips anyway, trembling and bitter.
Columbina tilted her head. “Who am I for? The Frostmoon Scions? The Fatui? Or yours?” She feigned with tease.
Sandrone turned away, her breath fogging in the frost. She chose to ignore the last statement. “Don’t twist my words. I don’t care for the rest of them.”
Silence stretched. Columbina’s hum faded into nothing, and the world seemed too bare without it.
Sandrone bitterly laughed, “Is this what you really want?”
“I wish to return to the Moon that belongs to me.” Columbina answered.
…
The Experimental Design Bureau was alive with rumors. The former third Harbinger was ascending, they whispered. She would become the moon itself, a vessel of eternal light, her voice stitched into the night sky. It was a triumph for Nod Krai, they finally will have the real Moon casting over the nation. Maybe for the Tsaritsa too, who knows what was her agenda for Columbina?
For everyone except Sandrone.
After that night. she worked longer in her workshop, her creation sprawled around her like discarded prayers. Even if Columbina’s familiar was trying to fetch her, she did not come to visit. Every clink of metal was a poor substitute for the sound she craved. And when she closed her eyes, all she could hear was Columbina’s half-smile, her lullabies that could make even a monster sleep.
Oh how she now regrets chasing her away on the lonely nights she spent obsessed with her research.
One evening, with the use of her Kuuhvahki teleportation, Columbina found Sandrone there, bent over a headless automaton. “You’re trying to drown me out,” Columbina said softly. “You refuse to notice me.”
Sandrone flinched, fingers tightening on her tools. “What else am I supposed to do?”
Columbina stepped closer, her presence softer than snow but heavier than any machine. “I don’t want you to shatter.”
“Then don’t go,” Sandrone snapped, her voice cracking open. For a moment, Columbina almost looked human. Her eyes softened, and she reached out, brushing a cold knuckle against Sandrone’s jaw. The touch was fleeting, like moonlight caught between clouds.
“If I stay,” Columbina murmured, “I will fade. If I go, I will be remembered.”
“Not by me,” Sandrone said fiercely. “You’ll be remembered through me. Do you understand? No matter what you become, it seems like I won’t let you go. Time can’t make me forget. You could cast a thousand spells in hope that I can forget about you but I would still see you every time I close my eyes.”
Columbina’s lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. She only leaned forward, resting her forehead against Sandrone’s for the briefest eternity. And then she was gone again, a shadow retreating into her own destiny.
…
With enough power, the night of ascension was thick with prayer.
Sandrone was not supposed to come, but due to the Traveler’s persistence, she gave in. She felt the weight of the Traveler’s gaze on her, but her gaze was fixed only on Columbina, who stood in the center of the field. Her gown shimmered like woven moonlight, silver threads spilling onto the marble floor. Her eyes glowed faintly, as though the stars themselves had bent down to look through her.
She began to sing.
It was not the lullaby Sandrone had known. It was vaster, endless, something that seemed to pierce through centuries. Her voice reached beyond the Silvermoon Hall, beyond Snezhnaya, beyond Teyvat itself. Sandrone felt it wrench at her chest, pulling every hidden memory, every unspoken word, every quiet longing she had buried deep.
The light slowly swallowed Columbina whole. Her body dissolved into threads of silver, unraveling upward until only her voice remained. And then — she was gone.
The sky outside split open with brilliance. Where once the pale, scarred moon had hung, now there was Columbina, radiant and new, her glow soft and unyielding.
Sandrone looked away. Even though Columbina had left, she felt like she’s been taken with her.
…
Days turned into weeks. The\Frostmoon Scions celebrated their gain, but Sandrone saw only her loss. She wandered the snowlit courtyards, her duties as a Fatui Harbinger long forgotten/
Ever since the news of Columbina ascending to the sky hitted the headquarters on Snezhnaya, the Palestar Edict was deemed unsuccessful. Sandrone was hoping that she won’t get booted out for not retrieving the third harbinger back, but as long as no one knew about her secret meetings with the latter, she would retain.
Every night, she looked up. The new moon gleamed back at her, perfect, untouchable. And though she told herself she hated it, she listened. She swore sometimes she could hear Columbina’s hum in the winds, or catch her reflection.
One night, Sandrone whispered into the dark:
“Time may cast its spell on mortals, but I am no mortal. I will not forget. You will shine over oceans, over kingdoms, but every time your light touches earth, it will always find me..”
Her voice broke, but she spoke through the cracks: “You could be the moon for all of Teyvat, but you were mine once.”
…
The seasons shifted. Sandrone buried herself in her work again, Pulonia was clinking with sharper precision, crueler edges. But whenever night fell, she lingered beneath the sky.
Sometimes, the moon’s glow felt like an answer. Other times, it was only a wound reopened. But always, she looked up. Always, she remembered.
Because love, once forged in silence, could not be undone by distance.
And if Columbina had become eternity, then Sandrone had become the one who would defy eternity just to remember her.