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“Pulonia,” Sandrone commands. “Place me at the top of that crescent structure at once.”
Columbina kicks her dangling feet absently as she listens to the artificial construct labor to carry Sandrone one-handed to her perch. The creaking, rumbling machinery noises echo in the still air of Silvermoon Hall, drawing a flock of curious kuuhenki from the field of flowers. Columbina giggles as the kuuhenki dart like minnows along the peripherals of her senses, leaving vivid smears of quicksilver along the muted canvas she perceives. Their excitement tickles in the back of her mind.
“And what, precisely, is so funny to you?” Sandrone fumes, that sharp voice much closer to her ear than before.
Columbina turns to face Sandrone's direction with a dreamy smile.
“I can float down to you more easily than you can be lifted to me... Why do you never ask me?”
Sandrone clucks her irritated tongue against her teeth. “If I don't request your assistance, then obviously, I don't need it,” she says tartly. “I can reach you just fine with Pulonia, so sit in whatever weird places you please.”
“Mm.”
“I take it this is how you waste your retirement,” Sandrone continues, sounding skeptical. “Taking naps and singing lullabies to your pet Seelies. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It's not like you did much else as the Damselette, but still! How can you stand having nothing to do? It's mind-numbingly boring!”
Columbina's idle thoughts drift as Sandrone natters on about nothing of import.
Sandrone has a full set of teeth, eyelashes and eyelids, tongue and vocal cords... Why bother adding all the little details to a puppet? Is all of Sandrone's anatomy a clever facsimile of humanity, or just the outside parts that need to fool the eye? With her sightless field of perception, Columbina's never been able to tell. Sandrone, to her, is vibrant with kinetic energy, always burning hot as her gears whir and whir, that key on her back twirling on in perpetual rotation. Somewhat ironically, Sandrone is always in motion.
Columbina wonders how the gears have any room if Sandrone has organs, too. Not that her own corporeal form gives up its mysteries easily. Neither of them had much of a chance of fitting in with regular humans.
“...Not Seelie. Kuuhenki,” Columbina corrects after a distracted moment. “The little ones are very talented. They make paintings and play games.”
“You can't see what they're painting,” Sandrone points out. “They could be terrible at it.”
“When they paint with kuuvahki, I can sense it... It feels skilled.”
“That's not the same,” Sandrone huffs. “Some proper mechanical aids could be of more use to you. I could set you up with some surveillance and security drones. Maybe an electric kettle to brew you tea, and a portable stove, to ensure you don't starve out here in the wilderness. Not that it really matters. You probably don't need to eat anything at all.”
Columbina pokes the smooth, unnaturally flawless surface of Sandrone's cheek to try and feel the teeth underneath. When Sandrone drinks tea with sugar, does she need to brush her teeth afterward, like Aino? Does Sandrone scrub her insides clean with soap and water, like washing the ceramic cups and saucers? Maybe Ineffa would know. Columbina could rarely find answers about these things in the Fatui, where information was currency no one was willing to part with.
“...Mhm. I don't need any of your machines. I have you to brew tea for me.”
“How presumptuous!” Sandrone bristles at her prodding touch. “I'm not here to fulfill your every whim like that cult of mooncalves who idolize you! Get them to serve you tea and crumpets, then. See if I care!”
Columbina tilts her head, letting waves of her loose hair spill past her shoulders. The questions keep piling up higher. Curious as her kuuhenki, she can resist no longer.
“Does Pulonia brush your teeth? Or do you just make new teeth to replace the ones that erode away?”
“Huh?!” Sandrone's voice pitches shrilly. “Where did that come from? Ugh! That's about all the stupidity I can stand. Pulonia, we're leaving!”
“See you next time,” Columbina sings after her.
No matter how much of a fuss Sandrone makes, no matter how mean she tries to be, there will always be a next time.
Arlecchino watches Columbina accept the gift basket handed to her with vague disapproval. She's too trusting.
That, or perhaps nothing of this world has ever truly been a threat to a divine being such as Columbina. To have existed for centuries in the cruel realm of man, and not have lost her sense of safety... Arlecchino cannot fathom how powerful one must be to be immune to mortality itself.
The clanks and clamor of Nasha Town fade to the background as Columbina rocks to and fro on her heels, eager to the point of impatience to unbox her treat. The basket weave is coarse beneath her searching fingers, but the contents she finds within it are smooth and round, forming a collection of firm, spherical objects she cannot see.
Columbina squeezes one experimentally, then holds it out to Arlecchino in question.
“Can I eat this?”
“Yes. They're Bulle fruits from Fontaine,” Arlecchino explains, a ghost of a smile flitting about the stern set of her lips. “You seemed to enjoy them last time you visited the House. I requested the younger children pick some as a gift for you. Lyney suggested candying them in sugar to better preserve them, but I'm given to understand you prefer fresh fruit above all else.”
“Mm. Peel them for me.”
Arlecchino takes a seat on a metal bench nearby and wordlessly obliges her.
A bright citrus scent soon fills the air as Arlecchino's violent claws pierce the peel and split it open, like skinning a fresh kill. She is just as methodical peeling fruit as she is opening ribcages and harvesting hearts. Spongey white pith and soft orange innards are eviscerated by her expert hand.
“...Ah. I do remember this flavor,” Columbina says, chewing thoughtfully. She's settled on the bench beside Arlecchino, looping one arm through Arlecchino's elbow to anchor herself. “Your children weren't afraid of me that time. They gave me their snacks. And... there were kittens. Lyney and Lynette let me pet them. They were very fuzzy.”
“Good,” Arlecchino says softly. “I hope your memories of the hotel are all pleasant ones.”
She presses crisp fruit slices into Columbina's waiting palm, then dutifully opens the next fruit for her, and the next. Columbina answers by humming to herself as she sways from side to side.
