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Columbina's lively laughter and Sandrone's indignant screams filled the room as another pillow struck its mark. Even Arlecchino, had been drawn towards them, her composed expression betraying the faintest hint of amusement.
Just as Columbina prepared to launch another attack, a pillow came flying from the side, hitting her squarely in the face. Arlecchino smirked and let her arm drop, having already subtly chosen Sandrone’s side.
“That’s not fair!” Columbina laughed, already reaching for another pillow.
Signora watched them from the side, a soft chuckle escaping her lips despite her best efforts to retain some semblance of dignity. As one of the eldest among them, she ought to have been the voice of reason, yet she found herself captivated by their childish display. What was so wrong with a pillow fight, after all? There was something painfully human about the moment, especially the feathers drifting through the air like snow.
Amid the mess, the room felt peaceful. For just one night, they weren't Fatui Harbingers burdened by duty and bloodshed. They were simply women sharing a fleeting happiness that the world outside could never take from them.
In moments like these, the relentless, molten lava that usually burned through her veins seemed to cool She leaned back, her eyes bright with amusement as she prepared to join in.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Signora sat quietly beside the frost-laced window, one leg drawn beneath her as she watched Snezhnaya's endless snowfall swallow the world beyond the glass.
A half-empty bottle rested on the table beside her, with a glass already in hand. She took another slow sip, letting the liquor burn down her throat. It never tasted good, and it never lasted long.
"Rostam…" A quiet, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Do you think I'd ever make it into paradise with you?" she whispered. "After everything I've become... am I even worthy of seeing you again?"
"Do you think Mondstadt would ever accept me again?" The words slipped from Signora's lips as she stared through the window, her reflection faint against the endless snow.
Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. "Do you think you could accept me?" Her voice was softer than a whisper, so fragile that even the wind could have carried it away.
With practiced ease, her fingers tightened around the Delusion resting in her palm before she summoned its familiar power once more. Frost crept over her skin, its familiar chill seeping into her veins and drowning the molten agony that forever burned beneath them. The cold had become her refuge, it comforted her, and it buried everything else. Including him.
When the Delusion faded, she reached for another drink. Back and forth, until she could no longer remember what it felt like to live without one or the other.
Each time she relied on its icy embrace, the edges of Rostam's face grew a little blurrier. The warmth of his smile, the sound of his voice, the color of his eyes... all slipped further beyond her reach, swallowed by frost.
"Forgive me." The wind beyond the window howled, and no answer came.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Only Columbina had come to see her off before her journey to Mondstadt.
"She's going to come back in one piece anyway" Sandrone had said with a dismissive wave, never once looking up from the machine spread across her workbench. "What difference would my good wishes make?"
Arlecchino had already departed for Fontaine a few days earlier. So it was only Columbina waiting on the platform. Snow drifted lazily between them as the train hissed, signaling its imminent departure.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, setting aside the pride she so carefully wore, Rosalyne stepped forward and wrapped Columbina in a brief embrace.
It caught the other Harbinger by surprise, but only for an instant before she returned it with a gentle hum.
"...Take care of yourself," Columbina murmured.
Signora gave a faint smile as she pulled away. "I'll be back before you know it."
With one last glance over her shoulder, she boarded the train. As it lurched forward and the platform slowly slipped away, Columbina remained where she stood, watching until the last carriage disappeared into the falling snow.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Signora regretted not accepting Tartaglia's offer to share the train. At the time, she had dismissed it easily. She had no patience for his endless chatter, his reckless enthusiasm, or the way he seemed to treat every encounter for an opportunity to spar.
But now, surrounded by the quiet of her own carriage, she found herself wishing for the noise. The silence was unbearable, she had spent centuries convincing herself that solitude was something she preferred. Something she had chosen out of her own will, something she had embraced. It was easier to believe that she had by choice than to confront the truth—that the world had taken the one person she wanted beside her.
