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It was impossible, Columbina thought, to ever forget the first time she had a cup of tea.
Although, it wasn’t as ideal as one might expect. For a goddess of the moon, she had many notable firsts in her encounters in Teyvat. She had her first devotees, after all. She was born into the world loved by the Frostmoon Scions, the object of their reverence. She hadn’t known, back then, that divinity encompassed receiving a love that nipped at her skin like frostbite. Every night, they’d gather and watch her sing under the pale moon. They’d worship her with trembling voices, they’d lay their offerings at her feet, and they’d love her the way mortals loved distant and luminous material things — desperately, fervently and endlessly.
They had always asked for more. Begged, even. For wealth. For blessings. For salvation. For things she could not give in the way she wished.
Faith, Columbina realized, was a double-edged sword. It was a daring confidence that could suffocate you when you got too swept up away in hoping.
So she left.
That had been a first too. But sometimes, to love was to let go. (Later in life, Columbina would have to relearn this lesson).
She came to the Tsaritsa and the Tsaritsa had come to her with an offer, like a lighthouse at shore beckoning weary sailors riding stormy seas home. Kuutar was a myth now, and in her stead was The Damselette, 3rd of The Fatui Harbingers. Perhaps she’d been recruited strategically, but what mattered was the first feeling of home, the sense of belonging, that pulsed in her heart.
The Fatui were morally twisted in their own way, that much was true, but they were the first group of people Columbina could ever consider friends (for lack of a better word). They were bound by purpose and the will of the Tsaritsa.
And being a Harbinger, Columbina learned, came with tea parties.
Despite the intimidating nature of its attendees, her first tea party with the Fatui made her feel warm and fuzzy. Looking back on it, it felt less like a front for intelligence gathering with her ex-colleagues and more like an intimate meeting. Trays of silver lined the table and the aroma of freshly baked pastries, coffee and tea blended together with the heady scent of nocturnal blossoms exuded by the candle placed in the center.
“My, you’ve outdone yourself, Sandrone.” Across her, Rosalyne took her seat, complimenting the host and table setting. She’d then asked about Tartaglia’s whereabouts, and Capitano, with his immovable composure, answered that the 11th of the Fatui Harbingers was dealing with certain family matters.
“How unfortunate.” Arlecchino let out a soft, humorless laugh, “It’s not often that Sandrone prepares macarons for us, after all.”
And with that, Columbina’s senses heightened. The inner workings of kuuvahki that made her see the world differently, shifted her attention towards the host.
Sandrone. The Marionette, 7th of the Fatui Harbingers. An ex-colleague, a friend. (In the future, Columbina’s own undoing.)
First, Columbina listened to the clink of porcelain, teacups being arranged, and then to the subtle shifts and breaths in posture that spoke more loudly than words ever could.
“Now then, coffee or tea?”
Sandrone’s voice cut through the air. She sounded exasperated, having spent her day experimenting with machines and conducting more research. It was that precise irritated tone and hiss in her voice that made Columbina think she was like the steam escaping a kettle nearing its highest boiling point. Sandrone lay out the cups before her with mechanical exactness and the cutest pout on her face, Columbina couldn’t help but think what might trigger her into scowling outright.
The other harbingers named their preferences first. Arlecchino and Capitano liked their coffee black. Rosalyne opted for tea, a calming chamomile. Columbina, at the time, did not know what any of those liquids even were.
So she faced Sandrone with a small grin playing across her face. And she asked, her voice soft and honest, “Sandrone, would you please tell me how coffee and tea differ?”
And oh, did she get exactly the reaction she wanted.
Sandrone tilted her head, brows drawing inward. She was in the middle of passing the others’ coffees across the table when Columbina asked. She set down the pot, shooting her a look of disbelief that said: A goddess can’t differentiate coffee and tea? Were you born yesterday?
Sandrone huffed with barely contained irritation, crossing her arms and explaining, “Coffee comes from roasted beans while tea comes from leaves. Coffee’s usually bitter, unless you add sugar or creamer. Tea could be earthy or robust, depending on your preference. So, what do you want, Columbina?”
Columbina wanted Sandrone.
