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“For a harlequin, you’re not very funny.”
The balcony is silent enough that Arlecchino thinks she heard it by mistake. At this hour, when the world paused for afternoon tea, it was easy to hear things around the palace, after all.
Perhaps she really was mistaken. It would be better to confirm it, so Arlecchino sets her teacup down. “Come again?”
Behind her, Columbina speaks plainly, as if reciting common information. “You don’t tell jokes. You haven’t even made anyone laugh.”
Not a mistake, then. Well. That’s certainly not the kind of comment one would expect from their colleague. Arlecchino stifles a cough. “Why, Columbina…”
As with all things, Columbina gives no further explanation. It gives Arlecchino some time to think. Has she never made a single person laugh before? Truly? Not even a fresh-eyed subordinate, nor her own children? As if in deep thought herself, Columbina takes the time to pad across the balcony, disturbing columns of pale sunlight on the marble floors. She looks serenely over the balustrade.
“Being given our names…does that mean we are born to live up to it?” she hums. “Or is it simply an indication of the role we must fill?”
It would be rude to leave a lady hanging—and Columbina’s question is one worth answering anyway—so Arlecchino joins her. “Well,” she muses, "I suppose both can be true at the same time.”
“I find that quite difficult.”
“May I offer a joke, then, to convince you otherwise?”
“Hm?" Columbina tilts her head. "You mean, you shall finally play the role of a harlequin?"
Once again, Arlecchino takes time to think about it. She's been a soldier, a diplomat, a director, a father. Never a joker, a clown, or entertainer of any sort, but as she has always so diligently imparted to her children, there is always an opportune time to try new things. This, too, shall be no different from those endeavors.
"I suppose I'll give it a try."
Columbina's expression grows all the more unreadable. "Go ahead, then…”
So Arlecchino clears her throat. “Riddle me this, dear Damselette…" She looks over the balustrade, so both of them are staring at the sky beyond. "When is the moon the heaviest?”
“When?”
“When it is full.”
“…”
“Not funny enough?”
“Hm.”
Arlecchino waits. And waits. Underneath her eyelids, Columbina’s eyes seem to move.
“Try again next time,” says Columbina, though when next time will be, she never specifies. “I believe you have plenty of room for improvement, dear Knave.”
The palace gardens are beautiful as ever in the early morning. Arlecchino had meant to make a short stroll — here, blood red peonies and vibrant lilies bloom in full, even in the biting winter — but her walk is cut entirely as she spots a figure by the central fountain.
“Good morning," Arlecchino greets. "I see you’re up early, Columbina.”
The Damselette, standing before a flock of doves, holds a cloth filled with berries in her hand. Oddly enough (though not quite odd for Columbina) she was not wearing her winter coat. “Hello, Arlecchino. the doves were calling.”
Ah. “Seeking breakfast, I assume?”
“I suppose so. Or perhaps they’ve been keeping track of my whereabouts." She shows Arlecchino the cloth in her hand. "You see, I just happened to have collected some sweet berries earlier this morning.”
Gently, Columbina tosses a few to the doves flittering about. A particularly smaller one comes up to her hand. It pecks curiously at the shiny berries, before swallowing them in rapid succession.
“Seems like they’re enjoying the food.” Arlecchino notes. She watches the rest of the doves hopping around the garden, collecting berries with their sharp beaks and swallowing them with an amusing voracity. And because Arlecchino has never been one to forgo an opportune moment, she adds: “One could say they find it…dove-licious, even.”
Columbina (and the dove) turn toward Arlecchino.
A beat. Arlecchino smooths down her coat. “Was I wrong?”
Columbina hums. Arlecchino is not one to hope, but she is one with an eye for detail — she swears she sees the corner of Columbina's mouth ticking up.
“No, not at all.” Columbina says, and she lets the bird fly with a gentle hand. “But you could do a funnier joke next time.”
(This ‘next time’ is never specified again, but Arlecchino takes it as a challenge from Columbina; after all, was timing not the bread and butter of quality humor? Arlecchino takes mental note of this as she watches Columbina sing to the doves now. Perhaps the Damselette was a better mentor than she thought. Arlecchino—if she truly wanted to wield the ironic responsibility of her name—ought to be prepared).
Arlecchino pushes the doors to the banquet hall open. Fortunately — unlike how she had worried for the past half-hour, winding her way through the forever-stretching palace halls — she was not late. The table was occupied, but not full. Around it was Sandrone, pouring tea, and Columbina, reaching out for a cookie.
"Good morning, ladies. Are we expecting anyone else?"
Sandrone snorts. “Glad to know you still take forever to even get here,” she says, which is a testament to her impeccable table manners. "Capitano’s coming. As well as the kid I still haven’t bothered getting the name of. The ginger one."
