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The snow crunches beneath her feet as Arlecchino makes her way to the Grand Cathedral, right in the middle of Zapolyarny.
The sky is a deep, dark blue, bottomless and starless. Arlecchino would like to think it’s because it’s before dawn, but any Snezhnayan knows that it will be like this until their Tsaritsa takes over the world, maybe even after that. Everlasting cold and everlasting snow, the slightest hint of sunlight a mercy to all. Surely the Electro archon had taken a leaf out of the Tsaritsa’s frosty book when she decided to pursue eternity.
Arlecchino hastens her steps, wrapping her thick cloak tighter around herself. They will be mourning La Signora today.
She’s early; she always is. The men in the Fatui are disgustingly incompetent, and Arlecchino has made it a point to arrive early so that they see the stormy glare on her face and know to steer clear.
Another person who’s always early is, of course, her lady. Columbina would never do anything as unseemly as be late .
The crunch beneath her feet gives way to sharp thuds as her heels hit the polished cathedral floor. She slows as she nears the centre, spotting Columbina’s silhouette draped gracefully over what must be Rosalyne’s coffin. She lifts her head, turning towards Arlecchino when the sound of her footsteps stop.
Arlecchino doesn’t move a step forward, not without her lady’s permission.
“Arlecchino.”
Her lady’s voice rings in the empty cathedral like a prayer. Why the place was built for the Tsaritsa, Arlecchino will never understand, because how can anyone worship someone else when her lady is right here, looking so ethereal beneath the dawning light?
“My lady,” Arlecchino breathes. Columbina lets out a melodious laugh, and Arlecchino floats a step closer, then another, until she’s closer to Celestia than she has ever been in her life. The gods hide among the clouds because Columbina is here. They pale before her beauty, and cower under her ferocity.
Columbina reaches a hand towards her, the ice cold of her thumb shocking Arlecchino as it caresses her cheekbone slowly. Before she knows it, her lips are captured in a kiss, slow and deadly. She kisses back with fervent worship, amazed that she is allowed to.
Her lady opens her eyes, but they’re dream-like and hazy. They’re not looking at Arlecchino.
“Rosalyne,” Columbina whispers, confirming Arlecchino’s suspicions, “I’ll sing for you, my love. You’ll always listen to me, won’t you?”
“She will,” Arlecchino exhales against her lips. “She loves it when you sing.”
Columbina’s eyes sharpen, focusing on her. When Arlecchino shudders, it’s definitely not because of the cold.
“And you.” Columbina traces a finger on her jawline. “It’s just us now. You won’t leave me, right?”
Arlecchino has never known loyalty, but she thinks she’ll follow her lady for the rest of her life. No matter how high her lady flies, Arlecchino will tear down the wings of another to follow her.