She wanted to know her. She wanted to know what it was like to live with a rotating key constantly attached to her back. Wanted to see the whirring cogs of her brain, the way she seemed to carry her duties so effortlessly. Wanted to see that adorable scowl forever etched on her face, directed towards her only. Wanted to know if a moon goddess and a puppet were in any way compatible (But she didn’t know what she truly wanted then, even when the answer stood right in front of her).
She wanted to know what it was about Sandrone that drew her in from the moment they met.
Instead, Columbina hummed, “Tea.”
Sandrone reached for the teapot, “Do you want sugar in your tea, Columbina?”
She had said her name with so much distaste, such a dry edge to it, that Columbina let out a small laugh under her breath. She didn’t understand the question in the way it was meant to be understood. Sugar was sweetness, sweetness was pleasant, and that too, was a preference. She let the question linger for a second before letting something else take root.
Columbina wanted—
What did she want again?
Ah yes, she thought. A reaction. A fracture in Sandrone’s mechanically perfect composure. She’d willingly be the anomaly in an equation just so Sandrone could commit her to memory.
Because before Columbina ever had her first cup of tea, she’d already made her first attempt at flirtation.
“No need for that, Sandrone,” She said, “You’re sweet enough for me.”
The entire room seemed to be robbed of breath: Arlecchino choked slightly on what might have been a laugh, Rosalyne’s teacup clicked louder against its saucer before she took a sip of the drink to hide her reaction, and even Capitano somehow looked like he was stewing in secondhand embarrassment beneath the mask.
Sandrone did not react. She only froze for a second, her eyes widening and lips thinning into a straight line for Columbina to assume her screws and bolts were tightening in a futile attempt to maintain her politeness function.
Ah, my first success, Columbina thought.
(Was it, really?)
Sandrone turned away for a moment, letting out a dismissive breath. She delicately raised the remaining teacup and poured black tea from another pot, her nose scrunching up as though she had a motive behind serving tea (she absolutely did). Before Columbina knew it, Sandrone had stood from her seat and walked up to her side, holding out the drink to her with a demanding tone.
“Drink it.”
And who was Columbina to say no to her?
She didn’t even bother to take a small peek through her eye mask to assess the drink’s color before taking the porcelain cup from her and bringing it to her lips, swallowing (Even back then, she’d already blindly trusted Sandrone).
Oh.
The taste was immediate. It was bitter, overwhelmingly so. It took a moment’s notice for Columbina to realize the tea was black, which explained its bolder aftertaste. It spread across her tongue, dark and unpleasant, unlike anything she’s ever experienced. Did Sandrone just poison her?
Well, she did instruct her not to add sugar. Perhaps there was nobody else to blame but herself.
“Well? Did you like it or what?”
“Uhm…” Columbina lowered the cup, “I do.”
She absolutely did not. She was lying because she wanted to appease her, but it was all for naught. Sandrone seemed to see through her lie anyway, the way a triumphant grin spread across her face, satisfied that she got back at her for that irrelevant ‘you’re sweet enough for me’ comment.
But Columbina found that she’d rather latch onto that grin of hers like a vice than have nothing at all. She’d poison herself over and over if it meant preserving Sandrone’s smile.
Even when Sandrone happily returned to her seat, Columbina’s stare still trailed on the key at her back, lingering like the tea on her tongue. Her first attempt at flirtation was an utter failure, but she knew she'd stick around long enough to make her second attempt.
And she did. She most certainly did.
The second attempt, however, was a stark contrast to that of the first. It came during a night of grief, when the typical Sneznhayan snowstorm brought about a rough breeze that rattled against the windows. Still, the piercing cold was nothing compared to the somber atmosphere that enveloped Sandrone's private workshop.
Who in their right mind wouldn’t feel the slightest bit woeful? Rosalyne had just died.
From now on, there would always be a seat left missing at their tea parties, the illusion of a crimson moth flying about the space, in search of its owner. Losing a colleague, a friend, was a foreign concept to Columbina, and she’d have to deal with that grief for the days to come.
It was exactly that complicated mix of emptiness and body malaise that led Columbina here — in Sandrone’s bed, tangled up in the wool blankets like she belonged there as her hair spilled across the pillows without the slightest trace of shame. She hung her arm lazily over the edge of the mattress and rested the other beneath her cheek.