“His name is Tartaglia.”
“Tartaglia, the ginger one.”
A full party, then. Well, as full as it can be with Rosalyne in Inazuma, anyway. Arlecchino settles down beside Columbina, who offers a cookie. It is made to resemble a cat, but has ended up looking like an indecipherable glob of dough instead.
Columbina gestures to Sandrone. "She baked this."
Sandrone, with her mechanically aided eyesight, takes in the cookie in one second and opens her mouth to argue the next. "I did not! You of all people should know how I am incapable of creating even a single miniscule error, you little—!"
The doors groan open again. Almost instantaneously, the hall is filled with the sound of Capitano's heavy footfall, Sandrone and Columbina's squabbling, and Tartaglia's repeated chanting of, "Sorry we're late! I got into a fight. Not that I started it. But I did step in to finish it!”
Arlecchino takes a bite of the cookie. It may look like an error, but it does not taste like one. It might taste better with tea, so she moves to raise her cup — ah, and does inspiration not strike at the most fortunate of times?
Their two companions take their seats at the table. Arlecchino takes a sip. “Well, then,” and without missing a beat, declares to her miniscule audience, “Let’s get this par-tea started.”
Almost as quickly as it begins, the noise dies down.
Sandrone blinks. The key in her back starts to whirl aggressively. “Do not do that.” Beside her, Childe groans. Columbina coughs, albeit rather oddly, as if to conceal another abrupt sound. Like a laugh, perhaps. Or a snort. Arlecchino would have to decide later, once she’s left alone. For now, she focuses on how Sandrone’s gears gnash like angry metal birds. “On the Tsaritsa herself, do not do that again!”
(The Captain interjects with the ethical dilemma that is swearing on Her Majesty the Tsaritsa’s name. Sandrone argues with him. In the middle of their moral debate, (and while Childe distracts himself with numerous pastries), Columbina taps Arlecchino on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to her,” says Columbina, and with a serene smile on her face, adds, “You should actually do that more.”
“The puns?”
“Mm, still some ways to go.” Columbina tilts her head, “I mean, you should annoy Sandrone more.”
Because Arlecchino values her time and the little peace she has in her life, she does not take Columbina up on that offer. But she does keep the Damselette’s constructive remarks in mind. Who knows when it will prove useful — especially when it comes to testing the limits of Sandrone’s emotional module?)
In the evenings, the Snezhnograd Opera House would often be packed to the brim, with crowds snaking around the ornate pillars and crowding the gilded entrance doors. Tonight is no different; though even denser crowds have gathered at the Opera House. After all, it was only right to receive Her Majesty and the Lord Harbingers at the opening night of Snezhnaya’s grandest of contemporary plays.
The other Harbingers busy themselves by mingling with diplomats and other guests. Not that that needs much of Arlecchino’s attention. Right now, she was more interested in trailing after the Damselette, whom she had found making enthusiastic conversation with her children.
“...And that sudden monologue, my lady, wasn’t it simply stunning?” Lyney clutches at his chest, “A true display of thespian talent! A mastery of Snezhnayan performing art!”
“You might be boring her, Lyney,” Lynette says in response. “I, for one, think the set must be given high praise. The moon was quite beautiful, too. Don’t you agree, my lady?”
Columbina gives her own thoughts in agreement, and the two look positively over the moon. And to think they had seemed so stiff upon meeting the rest of her colleagues. Arlecchino’s ember of a heart wants to bristle with something Tartaglia likes to call fatherly pride.
She strides over to them shortly after. “I take it the show went well?”
The children jump. Well, Lyney jumps. Lynette remains in place. “Father!”
“Arlecchino,” Columbina greets. She is out of her usual white garb and dressed in a glimmering evening gown, as is customary for guests of the Opera House. “I find Lyney and Lynette to be pleasant company. Maybe even more pleasant than the show itself.”
That makes Arlecchino chuckle. “You’ll have to excuse our enthusiasm. The children do adore going to the theater.”
Lynette immediately coughs into her fist, while Lyney, again, clutches at his chest. “Aw, Father…!”
Seeing her children, now, Arlecchino is also overcome with a sense of … what Tartaglia also likes to call fatherly humor: the instinct he described as an “inevitable feeling that all dads have when they want to make the moment incredibly corny.” Arlecchino has no desire to turn any moment corny, but then again, the feeling calls so strongly to her it is only second to the sting of Bloodmoon Balefire. (An exaggeration).
Of course, it would be a waste to not make the most out of the moment. So Arlecchino adds: “Though I believe it might just be a stage they are going through.”
Now the twins’ faces morph in unison. “Oh.”
