Chapter Text
It started with a petal; dove white and crushed in the palm of Sandrone’s hand, cast away into a sea of likewise hoarfrosted flowers.
It started with a rumor; of a beautiful, blind maiden given the third seat of eleven by merit of beauty alone. A rumor carried by the algid winds of Snezhnaya.
Impossible, she had thought. Her Majesty the Tsaritsa and her ideals, they could not be so shallow. Sandrone refused the prospect.
Besides, who would she even like in this frost-laden palace?
It began in the palace gardens, with the soft crunch of snow beneath thick-soled leather boots, amidst snowdrops and hyacinths, with the ethereal singing of the moon-maiden permeating deeper than the frost of the Snezhnayan Everwinter.
A curtain of black and deep magenta hair in the midst of muted greens and blooms of the Tsaritsa’s gardens, nested in a fur coat just as white as the snow that sank beneath their boots. Columbina, the Damselette, singing a distant lullaby to the moon that hung in the sky.
Sandrone stood behind a hedge as she took in the sound of the maiden’s voice, hazy yet every bit captivating all the same. Her boots had sunk into the snow as she stood there, having let the sound of the Damselette’s singing wash over her, peering past the leaves of the hedge for a clearer glimpse at her newest colleague.
The Damselette’s eyes were veiled behind a mask of fair moonlight; lids closed with serene grace. Her lips were curled with a soft smile, even as the bitter cold lashed at her cheeks and her cool, pink lips.
For a fleeting moment, Sandrone knew. This girl was to be her undoing.
The Damselette turned towards Sandrone’s position behind the bushels, her gaze fixated on the Seventh Harbinger behind closed lids.
The Marionette averted her gaze, and hurried across the snow-swept gardens of Zapolyarny Palace.
—————
The Marionette, oft so cold and distant, found herself trekking to the gardens the next morning.
She was just taking a morning stroll.
At least, that was what she told herself as she wound through the winter heaths and cornflowers, drawn towards the melody that spilled from the Damselette’s lips.
Oft would the fair dame’s gaze flit to the bushels where Sandrone was hidden, as if noting the Marionette’s presence. Never at all did she otherwise acknowledge her coworker’s presence.
Thus was the arrangement; Sandrone would leave her office for the gardens at half-past eleven sharp, strolling among the everwinter blooms and frost until the clocks struck noon.
Then came the first petal, a peculiar bloom of velvety white, coughed into her silk-gloved palm, cast off into the hoar-frosted grove.
—————
Columbina looked at Sandrone’s coffee once. She spent an eternity clinging to the dark liquid still in her porcelain mug, silently begging, praying that the Damselette would say something, anything about it.
“Shouldn’t you be drinking engine oil instead?”
Mayhaps anything but that.
Sandrone scoffed, and downed the dregs of her coffee.
It only tasted bitter today.
—————
One petal became two. Then two became four. The coughing only increased with every passing day, every glance she stole in the gardens, every comment Columbina made about her.
They were…friends, now?
She came to know the Damselette’s name. Columbina, she said. Her codename was as close to a name the moon maiden had.
The Damselette would attend her tea parties, and sing by her door in the middle of the nighthe night, whilst Sandrone was toiling at her desk. She would nap in Sandrone’s bed in the day, eat her snacks before the tea parties even started. Worst of all, Sandrone would let her. Sandrone would let her sleep in her bed, oft standing by watching the damsel sleep. She would bake treats just for Columbina’s taste, and brew teas for her to sample. During her own tea parties, she would find herself so enamored, having lost the conversation in the depths of her mind thinking of her.
Sandrone couldn’t afford to hold so many tea parties anymore. Her work was beginning to pile up on her desk. She couldn’t even take her daily strolls through the gardens any longer. Sandrone would spend her days toiling away in her office, the Fatui Research Institute for days on end.
And Columbina would sing at her door, the same heavenly melody she sung in the gardens would permeate the heavy wood, past the gloom of Sandrone office, into the Marionette’s head. She welcomed it at first; it was a much welcome distraction from her duties as Harbinger.
But Columbina’s lullaby would only agitate the flowers blooming in her chest. Sandrone would chase the Damselette from her door in faux anger; born from a desperate plea to rid her office of any lingering traces of her.
It was much easier to manage prior. So much easier.