A goddess like her rarely got sick, but her temperature was certainly a bit higher than normal. And so, like she always did when she felt uneasy and sought a safe haven, she fled to Sandrone’s quarters.
Sandrone’s bed was always warm.
She’d been humming a song for the past five minutes now, the same melody she sang when she had been leaning against Rosalyne’s coffin at the Fatui’s gathering just hours ago. Columbina hoped that humming a tune would eventually lull her to sleep, but it was rather hard to succumb to rest when she left the door partially open. All she could notice was Sandrone, her object of distraction (affection), rushing back and forth with a wrench in hand, and occasionally stopping in her tracks to shoot her a look of disapproval.
Perhaps that was her way of coping with loss: working. Columbina wouldn’t expect any less from her.
Sandrone stopped by the doorway again, staring intently, as though thinking over what she should do about Columbina occupying her bed once more. When Columbina moved to the side facing her and smiled, Sandrone only clicked her tongue and vanished immediately.
Hmm, now I’m curious. Columbina's smile grew wider. She and Sandrone had grown significantly closer since the first time she’d turned her quarters into her personal nap room. When she first slept here, Sandrone had woken her up to scold her, and then offered her coffee and some tasty Fontainian bread mere moments after. She opened up to her about the Frostmoon Scions, while Sandrone shared some details about her creator and her puppet nature. It was only then that Columbina realized she was exactly where she wanted to be — a place where she can simply exist as herself with someone who was willing to see her and accept her for who she was.
Not Kuutar. Not a goddess. Just Columbina.
And it was especially odd, that ever since she knew how Columbina felt about her quarters, Sandrone hasn’t dared to throw her out since.
Certainly, it was a sign that their friendship was growing deeper.
And then, to her surprise, Sandrone finally entered the room. She heard porcelain clink against metal, and immediately pushed herself upright to a sitting position.
Sandrone carried a silver tray, two cups and a plate of madeleines resting atop of it, along with a smaller saucer stacked with sugar cubes and two teaspoons laid carefully side by side.
Oh… Columbina just. Stared. Slowly, warmth bloomed somewhere beneath her ribs, and she was sure it had absolutely nothing to do with her possible fever.
Sandrone came to her for a private tea party. How sweet of her.
Sandrone avoided looking at her as she set the tray down on the nightstand beside the bed. With her hands resting on her hips, she muttered, “You look terrible.”
Columbina tilted her head, “Oh. Are you concerned about me?”
“Ugh, that’s not—” Sandrone crossed her arms, “You’re a goddess! How are you even sick?”
“I’m feeling under the weather, that’s all.” It wasn’t, but Columbina only laughed softly, “Why do you ask? Do you have a new function that suddenly makes you see the sick?”
And when she laughed, Sandrone made a face that looked like maybe she never regretted entering the room at all. She retorted, a cutting edge to her words, “You just rephrased what being sick is! And no, I do not have that function. But I’m not stupid, Columbina—”
Sandrone reached out to touch her.
Columbina felt her lips part slightly in surprise when Sandrone rested the back of her palm against the base of her neck. She’d only done it to assess her temperature, but her touch was oh so gentle, fleeting, that Columbina had it registered in her threshold of memories.
“See? You’re burning up,” Sandrone stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “Well, at least you regained some color. You looked worse an hour ago.”
Ah, the realization settled. So that was what the fuss was all about. Why Sandrone kept stopping at the doorway.
Sandrone was checking in on her.
With visible irritation, Sandrone turned away from the bed and demanded, “You stay here. Don’t fall asleep, and please don’t try to knock down the silverware.”
Columbina gave a quiet nod of acknowledgement before Sandrone disappeared into the adjoining room. It took only a minute until Columbina heard the sound of a kettle whistling.
Sandrone stepped back inside carrying two pots, making Columbina straighten her back and gather the blanket loosely around her shoulders to create space. (She wanted to look softer, more fragile, more drowsy, just so that Sandrone couldn’t resist taking care of her). Sandrone began pouring a familiar dark brown liquid from the first pot into one of the teacups, earning Columbina’s attention.
Delighted, she asked, “You made coffee for me?”