Yet as the miles passed, all she could feel was how terribly alone she was.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Mondstadt felt like a fever dream. Everything was familiar and yet, somehow, it felt like she was seeing it for the first time. The wind that swept through the city carried the scent of flowers and fresh grass, the streets, the walls, the songs drifting through the air—it all felt surreal.
She couldn't remember why she had done so many things anymore. She wanted to run back to Rostam. But Rostam wasn't there anymore.
Everything felt blurred together, except for the one thing she had come for. The Gnosis.
She remembered taking it, she remembered facing him and most importantly of all she remembered the force of her own anger as she struck her Archon down without hesitation.
Could she even call him that?
Once, she had prayed beneath these skies for her lovers safety. Once, she had looked upon Mondstadt with admiration, believing in the freedom it represented.
But the god of this land had failed her when she needed him most. At least, that was what she had told herself. Standing here, with the wind brushing against her face, the certainty she once held felt strangely fragile. She hated that it felt familiar. She hated that some part of her still felt like she belonged.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
When she finally faced Tartaglia again in Liyue, that regret returned. Signora was not a woman known for sympathy. Compassion had long been buried beneath layers of frost and flames.
She simply watched him. The victory should have filled her with satisfaction, she had obtained the Gnosis, she had bested the Eleventh Harbinger in combat, she should have felt pride—so why was her throat so painfully dry?
Tartaglia stood before her with a look she had rarely seen on his face. Hurt and betrayed.
It wasn't because of her. He knew her too well for that. He knew Signora was not the type to offer comfort or reassurance. He knew her sharp words and colder actions were simply the armor she had built around herself. And perhaps that was what made it worse.
For a moment, Rosalyne wondered if this was what she had looked like all those years ago. When Rostam was gone, when Mondstadt had become a place she could no longer return to, when the world had taken everything from her. When she was left nothing behind but grief and rage.
Was this the expression she had worn while everyone watched her burn?
The thought lingered, longer than she wanted it to. She knew she would eventually find a way to smooth things over with the Eleventh. She would find some way to coax him back into his usual confidence, some way to make him stop looking at her like that.
But as she walked away, the ache in her chest remained. Because for once, Signora questioned it all. She had always believed there would be an end to it all—that once the Tsaritsa's dream was realized, the sacrifices would finally be worth something. But looking at Childe, she couldn't help but wonder how many people had been left broken in pursuit of that dream.
But it was too late to question whether she was evil. Signora knew what she had become. The blood on her hands could not be washed away. The lives she had taken, the pain she had caused, the person she had allowed herself to become none of it could be undone by a moment of doubt or a sudden pang of guilt.
She was a villain. And no amount of regret could change that.
Would the old Rosalyne even recognize her anymore?
The girl who once ran through the fields of Mondstadt with warmth in her heart. The Rosalyne who believed she could protect others, who still saw kindness in everything. She was no longer the young scholar who spent countless nights buried beneath stacks of books. Her fingers were now stained with blood rather than ink.
The question lingered, but there was no time for it. Another nation awaited, another task, another Gnosis to claim. And another dream to be shattered.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
And even as the divine light dismantled her body, Rosalyne felt free. For the first time in centuries, the fire in her veins truly began to cool. The flames that had consumed her from the inside, the anger that had kept her standing long after she had broken, finally began to fade. In the blurring haze of her fading consciousness, she felt a warm, solid embrace that tasted of home. Perhaps it was merely the desperate fabrication of a dying mind, a final cruel trick played by her neurons, a mercy offered by her own memories giving her one last moment of peace., but Rosalyne welcomed the deception with open arms. The guilt that had weighed upon her heart grew lighter. Her body, once held together by nothing but hatred and determination, finally allowed itself to rest.
She didn't care. She was more than willing to indulge in the fantasy. Rostam was there and he was there just as she remembered him.
A breeze guided her onward leading her back. It was soft, almost familiar, brushing against her like the fields of Mondstadt—the place she had once called home. It carried the scent of flowers blooming beneath the sun, of old songs drifting through open skies. A life she thought she had lost forever.
And for the first time since Rostam's death, Rosalyne no longer felt like she was running from something.
She was going home.