Chapter Text
A knock.
That was new. Columbina never knocked.
"Sandrone." Her calm voice came in muffled. "Are you there?"
The door snapped open under Sandrone's hand, wild and annoyed and stiff with agitation as she always was when it came to Columbina's endless visits to her room. The winding key in her back spun rapidly. "What."
Sandrone was not sure what the occasion was this time. The Wingalet was not the Fatui quarters; years had passed since Sandrone had last found Columbina sleeping in her bed in Glupov.
The first conclusion she came to after some calculations, bearing in mind the recent events: Columbina was here to embarrass her further. That was her life mission, after all. To remind her of the embrace they shared in front of basically the entirety of Fontaine, filmed and witnessed and archived forever. Accepting her new self was a difficult, perplexing task left by Alain. Having to also accept the fact that her inner feelings bled through in the arms of Columbina, and having to watch it on the big screen was, perhaps, even more strenuous.
She had a copy of "A Homecoming" stored in a hidden compartment of one of her drawers.
"I was watching the fish in the aquariums. The Traveler did a good job collecting them. Fontainian fish are different from Nod-Krai ones."
Sandrone stared at her.
Though she felt the inkling, the tiniest message of curiosity pop up in her system, she squashed it ruthlessly right away.
"You came here." She gritted her teeth. "To my room. In the middle of the night. To talk about fish."
Columbina's serene smile never wavered.
"Yes. Can I come in—?"
The door closed in her face.
Sandrone turned away, her hands curling into fists. The good thing was, Columbina asked for consent, which was also a rare thing. The bad thing was, her foolishness and lack of manners were getting on her nerves. The second bad thing was, Sandrone noticed a tinge of worry in Columbina's voice. So she panicked. No, she reminded Columbina what respect is. She never panics. That's absurdity.
"Sandrone."
She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the feeling. The knocking was odd. Her tone was off. Everything was wrong.
"I'm afraid."
That made her jolt. She was what?
Her brows furrowed, her hair a mess, her mood ruined, she walked back to the door and opened it.
Columbina's gaze caught on something. This time she didn't ask.
The room itself was spacious, and the familiar scent of cake permeating inside was just like the one in her old chambers in Glupov. This time it was mixed with the scent of iron and wires. Half of the quarters had been surrendered to machinery. Steel winches held a humanoid automaton with a clockwork design just above the floorboards. The workbench held an adjustable desk lamp, scattered gears, copper springs, brass calipers, micro-screwdrivers, vials of machine oil, various schematics, and open notebooks with neat handwriting.
Columbina floated past Sandrone, observing the machine with closed eyes and a tilt of her head. Sandrone watched her do it, and closed the door with a little more force than necessary.
"Don't touch anything. I'm still working on her."
"This one is new," Columbina pointed out.
Sandrone sighed, coming to stand beside her.
"Yes. Pulonia didn't make it after the battle," she said, her words ringing hollow. Everything did nowadays; sorting her emotions into neat categories made them easier to understand, but never easier to live through. She lost Alain, and now Pulonia, who was also part of Alain, so she was left with the responsibility of carrying his memory and legacy all by herself. "His core was completely ruined. She, however, is completely new, and she's not a replacement for Pulonia, I would like to make that clear before you jump to conclusions."
"Hmm. Does she have a name?"
"Yes," Sandrone declared with quiet pride. "Facilitatrice Automatisée Généraliste Interactive et Omnitâche. Very simple."
A pause.
"I didn't get that," Columbina admitted blankly.
Sandrone covered her eyes with her hand. "Ugh, just call her Fagio. Fa-gi-o. Is that easy enough for you now?"
"Fagio... Yes. I like that," Columbina said with a melancholic smile. "Settling on a name is always the hardest part, isn't it?"
Sandrone knew very well what she was referring to. For reasons beyond her grasp, memories of Alain superimposed themselves onto every sentimental and philosophical concept ever since she woke up with that stellar linchpin. Those two things had nothing to do with each other; Sandrone suspected that visiting her old home, the place where she was created and made and born, caused this constant projection, not the linchpin.
Marionette. That is your name. Can you repeat it for me?
My name is Marionette.
And then, that frown. The crease between his brows, the tightening of his lips, the light reflected wrong in his eyes and she thought—What is that supposed to represent? Her visual module worked just fine; she could recognize and categorize the emotion perfectly, but the context, the cause-and-effect, and worst of all, the irrationality of human emotion—all of it escaped her newly born brilliant and not-so-brilliant mind in that moment.
"It wasn't, for me." There was a single potted plant on the brass-lined sill of an arched window. The moonlight illuminated a light violet flower. Sandrone stepped toward the sill and touched it with the tips of her gloved fingers. "I don't care what people choose to call me. I will always stay myself, won't I?"
It wasn't a question at all. Columbina was certain of it—just as certain as Sandrone herself—that she would proudly and unapologetically remain true to who she was. Columbina's own self felt more like a weightless void, impossible to define, nothing to tether to for a long while. A very long while.
That had changed.
And right now, the most important words to hear were: I will stay.
"Yes," Columbina said, watching Sandrone's beautiful face bathed in moonlight, feeling her heart sink, that change of gravity just like returning to Teyvat after being on the moon. "I'm glad you will."
Sandrone looked back. It seemed like the cup holding her patience has, regrettably, overflowed.
"Will you tell me what's going on already? I have to go back to my—"
"I missed you."
Sandrone froze, then un-froze. "You— We parted less than twelve hours ago. And also, that doesn't give you the right—" She huffed. Her key spun faster again. "Fine. Fine, we can have tea. Middle-of-the-night tea party, because you lack any reasonable amount of etiquette and respect, and you are incredibly annoying. And you wanted to talk about fish. I remember that. Absolutely unacceptable."
And that tipped the scales. Sandrone's irritated grumbling, the way she turned her face away when flustered, her choice instantly landing on tea for comfort—all of it, the rightness of it—led to the wrongness of Columbina on her knees on the floor, arms wrapped around Sandrone's middle.
That startled Sandrone so severely she could do nothing but look down at Columbina's head, the little white wings, her hands stuck up in the air. They already embraced today. That touch was relief, now it was desperation.
"Please, don't leave," Columbina's voice came in muffled again, this time through a different kind of iron, the carcass of Sandrone's own body. "Don't leave me again, Sandrone..."
Sandrone's cooling system—otherwise known as breathing by organic beings—went faster. Optimal protocol. She could overheat from all this thinking.
"I thought grief was easier to process," Columbina said, pressing her cheek to the front of Sandrone's dress. "I only had to make peace with the empty space you left behind. There was nothing I could do at that point. It was over. But now... Having you back means possibly losing you again. I don't want to experience that a second time."
No one truly knows the taste of death, for it is a fruit that one can only savor once in a lifetime.
It sounds to me like it tastes pretty awful.
Haha... Maybe, Alain chuckled. But it is rarely the dead who suffer. The true pain is borne by the ones left behind.
Sandrone's hand found its place on the back of Columbina's head. When she was struck by Dottore's hand, she fell into nothingness. A single moment, and she was back in the world of the living. For Columbina, it was infinite number of moments alone without Sandrone going forth. As usual, Alain's wisdom kept reaching her in repeating waves, even after she thought she had learnt all of his lessons.
There is no immediate threat, so there is nothing to worry about anymore—that's what she wanted to reply, but what she settled on was:
"I'm not going anywhere." Steely resolution in the quietest, calmest tone. "Get up. We're going to bed."