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“Sandrone.”
It feels like surfacing from a dream.
There’s a voice calling her, gentle and familiar—repeating again, more insistently, when she doesn’t respond.
“Sandrone. San-dro-ne~”
Opening her eyes is more difficult than it should be. Her eyelids are heavy, and it takes a fair amount of effort before she’s finally blinking them open, light flooding into her visual receptors.
Sandrone awakens in…her room. Yes, her room, back in Zapolyarny Palace, cast in the golden rays of dusk.
Strange, for a moment she could’ve sworn she was–
(“Go to hell, Dottore,” she’d snarled, feeling a sick satisfaction at the frown that appeared on his face, to know that she’d be the one getting the last laugh in the end—but also regret, so much regret and sorrow that she wouldn’t be around to see her again–)
No, where else would she be? She spends practically all her time in her workshop, after all, and it’s been a long time since she’s left Snezhnaya.
Aren’t you forgetting something? a voice in her mind whispers. Sandrone shakes it off with a scowl.
She’s standing at the doorway of the room, poised like she’s about to enter. She frowns. Had she suddenly run out of power just as she walked through the door?
“Sandrone,” the same voice from before calls again, clearer now.
Sandrone glances across her room. Everything seems to be exactly how she’d left it—tools scattered around her workbench, half-finished projects lying on the ground, Pulonia standing guard in the corner. But on her bed–
The girl sitting there smiles as Sandrone’s gaze settles on her, expression warm and amused. “You’re here.”
Sandrone blinks. “Columbina,” she says flatly. “What are you doing in my room?”
The girl just hums and tilts her head, sending a curtain of dark hair cascading over a shoulder. “Waiting for you, of course,” she says, voice light.
Something’s not right, the voice in Sandrone’s head whispers again, louder this time. Forgetting something. This is wrong.
Sandrone frowns, pushing the voice away. Nothing is wrong, she tells herself. What am I forgetting?
The voice is silent.
“Sandrone?” Columbina’s voice cuts through her thoughts. Her expression has turned concerned, brows furrowed together. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Sandrone repeats aloud, a tad more forcefully than intended.
Columbina’s expression makes it clear that she doesn’t buy it in the slightest. Sandrone sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s nothing,” she reiterates, making an effort to soften her voice. “Not important. What were you waiting for me for?”
Columbina’s face melts back into a smile, tone turning playful as she replies, “Do I need a reason to visit my friend?”
(“...That’s the only reason you’re here?”
“Yes. I’ve thought a lot about it, and I’ve realised that you, me, and Arlecchino should be friends.” A smile, delicate as spun glass. “I think this is very important, so I felt I had to come and tell you.”)
Sandrone rolls her eyes. “You’re insufferable,” she retorts without heat.
The other girl laughs—a sweet, bell-chime sound that causes Sandrone’s exasperation to fade away, turning reluctantly fond and soft at the edges. She turns her smile on Sandrone, patting the bed beside her. “Come sit with me.”
“It’s my room and my bed,” Sandrone mutters, a tad pettily. Still, she obeys, crossing the room to take a seat beside Columbina, sinking into the softness of the mattress.
Inexplicably, the other girl immediately moves closer—Sandrone had been careful to leave a few inches of space between them, but Columbina presses in so close that they’re basically thigh-to-thigh, her head dropping to rest on Sandrone’s shoulder.
At this distance, Sandrone can feel the faint warmth radiating from her in a perfect contrast to the coolness of Sandrone’s own artificial skin. She’s close enough to pick up on the floral scent of Columbina’s skin, the sound of every exhaled breath, the soft pink of her lips–
“What are you doing?!” Sandrone shrieks, launching herself in the opposite direction, cheeks undoubtedly coloured bright red.
Without Sandrone’s shoulder propping her up, Columbina promptly topples over into a graceless heap on the bed with a little oof. She rolls over and has the audacity to pout at Sandrone, as if she was the one who had been wronged. “Why did you move?”
“Why did I–? Why are you sitting so close, you idiot?!”
Columbina’s never been the type to seek out physical affection. Always tolerating, never initiating—the ever-present distance between her and the rest of the world tangible no matter the situation. Right now, though, she’s alive and real and so incredibly close, in a way that’s downright jarring to see.
(“I’ll miss you, Sandrone,” she’d whispered, voice soft and fragile, embrace so light it was nearly nonexistent.
Hands reaching out for a figure already turning away.
“...I’ll miss you too, Columbina.”
Late, always too late.)
“Don’t friends engage in things like this with each other?” Columbina asks. She hasn’t bothered to sit up, still sprawled out ungracefully on the bed.
“Wh– What’s with your sudden interest in how friends are ‘supposed’ to behave?” Sandrone snaps back, attempting to will the flush from her face.