Snezhnaya does not believe in tears. Harbingers must never show weakness.
Her personal bathing quarters came to be filled with these intrepid blooms, blossom after blossom, only more bloodied as they increased in number. Sandrone could never quite be rid of them; there was always a stray petal befallen in the corners of her quarters, by the bedspread, in her chest of drawers.
It wouldn't have bothered her so much if Columbina didn't take any and every opportunity to loiter about in Sandrone’s quarters. The Damselette seemed to take much pleasure in invading her spaces as of late; sleeping in Sandrone’s bed, inviting herself to tea with Sandrone, singing that stupid, irritating lullaby at her bedside every damn night…the list went on and on.
Sandrone’s coughing only exacerbated with Columbina’s presence, each cough staining her ivory white handkerchief with blooms of crimson. The liquid seeped past the corners of her lips as her mouth filled with those sultry, velvet petals.
Despite all her nagging and shoving, Columbina would stay.
Sandrone’s quarters have reeked of blood and lilies for weeks now. The scent clung to her walls like the tobacco Pantalone smoked, sticky and unrelenting. Her silk handkerchiefs now carried faint blotches where her blood stained the fabric, as were the scarlet splatters that frequented her bedsheets.
Did Sandrone want Columbina to stay? Amidst the peculiar flowers and blood soaked rags of her personal quarters?
Sandrone didn’t know. Either way, she was in no state to usher Columbina from her bed.
Now she stood hunched over her bathroom sink, watching the maroon of her blood drip from between her gloved fingers onto the porcelain of the sink. It mingled with the residual water, leaving a watery vermillion in its wake as the fluid slithers towards the drain in a cacophony of reds.
Her hand trembled as Sandrone withdrew her gloved palm from her mouth.
A full blossom lay between her fingers; petals, pistils, stem and all—the bright, creamy white of each part coated with the fresh scarlet of her blood. The stray petals that accompanied it had scattered across the tiled floors, splatters of blood laying by their spritely forms.
Sandrone forced her gaze from the sink. Her hands were clutching the rim of the vessel with such tenacity, she could have sworn the porcelain had malformed.
The silvery plane of her mirror was now adorned with specks of her blood.
The woman in the mirror stared back at Sandrone. Her knuckles were white from gripping the sides of the sink too tightly, her face bearing a deathly pallor, even in the warmth that bathed the surface of her aspect. A thin stream of blood formed at the corner of her lips, having dripped upon the white of her blouse. Her lips too, were bloodied, swollen lightly with deep burgundy blotches.
Another coughing fit ravaged the Harbinger, throwing her sickly body onto the tiled floor, hunched over on her knees, braced on one arm. Her free hand hung weakly by her jaw, to stifle the coughing, petals, blood, anything.
Petal after petal fell from her mouth, from between her fingers as that hand fell to the floor too. Sandrone’s blood spilt over the dark grey tiles in pools beneath the befallen blooms. The marble was cold beneath the wool of her dress; dampened and chilled with perspiration.
How pathetic, she grimaced. Mere months earlier, she was fully convinced that she was impervious to the throes of human emotion. Sandrone was a puppet. She should, by all accounts, be immune, all cold and haughty as the Seventh of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, perfect, and unwavering in principle.
Now, Sandrone laid curled up on her bathroom floor, coughing up all these fucking flowers, all for a girl so far out if her league, she might as well lay behind the false firmament.
All for this fucking Damselette.
—————
Sandrone’s hands fumbled for her handkerchief. To dab the blood from the corners of her mouth, even if it will soon return, just as crimson as it were now.
Columbina can’t see her like this. Sandrone refused the mere thought of it.
She dabbed the blood from her face, rising to her feet to face the mirror once more.
Her bonnet sat askew upon her disheveled hair. That’s okay. She can fix it. Splotches of red bloomed on her blouse. That's alright. She'll just change her clothes.
A rustle of the bedsheets. Then footsteps padding towards the door. The light turning of the cold brass doorknob, barely audible against the frigid winds of Snezhnayan everwinter.
The bathroom door was pushed open with little haste. Sandrone swiveled around, bloodied handkerchief still hung loosely between her fingers, hands trembling as they clung onto the rim of the sink behind her, faint traces of blood still stubbornly lingering on her face.
