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Arlecchino x Columbina

The Ghost of a Lunar Touch

The transition from the depths of unconsciousness to the waking world was usually a violent affair for Arlecchino. Her mind was a fortress, and waking up meant instantly raising the drawbridge, checking the battlements, and ensuring the fire in her blood was contained behind walls of sheer willpower. Usually, she awoke to the sound of a distant bell or the sharp, biting chill of her bedroom in the House of the Hearth, her body already coiled like a spring.

But this morning was different.

Arlecchino opened her eyes, and for a moment, the world was a soft, blurred haze of grey and silver. The ceiling above her was familiar—the dark, ornate wood of her private quarters, the subtle patterns of Snezhnayan craftsmanship she had looked at a thousand times. She was lying in her own bed, the heavy silk sheets pulled up to her waist.

She frowned, her memory a fragmented mosaic of moonlight and melody. She remembered the garden. She remembered the suffocating weight of her insomnia and the way the cursed fire had been clawing at her insides like a caged beast. Most vividly of all, she remembered the weight of her head on Columbina’s lap, the sensation of marble-cool fingers through her hair, and a song that had tasted like the end of the world and the beginning of a dream.

How had she gotten here?

Arlecchino shifted, her hand moving instinctively to the nape of her neck. The Pyro Vision was quiet. The restless, thrumming heat that usually defined her existence had been dampened to a low, comfortable ember. She felt… rested. It was a sensation so foreign that it was almost unsettling.

She turned her head to the left, intending to check the time on the clock atop her nightstand, but her breath hitched in her throat.

There, curled atop the covers with a serene lack of regard for the boundaries of personal space, was Columbina.

The Third Harbinger was asleep, or at least in the divine equivalent of it. She was lying on her side, her long black and magenta hair spilled across Arlecchino’s pillows like a pool of dark ink. But it wasn't her presence alone that caused Arlecchino’s eyes to widen, the red 'X's in her pupils sharpening in shock.

Columbina was wearing one of Arlecchino’s sleeping shirts.

The garment, a simple button-down of fine charcoal silk, was absurdly oversized on the Damselette’s smaller frame. The sleeves were rolled up multiple times to keep her hands from being swallowed, and the collar sat wide, exposing the pale, ethereal curve of her collarbone. It was a domestic sight so jarringly out of place for two of the Tsaritsa’s most feared weapons that Arlecchino felt a rare flash of genuine disorientation.

"Columbina," Arlecchino said, her voice raspy from sleep.

The figure beside her didn't stir in the traditional sense. Instead, a few white feathers manifested in the air, drifting downward to dissolve against the mattress. Columbina’s eyes remained closed, her expression one of terrifyingly peaceful stillness.

"I know you are awake," Arlecchino continued, sitting up slowly. The silk of her own nightgown rustled. "Explain this. I recall falling asleep in the garden. I do not recall inviting a goddess into my bedchamber, let alone my wardrobe."

Columbina’s eyelids fluttered. When she opened them, the room seemed to brighten, the pearly, pupil-less depths of her eyes shimmering with the soft glow of a fading moon. She didn't sit up; she simply rolled onto her back, looking up at Arlecchino with a faint, enigmatic smile.

"You were so heavy," Columbina hummed, her voice like the chime of distant glass. "The earth wanted to claim you, Peruere. I thought it better to bring you somewhere where the shadows are at least yours to command."

"You carried me?" Arlecchino’s brow furrowed. She was a tall woman, a warrior built of lean muscle and tempered steel. Columbina looked as though a strong wind might carry her away.

"I do not carry things in the way you understand," Columbina replied. She raised a hand, her fingers tracing the air as if plucking invisible strings. "I simply moved the space around you until the bed was beneath you. It was much more efficient."

Arlecchino rubbed her temples. "And the shirt? I assume you didn't 'move the space' around my clothing as well."

Columbina finally sat up, her movements that uncanny, low-gravity glide that made her seem weightless. The silk shirt slid off one of her shoulders, but she didn't seem to notice or care.

"My own garments were damp from the frost," she said simply. "And yours smelled like cedar and old paper. It was… grounding. You spend so much time pretending to be a pillar of stone, but your things are surprisingly soft."

Arlecchino stared at her, searching for a hint of mockery or a hidden agenda. But Columbina’s face held only that terrifyingly sincere innocence. To any other observer, she looked like a young woman in her lover's clothes, but Arlecchino knew better. This was a creature that had seen the rise and fall of civilizations, a being whose very existence was a challenge to the laws of Teyvat.

"You should have left," Arlecchino said, though the steel in her voice lacked its usual bite. "If the children or the subordinates saw you leaving my quarters in such a state, the rumors would be… troublesome."

"Let them wonder," Columbina said, tilting her head. "Rumors are your favorite tool, are they not? Besides, your fire was still flickering. If I had left, the cold would have crept back in, and you would have woken up with that frown that makes your forehead ache."

She reached out, her hand hovering just inches from Arlecchino’s face. For a moment, the Fourth Harbinger considered pulling away, reasserting the distance that her rank and her nature demanded. But the memory of the previous night—the song, the peace, the silence of the cursed flame—held her still.

Columbina’s fingers brushed against Arlecchino’s cheek. Her touch was cold, yet it felt like a balm.

"You slept for six hours," Columbina whispered. "No dreams. No ghosts. Just darkness. Was it enough?"

Arlecchino closed her eyes for a brief second, leaning almost imperceptibly into the touch. "It was… more than I have had in years. But you cannot stay here, Columbina. Snezhnaya is waking up. The House requires its Father."

