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The frost on the windows of the Zapolyarny Palace did not form in simple patterns, it crept like jagged vines of crystal, thick and opaque, sealing the noise of the outside world away in a tomb of Snezhnayan white. Within the inner sanctum of the Fourth Harbinger’s quarters, the air was heavy with the scent of aged cedar, expensive ink, and the faint, metallic tang of a hearth that had burned itself to embers through the long, restless night.
Arlecchino felt the crushing weight of her many identities, the Knave, the Harbinger, the Father, each one a stone added to a monument she had built over her own heart. It was not merely a fatigue of the muscles or the mind, but a deep, soul-shaking weariness born of maintaining a performance that never truly ended. For years, she had been the architect of the Hearth, the cold executioner of the Tsaritsa, and the shadow within the Fatui, until her very edges had become sharp, cutting even herself in the rare silence of the morning.
In this grey, unforgiving light, the mask did not just slip, it dissolved. It left behind a hollowed, suffocating exhaustion that felt as vast and silent as the tundra beyond the palace walls. To be everything to everyone was to be nothing to herself, and the woman who had once survived the flames of her youth was now drowning in the stillness of her own success. Every word she spoke as "Father" was a calculated lesson, every move she made as the "Knave" was a strike on a chessboard, and every breath she took as "Arlecchino" was a reminder of the blood on her hands. She was tired of the theater, tired of the costumes, and tired of the flickering shadows that danced behind her eyes whenever she closed them.
Underneath the heavy silk duvets, Arlecchino was not the poised director of espionage, she was a tangle of limbs and quiet desperation, her body coiled around Columbina as if the Third Harbinger were the only physical anchor keeping her soul from drifting into the void.
Her face was buried in the soft curve of Columbina’s neck, her eyes squeezed shut against the encroaching demands of the day. Her hands, those dark, cursed limbs that looked as though they had been dipped in the ink of the abyss, were wrapped tightly around Columbina’s waist. Her fingers clutched at the delicate lace of a nightgown, the fabric bunching under the strength of a grip that could snap a man's neck, yet here, it was trembling with a vulnerability she would have killed to keep secret from any other living soul. She held on not with the grace of a lover, but with the frantic intensity of a survivor clinging to a piece of driftwood in a storm, as if Columbina were the only thing in Teyvat that was real.
"You are breathing very fast, Arlecchino," Columbina murmured, her voice like the chime of a silver bell muffled by fallen snow, sweet, ethereal, and entirely disconnected from the urgency of the living.
Arlecchino did not answer, she only tightened her hold, pulling Columbina closer until there was no space left between them. She breathed in the scent of the woman, sweet cream and something ancient, like the smell of rain on stone that had not seen the sun for centuries.
Holding Columbina felt like finally letting go of the sword she had held since she was a child. In the outside world, she was the one who kept the fire burning so others would not freeze, she was the one who shed blood so her children would never have to know the taste of it. But here, in the sanctuary of these arms, the fire was allowed to die down to a soft, flickering glow. She did not have to be the pillar of strength for a hundred orphans or the terrifying weapon of a Cryo Archon. She could just be a woman who was tired of being hunted by her own past, a woman who had finally run out of reasons to stand tall.
"The sun is coming up," Columbina whispered, her eyes hidden behind her ornamental lace blindfold even in the dimness. She did not move to pull away, instead, she reached up, her pale, slender fingers tracing the sharp line of Arlecchino’s jaw, moving up to stroke the short, monochrome hair that was usually so perfectly, ruthlessly styled. "The shadows are retreating, my love. You hate the light, do you not? It makes the roles you play feel so much heavier when the world can see them clearly."
"Stay," Arlecchino rasped, her voice wrecked, stripped of its usual commanding resonance. It was a plea, raw and unpolished, a sound that the Knave would never permit herself to make in the presence of peers or subordinates. "Just, do not move yet. Let the world wait for its Father. I am not ready to return to him."
Columbina smiled, a small, serene curve of the lips that held a hint of something predatory, yet deeply fond. She shifted, her presence seeming to fold around them like a celestial shroud that blocked out the growing light of the Snezhnayan dawn. She ran a thumb over the charred skin of Arlecchino’s hand, tracing the veins that pulsed with the Balemoon’s curse, a crimson heat that never truly went away, even in the dead of winter. A crimson heat that scorched all who touched it.
To most, these hands were the mark of a monster, a sign of a cursed lineage and a violent future. To Columbina, they were simply beautiful, the hands of a survivor who had climbed out of a burning house and never stopped running until she found someone who was not afraid of the soot on her skin.
"I am not going anywhere," Columbina hummed, beginning to sing softly, a melody that had no words, a song from an era that Teyvat had long since forgotten. It was the kind of song that could lure a star from the sky or put a rampaging beast to eternal sleep.