Closeness. Companionship. Family. There is a quiet but fierce devotion that burns in Arlecchino's chest, every bit as consuming as the hellfire smoldering in her veins. The ache of loneliness and rejection is one Arlecchino recognizes all too well after grueling years of turning a House into a home. If heat will forge a peaceful future for her loved ones to prosper in, Arlecchino will gladly make herself the kindling.
There is something melancholy about how easy to please Columbina is, about how simple her needs have always been. Why, then, were they never met until now?
Arlecchino has never known worship of the moon in the way that her bloodline practiced it, long ago, but she imagines it to be something akin to swallowing Moon Marrow and fasting for three days at the brink of Hyperborea, letting only faith sustain her.
Whatever Columbina Hyposelenia desires, Peruere will deliver.
“Sugar sculpture? This is basically a lollipop. Are you trying to treat me like a child? Is that it?”
“N... No offense intended, Lady Harbinger. People of all ages enjoy sweets.”
“Hmph! Dare to infantilize me again, and see where it gets you!”
“If my family's honey isn't to your tastes, there's no need for me to waste your time any longer...”
Facing the brunt of Sandrone's petty temper, Hunajatta forces a smile, throwing in a curtsey for good measure. No groveling, no tearful apology – disappointing. The Nod-Krai locals have lost all respect for the Fatui name. If Sandrone can't intimidate civilians whilst nestled in Pulonia's imposing palm, then what's the point of making public appearances at all? She might as well task Pulonia with fetching things from the festival while she stays comfortable inside the research facility, with all her mobility aids at her disposal, free from judgmental eyes.
She can hear children laughing behind her back. Laughing at the puppet that cannot move her limbs without her strings, no doubt.
“Don't make decisions for me, either,” Sandrone snaps. “Pulonia, bring me that sculpture. The one shaped like the little deer.”
Obediently, Pulonia lowers Sandrone to ground level. With a surprisingly delicate grip – hardware that Sandrone invested quite a bit of effort into perfecting, thank you very much – her automaton companion accepts the stick between two fingers, and holds the colorful sculpture to Sandrone's lips.
She bares her teeth and bites the head off with a vicious crunch.
It dissolves far too quickly to savor, in Sandrone's opinion, and it could use another flavor to contrast the cloying sweetness. As always, she sees the negatives far more clearly than the positives. It is, however, acceptable.
It's only once Pulonia rises and turns to march away that Sandrone realizes Arlecchino was behind her for the whole exchange. She sucks a breath through her teeth with a displeased hiss.
“You don't have to act like you don't enjoy candy on my account,” Arlecchino says coolly, arms crossed. “By all means. Continue.”
“Shut up,” Sandrone grumbles, although the acidity is less present in her tone. “Vendor! You should be storing your wares in airtight jars with a desiccant to control the amount of moisture they absorb. The humidity is why they fall apart in a day. It's basic science. I expect you to be less careless when I next see you.”
“Thank you, Lady Harbinger.”
Amusement flits across Arlecchino's dour features. She falls in step with Pulonia's long strides, matching their pace with no visible effort. “Usually you vent your frustrations on your underlings,” the Knave observes. “You must be in a foul mood indeed to browbeat the shopkeepers on Moon-Prayer Night.”
“Tch. I can't take you seriously when you're still wearing those embarrassing cat ears,” Sandrone complains. “Take them off already.”
“They are irrelevant to the discussion at hand,” Arlecchino deadpans. And: “You're wearing yours, too.”
“Well, it's not like I want Columbina to cry about me throwing them away!”
It occurs to Sandrone that the lingering eyes following her every move could have less to do with the spectacle of Pulonia ferrying her motionless marionette body, and more to do with her making a noisy scene whilst wearing cat ears, like some ridiculous street performer busking for Mora. Either way, she stands out too much. An all-too-familiar paranoia is creeping into the outskirts of her thoughts, undermining her self-control.
“S... stay with me, at least. So that we match,” Sandrone adds hastily. Self-conscious awareness churns in her artificial stomach.
“I am yours for the evening, then,” Arlecchino promises, voice low. “I won't leave your side.”
Arlecchino takes one of Sandrone's limp hands into her own, and presses a faithful kiss to unfeeling knuckles. Sandrone sputters in surprise. Red lipstick, on her white glove? The audacity! Were she capable of blushing, her face would be just as scarlet. The key on her back whizzes faster just to betray her.
“You... you... you just look so stupid saying that with cat ears!”
“Columbina would say otherwise.”
“How would she know? She is blind!”
It was never a simple task to gather three Harbingers at the same table. Whether the Knave had some covert business to attend to in the Court of Fontaine, or the Marionette was caught up in a programming project she couldn't be torn away from, or the Damselette had drifted barefoot into the snow in pursuit of little furred or feathered friends, someone's chair was usually left empty.
“This floral blend is mainly Fontainian lavender and rainbow rose petal. It should steep for at least - Hey! Are you even listening to me?!”
“Mm... it's hot...”
“Obviously! How many times do I have to remind you to wait for the tea to cool down first?! Pulonia, take her cup away until I say so!”
“Here. Take one of these scones. I believe you favored this bakery the last time we purchased refreshments.”
“Ugh, don't reward her for being impatient. She has no etiquette whatsoever! Raised by wolves!”
“Oh... It has berry jam inside. I like that...”
“Try it with a scoop of clotted cream. Pass me your plate, Columbina.”
“You're spoiling her! No wonder she expects to be waited on by everyone!”
“But... Pulonia is waiting on you...”
“Excuse me?!”
On those rare and special afternoons when they could take tea together, the normally cold and austere chambers of the Fatui stronghold became just the slightest bit brighter. Those scarce but treasured bright spots linger in eternal memory, three times over.