“Ah…Father…”
Columbina hums. Then, after a brief moment, she breaks out a small smile. “Not bad.”
The twins look courteously appalled, but Columbina’s smile grows larger. Arlecchino gets an odd urge to look away, or cough into her fist, but years of controlling her decorum force her to look in Columbina’s direction. Well. Her reaction is far from when she’d first told Arlecchino to actually start cracking jokes — that’s a positive thing. It is, however, getting more difficult to keep thinking of jokes…or looking at the Damselette’s smiling face, for that matter.
“Careful now, Columbina,” she says, taking effort to keep her voice level. “I might begin to think of my jokes as…scene-sational.”
The children make even more noises of dismay. Columbina opens her mouth to — huff, let out an amused exhale. It’s not a laugh, not yet, but Arlecchino will take it.
Lyney clears his throat. “Excuse us, Miss Columbina. It’s not every day we hear Father’s…ingenious jokes…”
Columbina lets out a pleased little hum. “You’re right,” The wings on the back of her head, though made to look like an accessory, flitter in quick succession. Her eyes are closed, but still she looks up at Arlecchino and nods. “I think your Father has grown…funnier indeed.”
And isn’t that something? For the rest of the frigid evening, Arlecchino’s ember of a heart burns a little more intensely. It’s nice to make progress…
(She cannot help but notice Columbina’s every little move, now.)
…on her humor, of course.
On the night of her return, Columbina looks more radiant than ever. Of course, the intense water-balloon fight she had with the Curatorium of Secrets staff most likely gave her a little flush, but Arlecchino liked to think that the warmth of the night had livened her up, too. (Even though Moon-Prayer Festival games were very rambunctious…)
Arlecchino finds her resting alone on a bench, a kuuhenki-themed balloon wrapped around her little finger. She has grown accustomed to the sight of Columbina amongst snow-white gardens or around empty palace halls, but seeing her in the midst of music and color and life is, decidedly, much better.
Quietly, Arlecchino settles beside her. “Happy Moon-Prayer Night, Columbina.”
“Oh? Happy Moon-Prayer Night to you, too.” says Columbina. She offers Arlecchino a sugar sculpture. “Care for a sweet?”
“Why, thank you.” Arlecchino accepts it, carefully examining the sugared red ibis in her hand. How about Columbina’s…? She looks over. Columbina has a kuuhenki sugar sculpture, understandably, to match her own balloon.
They watch Nasha Town carry on with its festivities. Arlecchino takes a bite of the sculpture. It is sweet — simplistically so — which makes it remarkable. It seems the same goes for Columbina, for her kuuhenki resembles less of the creature and more of a melted sugar bubble.
That’s good to know, then. Arlecchino takes to watching the Witches’ bright mechanical ride spin in dizzying circles. “You know, I initially had a joke about lollipops. But I cannot, for the life of me, remember.”
“Ah…”
“Really.” And at this Arlecchino sighs. “It’s… on the tip of my tongue.”
There’s a warmth on Arlecchino’s shoulder. The mechanical ride completes a half-revolution before she comes to realize it is actually Columbina, and the warmth of her own shoulder bumping against Arlecchino’s.
Then: a small snicker. For a moment, Arlecchino thinks she’d misheard a passerby behind their bench, but soon the snicker breaks into a laugh. And Arlecchino watches as Columbina laughs beside her, gentle as moonlight, free as a flying dove. The sound surprises Arlecchino as much as the warmth on her side, but it’s not unwelcome. Really, it feels more like — a reward. A gift. Or an achingly sweet piece of moon-prayer candy.
In the distance, a group of children giggle in delight, too. “Hey, I didn’t see that coming,” Columbina says. She is all warmth as she leans on Arlecchino’s shoulder. “You’re getting clever, dear Knave.”
Arlecchino hums. She closes her eyes and allows herself, on this rare gift of a night, to lean imperceptibly closer to Columbina. The sugar sculpture is cloyingly sweet on her tongue. “Glad to hear it.”
(What does it mean to have the honor of making Columbina laugh? What does it mean when that, in itself, feels like an honor in the first place? Arlecchino feels a little too pleased. So pleased, in fact, that she starts to conjure up more jokes, stored away in small chambers of her mind to be used for next time.
That next opportunity will surely come. And Columbina, too…well. Who would fault Arlecchino for wanting to hear her laugh again?)
When all is said and done, and the new moon hangs bright in the sky, Arlecchino is among the first in Nod-Krai to admire it.
On a grassy peak in Lempo Isle, she overlooks both the silver heavens and a sleeping Nasha Town, bathed in moonlight all the same. Like this, Columbina thinks she looks particularly peaceful—like the morning after the first snow, or the regal trees that endlessly keep watch over her home.