Under the influence of the song, Arlecchino felt the tension begin to bleed out of her shoulders. She felt the internal fire of her curse, the blood-red moon that demanded authority and sacrifice, subside into a dull, manageable ache. She felt small, a terrifying sensation for a woman of her standing, but with Columbina, it was the only time she felt safe being so. She nuzzled deeper into the soft warmth of the other woman’s chest, her forehead resting against a collarbone that felt as sturdy as marble.
"They think you are made of obsidian," Columbina said softly, her fingers now playing with the nape of Arlecchino’s neck. "The Tsaritsa, the children, even Pierro. They see the Father, they see the hearth that burns but never consumes itself. They do not know how tired you are of the wood you must provide to keep the fire going. They do not see the one who just wants the fire to go out so she can rest in the dark, away from the eyes of the world."
"Let them think what they must," Arlecchino muttered against her skin, her breath warm. "The hearth needs a stone mantle to contain the fire. If I crack, the House burns down, and the children go cold. I have spent a lifetime ensuring they never feel the frost I grew up with. That is the price of the name Arlecchino, the price of the Father."
"But here," Columbina countered, her touch light as a feather, "there is no House. There are no orphans to protect, no Harbingers to outmaneuver. There is only the ash and the woman who survived it. You do not have to be the Knave here. You do not even have to be Father. You can just be mine."
Arlecchino let out a long, shaky breath that shivered through her entire frame. She felt as though she were holding onto the edge of a crumbling cliff, and Columbina was the only thing preventing the fall into the abyss of her own fractured identity. In the outside world, she had everything, power, influence, a legacy written in blood and loyalty. But in the quiet of this room, she clung to Columbina as if she had absolutely nothing else left in the world, as if, should she let go, she would simply cease to exist, scattered into the winds like soot from a chimney.
The vulnerability was a physical weight, heavier than any armor she had ever worn. Arlecchino’s grip shifted, her arms sliding around Columbina’s back, her face hidden, seeking shelter from the very idea of the day ahead. She felt a phantom pain in her chest, the ache of a heart that had been hardened by necessity, now softening just enough to hurt.
"You are so cold, Arlecchino," Columbina noted, though there was no judgment in the observation. She shifted her legs, tangling them with Arlecchino’s, sharing her own unnatural, angelic warmth. "Even with all that fire inside you, your skin is like the ice on the permafrost."
"It is a cold world, Columbina. I have simply adapted to its climate," Arlecchino replied, her voice finally steadying, though she did not pull back. She let her eyes close, the darkness behind her lids feeling less like a threat and more like a curtain drawn against a stage she no longer wished to walk upon.
"Then stay in mine for a while longer," Columbina said, leaning down to press a lingering, soft kiss to the top of Arlecchino’s head.
The silence returned, but it was no longer heavy with the threat of the future. It was a soft, padded silence, filled only with the sound of their synchronized breathing and the occasional pop of the dying embers in the fireplace across the room. Arlecchino allowed herself the luxury of truly closing her eyes, without the need to watch for shadows or listen for the footsteps of those who wished to take her mantle.
For these few stolen hours, the Fourth Harbinger did not have to be a leader. She did not have to be a savior, a killer, or a ghost. She was simply herself, held by someone who was not afraid of her darkness, someone who, perhaps, possessed a darkness even more profound and ancient than her own. She allowed the exhaustion to wash over her, not as a drowning wave, but as a heavy blanket that finally permitted her to sleep without dreams of fire.
Arlecchino’s grip loosened just a fraction, not because she wanted to let go, but because she was finally relaxed enough to trust that Columbina would not vanish if she stopped squeezing. She felt the gentle rise and fall of Columbina’s chest, the rhythm lulling her into a state of peace she never found within the walls of the House of the Hearth.
"I have to leave soon," Arlecchino whispered after a long time, the reality of her duties beginning to claw at the edges of her mind like a persistent beast. "There is a meeting with the Harbingers, and the children have reports that require my attention. Lyney expects me to be there by the second bell, and I cannot be late. Father is never late."
"Mmm," Columbina hummed, a sound of melodic dismissal that seemed to vibrate through Arlecchino's very bones. "The world will still be there in an hour, Arlecchino. The children will still be loyal, the Tsaritsa will still be cold, and the Harbingers will still be bickering over their little secrets like children in a sandbox. But right now," she pulled the duvet higher, tucking it around Arlecchino’s shoulders with a possessive grace, "right now, you are mine. And I do not like to share my things so early in the morning."
Arlecchino felt a rare, genuine ghost of a smile touch her lips, hidden against Columbina's skin. She did not argue, she could not find the will to. She simply squeezed Columbina one last time, a silent acknowledgement of a love she would never speak aloud in the halls of power, and surrendered back into the warmth.
The Father would return to the world soon enough, donning her suit and her authority like a suit of armor, and the Knave would resume her dance of shadows. But for now, held in the arms of the Damselette, Arlecchino was simply a woman resting before the next fire had to be lit, anchored to the only person who knew that even the strongest hearth needs a place to be cold.