"The House will survive another hour without its patriarch," Columbina countered. She moved closer, her knees pressing against Arlecchino’s hip as she knelt on the bed. "The sun hasn't even cleared the palace spires yet. Tell me, do you always wake up with your heart racing? Even now, it beats like a trapped bird."

"It is the habit of a soldier," Arlecchino replied, her obsidian eyes meeting the glowing pink gaze of the Damselette. "Peace is a temporary state. Vulnerability is a death sentence."

"Not with me," Columbina said softly. She reached for one of Arlecchino’s blackened hands, interlacing her pale fingers with the Harbinger’s sharp, crimson-tipped ones. The contrast was stark—death and divinity, fire and moon. "I have no interest in your throne, or your House, or your secrets. I only like the way your fire feels when it isn't trying to burn the world down."

Arlecchino looked down at their joined hands. She felt a strange, fluttering sensation in her chest that had nothing to do with her lineage or her Vision. It was a terrifying feeling—a crack in the armor she had spent a lifetime forging.

"Why me?" Arlecchino asked, her voice barely a whisper. "There are others. Dottore would give his soul to study you. Pantalone would buy you the moon itself if it meant having your favor. Why waste your light on a 'crazed executioner'?"

Columbina laughed, a sound like silver bells caught in a breeze. "Dottore is a collection of jars and ego. Pantalone is a man who thinks gold can fill the void where a heart should be. They are loud, Peruere. So very loud."

She leaned in, her forehead resting against Arlecchino’s.

"But you… you are a beautiful tragedy. You carry a dead world in your veins and a living family on your shoulders. And in the middle of it all, there is a girl who just wants to sleep without hearing the screams of the past. I find that much more interesting than gold or science."

Arlecchino felt the heat rising to her face, a flush that had nothing to do with her Pyro abilities. She reached up with her free hand, her thumb tracing the line of Columbina’s jaw. The skin was like silk, unnaturally smooth.

"You are a dangerous creature, Columbina Hyposelenia," Arlecchino murmured.

"And you are a tired one," Columbina replied.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy or suffocating. It was the same sacred stillness from the garden, transported into the heart of Arlecchino’s private sanctuary. For a few minutes, the Fourth Harbinger allowed herself to simply exist. She didn't think about the Tsaritsa’s hidden agendas, the Pierro’s cryptic warnings, or the logistical needs of the orphans downstairs. She focused on the weight of the woman in her shirt and the cooling touch of lunar power.

Finally, Arlecchino sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of returning responsibility. "I have to get dressed. Lyney and Lynette are expecting a briefing on the Fontaine situation within the hour."

Columbina pouted slightly, a gesture that looked remarkably human on her. "Must you? The sun is still so low."

"I am 'Father,'" Arlecchino said, her voice regaining its usual authoritative cadence, though it remained gentle. "Duty does not wait for the sun."

She moved to get out of bed, but Columbina didn't let go of her hand. The Damselette looked up at her, those sparkling, pupil-less eyes searching Arlecchino’s face.

"Will you come back tonight?" Columbina asked. "The moon will be waning. The song will be different."

Arlecchino paused, her feet touching the cold floor. She looked back at the Third Harbinger—at the messy hair, the oversized silk shirt, and the ethereal grace that seemed to defy the very air of the room. A part of her knew she should say no. She should re-establish the boundaries, keep the Damselette at arm's length, and return to her solitary vigil.

But the thought of another night of bone-deep exhaustion, of the fire clawing at her mind, made the choice for her.

"If the shadows allow it," Arlecchino said, which was as close to a promise as she ever gave.

Columbina smiled, a bright, triumphant thing. She let go of Arlecchino’s hand and flopped back onto the pillows, stretching like a contented cat.

"I shall keep the shirt," Columbina announced, her tone playful. "Think of it as a tax for the sleep I provided."

Arlecchino shook her head, a ghost of a smile touching her own lips—a expression so rare it would have shocked her children to their core. "Keep it. I have others. Just… try not to be seen in the hallways. I would prefer not to have to execute anyone today for gossiping about the Third Harbinger’s choice of morning attire."

"No promises," Columbina chirped, closing her eyes again.

Arlecchino watched her for a moment longer before turning away to prepare for the day. As she washed her face and donned her sharp, grey-lapelled overcoat, she felt the lingering coolness of Columbina’s touch on her skin. The fire in her veins was still there, of course—it always would be—but it felt smaller, more manageable.

As she stepped out of her quarters and into the hallway, the mask of 'The Knave' slid back into place. Her expression became stoic, her eyes cold and marked with those daunting red 'X's. The servants bowed as she passed, and the children she encountered in the halls offered their respectful greetings to 'Father.'

None of them noticed the stray white feather caught on the shoulder of her coat.

Arlecchino reached up, plucking the feather from her lapel. It was soft, glowing with a faint, iridescent light before it began to dissipate into the morning air. She watched it fade until there was nothing left but a faint scent of Glaze Lilies and mountain air.

The day ahead would be long. There would be reports to read, traitors to deal with, and the endless, grinding machinery of the Fatui to oversee. But for the first time in a very long time, Arlecchino didn't feel as though she were walking toward a cliff.

She felt as though she were merely waiting for the moon to rise.

And in the heart of the House of the Hearth, in a room that smelled of cedar and old paper, a goddess hummed a lyricless tune, wrapped in the silk of a woman who had finally learned how to rest.