Columbina stood in the doorway, vestments rumpled and wrinkled from sleep, her eyes masked beneath that same veil of moonlight, yet her gaze seemed to take in the sight of Sandrone standing by the sink, her brows furrowed in concern.
Could Columbina even see?
“Sandrone…” the Damselette’s hand—slender, perfect, adorned in frost white ribbon—reached out for Sandrone’s; rough, shaking, hidden beneath bloodied gloves.
Sandrone pressed her back closer to the mirror. Away from Columbina.
“Go away! Some manners you have barging into my bathroom, you impudent excuse of a goddess!” It sounded too hoarse. “Don’t you hear me? Scram!”
”You didn’t lock the door,” Columbina stated matter-of-factly, stepping into the threshold, “besides, you don’t sound alright.”
Columbina took another step closer to Sandrone—too close. Sandrone took another half-step back. Her heart was ramming in her chest; it beat so hard and fast, it was beginning to hurt.
“Like I care! Get…Get out! Leave me alone!”
The desperation was beginning to seep into her voice. Sandrone couldn’t breathe. Her lungs refused to draw air, instead clawing at the substance in starved, rushed inhales.
“No.”
Columbina’s gaze scanned the space; to the speckles of blood that splattered the looking glass and floor, to the blossoms that laid so brightly against the spectre gray marble, drifting to the pallor of Sandrone’s porcelain face, and into the depths of her rich cobalt eyes.
They seemed so sad.
”You don’t have to lie, Sandrone,” Columbina closed the gap between them, her arms placed on her fellow Harbinger’s back, rubbing circles on her heaving shoulders, “There, there…deep breaths…”
A tear pricked the corner of Sandrone’s eye, then another. Hot, bitter, resentful, even, as it rolled down her cheek, dripping onto the fabric of Columbina’s garments.
Stupid. Stupid Columbina, making her feel this way. Stupid Columbina, holding her like she mattered. Stupid.
She was such an idiot letting this happen. Such an idiot falling for Columbina in the first place.
Another fit of coughing tore through Sandrone’s body, throwing her frame further onto Columbina, supported only by Columbina’s arms wrapped around her torso. The petals choked up in her throat spilt over Columbina’s shoulders, caught in the gossamer threads of her gown. Tears mixed with the blood that spilt from her lips as they rolled down Sandrone’s face, dripping scarlet on Columbina’s bare shoulders.
Columbina held Sandrone closer in her arms, rubbing her back to ease up the coughing, the rate at which petals fell from her lips. Sandrone only bawled louder, wailing into Columbina’s shoulder in an unbecoming display.
It’s not fair.
—————
Sandrone’s breathing slowed after what felt like an eternity’s worth of time, though it never quite seemed to lose that raspiness that followed each pained inhale and exhale. The tears have stopped flowing from her eyes, though the brilliant cobalt remained misty with the remnants of her tears. Sandrone’s chin rested on Columbina’s shoulder, her arms wrapped loosely around the Damselette’s waist. Her eyes were half-lidded now, as she leaned her weight onto Columbina.
Her beloved Damselette’s was the closest thing to emotional stability Sandrone had.
”Who is it?” Columbina asked as her hand stroked Sandrone’s back, coaxing the other Harbinger as her sobs died down.
”None…none of your business,” Sandrone buried her face into Columbina’s shoulder.
”It’s okay, you can trust me.”
It’s not like she didn’t trust Columbina.
But there was a ‘no’ to follow if she did say a word, wasn’t there?
”Sandrone?”
”I said, it’s NONE of your business!” Her voice wavered a little, like a chipped record.
”Alright, I won’t force you to.”
Sandrone made a muffled grunt of approval into Columbina’s shoulder.
“But you do know, if you do nothing at all now,” Columbina’s hands slid down to take Sandrone by the wrist, “you’ll choke and die on these blooms, right?”
Sandrone nodded.
These flowers…they bloomed for Columbina. They were hers.
”Surely, you want to live? There has to be a way, we can still save you now…” Columbina’s voice trailed off. Sandrone pressed a finger against Columbina’s lips.
It still reeked of her blood.
Sandrone shook her head, almost languidly, rested fully against Columbina’s torso.
She’d rather lose a thousand lifetimes to these fucking flowers, than profess an unrequited love in this life.
They can meet again in some other life. Some other world. It’s too late for her now, anyway.
“Sandrone…?”