Truth be told, after multiple tea parties, Columbina found that coffee was somehow even more bitter than the first sip of black tea she’s ever tasted. But she also learned that Sandrone drank coffee more often than she drank tea. She definitely needed that much caffeine to keep up with the work she does. And so, Columbina decided that she, too, would drink coffee. That was her rule: What Sandrone liked, she would like too. (Was that not how you loved someone? By hammering your body into whatever they liked best, and then handing yourself to them like a hilt?)
“Oh, this isn’t for you. The coffee’s mine,” Sandrone corrected, lowering the pot on her other hand to pour something else, “The acidity from coffee is only going to upset your stomach. You’ll be having tea tonight. Tea’s better when you’re sick. It’s mostly water, after all, so that means you’ll be more hydrated.”
After throwing in a sugar cube and giving it a quick stir, Sandrone set down the tea in front of her. It was chamomile, Rosalyne’s favorite, redolent of her reckless passion. Simultaneously, the perfect herbal concoction to soothe Columbina’s unpleasant feeling.
There was another selfish part of Columbina that hoped Sandrone would keep explaining. She liked listening to her talk, but she supposed she couldn’t take up too much of her time.
Columbina raised the cup to her lips and drank. The tea was much smoother. Sweeter, too. She instantly recalled their first tea party together when she agreed to having tea void of sugar, giggling.
(Unbeknownst to her, a strange warmth spread beneath Sandrone’s collar at the sound of her laugh).
“Aw, you remembered?” Columbina teased, alluding to that specific moment, “I thought you’d forgotten about that.”
“How could I forget? You made a fool of yourself!”
“Maybe I did,” Columbina said, “But I also couldn’t forget when you poisoned me.”
Sandrone took a sip from her coffee before rolling her eyes, “I did not poison you. It’s not my fault you couldn’t handle black tea. And besides, you deserved it.”
“Well, thank you.” Columbina’s features softened, her tone filled with gratitude, “For remembering what I liked.”
“It’s…It’s nothing,” Sandrone’s grip on her cup wavered at Columbina’s words, porcelain echoing against the nightstand’s surface embarrassingly loud when she set it down again. She reverted back to muttering to herself, “Archons, how are you somehow more touchy and intolerable when you’re sick?”
“Hm. I wouldn’t say that. You brought me tea, let me make a blanket nest on your bed, and you haven’t tried to throw me out at all,” Columbina shrugged as she listed out the facts, “Which brings me to my conclusion: you care about me, Sandrone.”
Sandrone looked like a deer caught in headlights, feeling a buzz run down her spine to make her back shoot up ramrod straight. She huffed, feigning denial, “Don’t get ahead of yourself! I just— I’m tolerating you because you’re sick and I came to give you tea. So don’t even try to romanticize it.”
“So if you only came to bring me tea…” Columbina paused to return her tea to the tray, and then, “Why are you still here? Why stay?”
Outside, the icy wind still howled and banged against the windows. Sandrone decided that would be her excuse. She said firmly, “It’s cold.”
(She wasn’t very good at lying, was she?)
“Ah,” Columbina started, her thoughts forming into what she believed to be the perfect opportunity for her second attempt at flirtation. It was the best setting imaginable, honestly. Columbina was on her bed, Sandrone was feeding her, trying to rid her of illness. The workshop could be rained down with a big heap of snow at any moment but this invisible force that tugged between them was anything but cold. “You came to me tonight because you were cold and I’d be of use to you…”
A beat passed.
“Use me, then,” Columbina said sweetly, shifting the blanket and moving to the farther side of the bed. She lifted an arm in invitation, “I’m all yours.”
Silence.
Utter silence.
The room dimmed beneath the amber glow of lamplight, softening the harsh steel edges of the workshop into something gentle. Just like the patient but sightless stare Columbina was sending Sandrone’s way. A sudden, violent heat crept up Sandrone’s face and the beating of her heart turned frantic — and Columbina sensed every bit of it.
Sandrone was red.
Huh, Columbina thought. She didn’t know puppets were capable of doing that.
Sandrone turned her head away from her, hand rising halfway to cover her face before stopping abruptly as the action could only make things look worse on her end. “You— do you even hear yourself when you say things like that?!”