Columbina just smiles, as infuriatingly calm as ever. “Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“And who’d want to be friends with you?”
Falling into this pattern of well-worn banter should be scary with how easy it is—far too vulnerable for someone like the Marionette, with her reputation.
As it is, though, it’s just…simple. Familiar, like coming home after a long day. Soft, despite the barbs thrown.
And maybe, just maybe, a part of Sandrone can’t help but feel a flutter at hearing Columbina refer to them as friends.
“We’re friends,” Columbina repeats, more firmly, as if she can hear Sandrone’s thoughts. “You, me Arlecchino, Rosalyne…maybe Capitano and Childe, too.”
“Absolutely not. I refuse to be lumped into the same category as Childe, of all people,” Sandrone says with a scoff.
Another bell-chime laugh, bright and gentle. Columbina’s smiling at her again, warm and so affectionate that Sandrone can feel the gears in her chest speeding up in their rotations.
“Don’t worry,” she says, sounding amused. “Sandrone is still my favourite, after all.”
Sandrone huffs. “Didn’t ask,” she grumbles, squashing down that stupid little flutter. “Now get up, you look like an even bigger fool than usual.”
Despite her words, though, Sandrone still silently offers a hand to help Columbina up, not protesting or moving away as the other girl slowly inches closer again to lean into her side, cuddled up like a particularly clingy cat.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long,” Columbina murmurs, the wings on her head brushing against Sandrone’s chin in the lightest of tickles. “It’s been a while since you’ve hosted a tea party."
“What are you talking about? It’s only been…” Sandrone hesitates. How long has it been? She furrows her brow, trying to remember, but coming up oddly empty.
You’re forgetting something, the voice in her head whispers again, insistent.
(“Will you invite me to your next tea party?”
“Huh?”
A giggle, light and airy. “Yes, I think you will. Bye-bye, dear Sandrone.”)
“Will you host another one soon?” Columbina asks hopefully. “All of our friends, together…” Her voice trails off, softer as she says, “I think it would be fun to see everyone again.”
Sandrone rolls her eyes, giving Columbina a light poke to her forehead. “Only if you don’t keep adding an ungodly amount of sugar to your tea and actually taste it, for once. I might as well be serving you some vaguely tea-flavoured hot sugar water.”
“I like it sweet, though.”
“That’s not the point,” Sandrone hisses, resisting the urge to shove Columbina right off her shoulder again.
Columbina just giggles, as unbothered as ever. “Alright, I promise,” she says easily, smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Sandrone doesn’t believe her for a second.
Still, she relents. “The next time that we’re all gathered in Snezhnaya, then.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Columbina replies, smiling. She’s begun to trace mindless little patterns onto the bedsheet between them—Sandrone tracks the movement of her finger with her eyes and finds them growing heavier and heavier with each passing second.
Why is she so tired today? What had she done to be this fatigued?
Just like before, no matter how hard Sandrone tries to remember, the memories slip away when she reaches for them, like water through her fingers. All she remembers is waking up in her room, but before that…nothing.
“What are you thinking about?” Columbina asks, voice soft. Her shoulder burns a warm line down Sandrone’s side.
Sandrone turns her head away. “...Nothing of importance.”
Columbina tips her head back to regard Sandrone with an oddly pensive expression, hand stilling its movement on the bedsheets. “You look tired, Sandrone.”
No, she wants to reply, to squash down every possible weakness before anyone can dig fingers into it to hurt. Yes, her traitorous body says instead—eyelids heavy and even the movement of the key on her back feeling more sluggish than usual.
Sandrone sighs. It’s just Columbina. “Maybe a little,” she admits, words falling from her lips far too easily.
“I can help with that!” Columbina suddenly brightens, sitting up and leaving Sandrone to pretend that she doesn’t instinctively try to chase after the other’s warmth. The Moon Goddess pats her lap, smiling. “Lie here.”
“Have you lost your mind?!” Sandrone splutters, cheeks rapidly erupting into a blush. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
“I can help,” Columbina repeats insistently. She pats her lap again, regarding Sandrone with a patient expression.
…
She’ll blame it on the tiredness later, Sandrone decides, already giving in and slowly leaning over to rest her head on Columbina’s thighs. Her mind feels foggy again, oddly detached from the rest of her body.
“Relax,” Columbina sing-songs. A hand gently runs through Sandrone’s hair and she stiffens up on instinct. “You’re so tense, like a coiled spring.”
“You’re the cause,” Sandrone retorts, though she does make an effort to follow the other’s instructions.
(“This battle was never about fate. It’s about friends…family… And the home you stole from them.”)
Columbina is warm, skin soft to the touch under Sandrone’s cheek. She’s started to hum—a beautiful, wordless melody that causes the remaining tension to dissipate from Sandrone’s body, a sense of calm washing over her like a wave.