“So?” Columbina muses. She sends off a Moon-Prayer blossom skyward, watching its petals return to the moon. “What do you think?”
Arlecchino purses her lips. Her eyes, then trained on the sky, slowly shift to Columbina.
“I think,” says Arlecchino, “She looks magnificent.”
Columbina opens her mouth to speak, only to find her breath caught in her throat. Around them, trees and blossoms alike start to bloom, rapidly unfurling and glowing in bright hues, as if welcoming the irresistible, sudden pull of the tides. She turns away, if only for a moment—her face feels too warm for a night under the Frost Moon.
Silence. Wind rustles through the moonlit grass. There is something she wants to say, too.
“...Arlecchino,” Columbina starts, her voice as soft as she feels right now, “Do you know what happens to the moon when it falls in love?”
“Hm?” Arlecchino crosses her arms in thought. Then she breaks out into an amused smile, glancing over at Columbina. “I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me. What happens?”
Columbina turns again. A gust of wind brings Moon-Prayer petals on the breeze, brushing past Arlecchino’s hair. Columbina, ever one for admiring pretty sights, gently plucks one just above her ear. “She becomes moonstruck.”
Arlecchino’s eyes go wide. Like a deer in lamplights, perhaps…no, that’d be Lauma. Like a lynx with its paw stuck in the snow, yes, Arlecchino’s eyes go wide, the tips of her ears slowly turning flame-red. “I—Columbina…”
Columbina has the strongest urge to giggle, but newly reinstated Moon Goddesses have certain auras to keep, don’t they? She settles on leaning ever closer to Arlecchino instead, soothing her own heart with a cool smile. “Yes?”
Arlecchino looks at her for a good second. Just as Columbina witnessed the Knave pull the moon down into the firmament…she now witnesses the Knave struggle to contain her smile. Columbina watches, in total wonder, as Arlecchino keeps chuckling — this quiet, almost silent wheeze, more like — before shaking her head to dismiss the sound.
“Miss Hyposelenia…” Arlecchino clears her throat, inching ever closer to Columbina. “Surely, you jest.”
“Hm? Why would I?” Columbina replies. “You’re the harlequin. That’s supposed to be your job.”
Now a laugh spills out from Arlecchino again. She sounds so real, so human, that flower fields bloom all at once in Columbina’s chest.
“I appreciate the reminder. Tell me, then.” A rough hand gently takes Columbina’s own, and soon she finds herself lacing her fingers between Arlecchino’s claws. “Have I been entertaining enough for you?”
“Oh?” At this, Columbina smiles. Come to think of it, her friend has been hard at work all these years, hasn’t she? She takes a moment to ponder on it. “Hm. You know, for a harlequin, you are quite funny.”
Arlecchino raises an eyebrow. “Quite?” she looks around and gestures at the glowing flowers. “I’d like to argue otherwise.”
O, Frost Moon above. Columbina wants to think of something funny to say, but nothing comes to mind! She can only smile—a terribly wide and happy smile, even—failing to bite back with the fun things she could so freely say with the Traveler or Sandrone.
“My mistake,” she sing-songs, holding onto Arlecchino’s hand. With a call from her heart, another Moon-Prayer blossom drifts toward her, which Columbina swiftly places in Arlecchino’s palm. “You’re very funny. Which means…we can trade even better jokes now, don’t you think?”
Arlecchino tucks the flower into her lapel with a graceful hand. Like the blush of the moon rising past twilight clouds, the slightest of pinks dust Arlecchino’s fair face. “I’m looking forward to it.”
(On the grassy path back to town, Arlecchino is stopped by an excited Luonnotar, who cannot seem to stop moving.
“Hm?” Arlecchino moves to pat the restless spirit. “How can I help you, little one?”
Luonnotar shakes her head. Arlecchino tilts her head in question—but the familiar rushes toward her all of a sudden, stirring the flowers around her as she places a small kiss on Arlecchino’s cheek.
Arlecchino blinks. Later, she will blame the flame that courses through her, but tonight she knows the heat that surges to her face is brought by something else entirely. Something she still cannot name, but has known all too well; something that sings in the very center of her heart.
She chuckles. “I’ll be sure to return the gesture,” she tells Luonnotar, who spins around her in delighted circles. With a fondness pulsing through her chest, Arlecchino raises her eyes to the sky. “Good night, Columbina.”
When the time comes to part beneath the moon, Arlecchino is alive with the promise of not only next time, but also now. Now, which entails: jokes that renew themselves. Laughter that flows like wine. The new moon above her. The flower tucked in her chest. A warmth that not only sustains, but is shared).