Columbina shook her head, “No. But I know you’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“It’s warm in here, okay?!”
“You’re a terrible liar, Sandrone,” Columbina clicked her tongue this time, “Earlier, you said it was cold.”
Sandrone appeared taken aback, a strangled sound somewhere between frustration and embarrassment leaving her lips.
Finally, Columbina smiled, a successful attempt.
“Fine…” Eventually, Sandrone relented. At last, she said, “Move over.”
Columbina obeyed, shifting toward the headboard to make space and ensure she wouldn’t bump into the key on Sandrone’s back. Sandrone, meanwhile, first sat at the edge of the bed, and then very reluctantly, fully settled beside the goddess. The bed dipped slightly at the added weight, but warmth spread through the sheets instantly when Sandrone laid her head against one of the pillows to face her.
“See?” Columbina hummed, “Isn’t this better?”
Sandrone just looked at her. Really looked. A thousand things were running through her head, but all that left her lips was, “Are you feeling better?”
Columbina didn’t even hesitate, “Yes. Yes, I am.”
The storm continued outside, snow forcefully hitting glass while machinery hummed low and steady inside the workshop. Within minutes, tea and coffee were left to cool as Sandrone and Columbina fell asleep, tangled in each other’s warmth despite not touching.
That night, Columbina had a good dream. She dreamt of home. Except, home no longer looked like the moonlight scenery and the altar where the Frostmoon Scions knelt in worship.
Oddly enough, home only evoked the scent of machine oil, pastries and coffee.
・・・・・
Every bed is cold without Sandrone in it.
But Arlecchino doesn’t speak of her name. Neither has Lauma. Not even the Traveler…In fact, no one does.
It’s not like Columbina has made it a rule, but for some reason, none of them dare. No one dares to bring up the loss of The Marionette, not in casual conversation, not even in passing.
Perhaps, this unspoken rule was for the best.
Columbina was no stranger to death. First, they had lost Rosalyne. Capitano followed not long after. The sadness and loneliness stemming from loss had always lingered, maybe it never truly left, but she was always carrying this feeling around. She’d carried that weight when she left the Frostmoon Scions, when her physical form was fading, when she was searching for her true name, and when she intentionally escaped into the moon’s reflection.
But Columbina doesn’t know what counts as death for a puppet. Doesn’t know what to do about the gaping hole inside of her, sinking her into an indescribable emptiness.
She stayed a long time with Sandrone’s body, before Arlecchino transported her remains to the Fontaine Research Institute. She confessed everything she wished she could have said when Sandrone was still alive. Regrets, several indiscreet promises, pleas of desperation, beseeching her to come back, sounding like, aching like: Come back and complain about my singing. Come back and call me intolerable. Shout at me, bicker with me, break my heart, if you must. Just come back to me, please.
She can’t even sleep her day away, to rid herself of all thought and feeling. She can’t close her eyes without seeing Sandrone in her head, can’t lay against a soft surface without feeling her skin crawl at the memory of Sandrone hugging her back during Moon Prayer Night.
So she does the opposite. She stays awake.
In the few weeks that has passed since Sandrone’s death—No, she just stopped moving, she can be fixed—she’d been following a routine.
Columbina would make tea.
It was difficult at first, to learn how to do something she’d been so accustomed to having someone else do for her. But it eventually brought that familiar warmth back, to a time when fate was not yet cruel. When the snow was relentless but even more so the warmth of tea Sandrone had made her swallow.
Columbina thinks she already loved Sandrone by then, or would soon, or always had. It was inevitable with how close they were, like a prophecy foretold. When she opens her eyes and looks up, she will see the false sky. When she fights, she will find a way to win.
When she meets Sandrone, she will love her.
And so, she developed a habit. She’d head to the Curatorium of Secrets weekly where the Traveler, the Moonchanter and Nefer update her on Arlecchino’s findings back in Fontaine. As her way of thanks, she’d ask them to sit by the waiting area and prepare them tea, and specifically, one extra cup of coffee.
It’s for no one, really. But no one questions it. Because this cup was special — it was Columbina’s deepest desire made manifest.
For Sandrone to come home, just before the coffee gets cold.