They just…stay like that, for the next few minutes. Columbina continues to hum and card gentle fingers through Sandrone’s hair, all the while causing the latter’s eyelids to slowly droop further and further.
It’s peaceful, almost dangerously so.
“Sandrone,” Columbina whispers eventually, voice just the quietest breath. “Would you look at me, for a while?”
Sandrone groans, reluctantly rolling over so that she’s facing up, clockwork key pressing rather uncomfortably into the mattress. She forces her eyes back open, and Columbina–
Columbina stares right back at her with a smile—soft, slightly sad-looking, but not taking away from the mesmerising galaxies of pink and purple that meet Sandrone’s gaze unflinchingly. Her usual blindfold is nowhere in sight.
“You–” Sandrone starts, gazing up at those stunning, inhuman irises, filled with so much affection that she’s briefly rendered speechless.
“Long ago,” Columbina murmurs, tilting her head so that her hair falls in a dark curtain around them, blocking out the rest of the room. “I covered my eyes with a blindfold, such that I would not have to see all the ugliness in this world.”
(“This…loathsome world…” Even fading, he’d still found the strength to grit out, voice spiteful.
Eyes, long closed, are now open. “No,” she’d reply, soft but resolute. “This world is our home.")
“What changed?” Sandrone finds herself asking, still entranced by her gaze.
“I found the beauty of the world amidst all the ugliness,” Columbina says simply. She hesitates. “And I…wanted to see you, that’s all.”
Sandrone tips her head to the side, breaking their eye contact. Her cheeks feel warm. “Well. You see me.”
“I see you,” Columbina agrees—soft, intimate, like a confession. “I see you, Sandrone.”
Sandrone’s throat is oddly tight. She doesn’t trust herself to respond, just huffing out a breath, chest full of emotions she can’t name.
“You’ve worked so hard,” Columbina says, lightly tracing a finger up Sandrone’s cheek until she’s cradling the latter’s face in her palm. “You act tough, but you still do all these nice things for us, don’t you? Like– Like hosting tea parties for everyone, and importing different types of fancy treats, and looking after me all this time…”
Sandrone blinks, taken aback, but Columbina’s already continuing on, voice oddly thick. “I guess I just wanted to say…thank you, Sandrone, for everything that you’ve done for me. I truly do appreciate it.” A soft laugh, slightly rueful. “Rosalyne taught me to always express gratitude towards others, but I’ve just been taking you for granted this whole time.”
“Idiot,” Sandrone mutters, unable to summon up a single shred of her usual snark. She stares down at the floor, feeling the warmth of Columbina’s hand against her own cheek. “You were just so…pitiful-looking, that’s all. I didn’t do any of that for repayment.”
“I know. But I wanted to say that anyway, at least once.” When Sandrone glances back at Columbina, the other girl is still staring at her—that same melancholic smile on her face, slightly wobbly at the edges.
“You…” Sandrone begins, then sighs. “Never mind, forget it.”
Columbina’s hand moves from cupping her cheek to gently brushing a thumb back and forth in a soothing motion. Sandrone tries to pretend that she doesn’t lean into the touch.
She’s tired.
“Sandrone,” Columbina murmurs, impossibly gentle. “My dear Sandrone. Rest now, you’ve done well.”
It’s on the tip of Sandrone’s tongue to protest, to demand an explanation for Columbina’s strange behaviour, but the fog in her head is rising and pulling her deeper, deeper—filling her mind with static and her limbs with lead.
“Dormi cara columbula, o columbula mea…”
Columbina’s voice floats through the air like the finest silk, an irresistible siren song luring sailors from near and far. Sandrone’s not sure whether she’s imagining it, but the words sound almost mournful—like a funeral elegy instead of a lullaby. Unconsciously, her eyes flutter shut.
(A body, gone still. A key, no longer turning. Eyes newly opened, filled with grief.)
Through the fog in her head, Sandrone hears the rustle of fabric, followed by the briefest of pressures on her forehead, light as a butterfly’s kiss.
“Goodnight, Sandrone,” Columbina whispers, breath just barely ghosting across her skin. “Let’s have a tea party again one day…with all of our friends.”
Sandrone sleeps.
“Sandrone! Over here!”
There’s laughter and smiling, a tea table set for six. Five are already gathered around it.
A captain, face shrouded but posture relaxed.
A fair lady, blonde hair shining and painted red lips curved up in a smile.
A boy soldier, grinning and boisterous.
A knave, cutting a severe figure that’s offset by the teacup she has in hand.
And…
“Sandrone,” the girl smiles, hand outstretched. She’s dressed in flowing white, dark hair streaked through with magenta, eyes clear and filled with happiness. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Even if there’s no warm embrace wrapping you,
Please, have good dreams, sleeping with the Moon.