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Arlecchino x Columbina

The Sovereignty of Silk and Snow

The Silvermoon Hall was a place of grand, echoing isolation, but Arlecchino’s bedroom was a different kind of sanctuary. It was a room defined by sharp edges and heavy shadows, smelling faintly of the expensive cedarwood used in the furniture and the crisp, metallic scent of freshly pressed uniforms. It was also, as Columbina had discovered within an hour of Arlecchino’s departure, delightfully, wonderfully freezing.

Columbina did not experience temperature the way mortals did. To her, heat was a frantic, demanding vibration—much like the cursed fire that thrummed in Arlecchino’s veins. Cold, however, was a stillness. It was the closest thing to the void of the Light Realm she could find in this heavy, physical world. She had claimed the bed as her own personal glacier, burrowing beneath the dark silk sheets, though she remained clad in Arlecchino’s charcoal sleeping shirt. The fabric was soft against her skin, carrying the lingering warmth of the woman who had worn it, a strange contrast to the icy air of the room.

She lay there for hours, suspended in a state of wakeful dreaming. She watched the way the Snezhnayan light crawled across the floor, pale and weak. She traced the patterns of the frost on the windowpane, whispering to the ice until it grew into the shape of lunar flowers. She was perfectly content, tucked away in this pocket of silence, oblivious to the clockwork precision with which the House of the Hearth operated.

At precisely ten o'clock in the morning, the first intrusion occurred.

Filiol, a young man who had recently been promoted to a junior steward within the House, prided himself on his punctuality. His task was simple: collect the morning laundry and ensure the hearth in Father's room was properly stoked, even if Father was rarely there to enjoy it. He approached the heavy oak doors with a stack of fresh linens, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of the hallway.

He knocked twice—a sharp, respectful rap. Silence followed. This was expected; Father had been seen in the strategy room since dawn.

Filiol used his master key, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. "Pardon the intrusion, Father, I am here for the—"

The words died in his throat. The laundry basket slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

The room was freezing, but that wasn't what stopped his heart. It was the figure on the bed. A woman was sprawled across the charcoal sheets, her long black hair with its vibrant magenta streaks fanning out like a dark halo. She was wearing a shirt that Filiol recognized instantly—it was the silk button-down he had ironed just two days ago for Arlecchino. The sleeves were rolled up, the collar was open, and the woman looked as though she had been poured into the bed and hadn't moved since.

Columbina tilted her head, her eyes remaining shut behind her delicate veil. She didn't sit up. She simply floated an inch above the pillow, her voice a melodic, sleepy chime. "You are not the one who belongs here. You are much too loud."

Filiol’s face went from pale to a shade of crimson that rivaled Arlecchino’s nail polish. He recognized her. Everyone in the Fatui recognized the Third Harbinger, the Damselette. She was a ghost story told to new recruits to keep them from wandering the palace at night.

"M-my Lady! A thousand apologies!" Filiol stammered, backing away so quickly he nearly tripped over his own feet. "I... I was unaware... that is, Father didn't mention... I will leave at once!"

He scrambled out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His mind was racing. The Damselette. In Father’s bed. Wearing Father’s clothes. The implications hit him like a Delusion-fueled blow to the gut. The rumors about the Knave being cold and unapproachable were clearly, spectacularly wrong.

By noon, the news had trickled through the lower staff like water through a cracked dam.

"I’m telling you, she looked... comfortable," Filiol whispered to a group of kitchen staff during their break. "And the shirt! It was definitely Father’s. She looked like she hadn't slept a wink, or perhaps she had slept too well, if you follow me."

"The Third and the Fourth?" a maid gasped, clutching a tray of tea. "But Father is so... and the Damselette is... it’s like a wolf mating with a star."

"A very dangerous star," another added, shivering. "Do you think they’ve been... for a long time?"

"It would explain why Father has been so temperamental lately," Filiol said, nodding sagely. "Insomnia, she said. Hah! More like late-night negotiations."

The gossip reached the ears of the House’s elite children by mid-afternoon. Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet were gathered in the small courtyard, preparing for a mission briefing, when they overheard two guards discussing the "sighting" in the master bedroom.

Lyney’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at Lynette, who remained stoic, though the slight twitch of her cat-like ears betrayed her interest.

"Did I hear that correctly?" Lyney whispered, leaning in. "Columbina? In Father’s quarters?"

"Wearing Father’s clothes," Lynette added flatly. "The staff is in an uproar. They think... well, they think what people usually think when a guest is found in someone's bed wearing their shirt."

Freminet looked down at his boots, his face turning a dusty pink. "Should we... should we tell Father? People are starting to make bets on how long it’s been going on."

"Tell Father that the entire House is whispering about her and the Damselette's supposed tryst?" Lyney shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "I value my life, Freminet. Besides, if it’s true, it’s the most interesting thing to happen in this palace since the last Harbingers' meeting. If it’s not true... well, watching Father handle the rumors will be a magic show in itself."

Inside the bedroom, Columbina was blissfully unaware of the scandal she had ignited. She had found a book on Arlecchino’s nightstand—a dry, technical manual on the logistics of Snezhnayan supply lines—and was currently amusing herself by making the words dance off the page and circle the room like tiny, ink-black birds.

The door opened again. This time, there was no knock.

Arlecchino stepped into the room, her expression a mask of controlled fury. She had spent the last three hours dealing with a series of "knowing" glances from her subordinates and a particularly bold comment from Pulcinella about "sharing the warmth of the hearth." She hadn't understood the context until she reached the residential wing and felt the palpable wave of nervous energy coming from the staff.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her obsidian eyes fixing on the scene before her. The ink-birds froze in mid-air and dissolved back onto the pages of the book.

"Columbina," Arlecchino said, her voice low and dangerous.

"Welcome back, Peruere," Columbina chirped, finally sitting up. The silk shirt slipped down her arm again, and she made no move to fix it. She looked perfectly at home, a soft, lunar light radiating from her skin. "You look tense. Did the children misbehave?"

"The children are fine," Arlecchino snapped, walking toward the bed. "The staff, however, is currently under the impression that you and I spent the night in a state of... intimate entanglement."

Columbina tilted her head, her pearly eyes blinking slowly. "Intimate entanglement? That sounds like a very complicated way of saying we were close. We were close, weren't we? You were in my lap, and then I was in your bed. It was very efficient."

Arlecchino groaned, a sound of genuine frustration. She reached the edge of the bed and looked down at the Third Harbinger. "In the parlance of mortals, Columbina, finding a woman in one's bed wearing one's clothes implies a very specific kind of relationship. One involving... physical union."

Columbina hummed, a thoughtful, melodic sound. She reached out and took Arlecchino’s hand, pulling the taller woman toward her. "And is that a bad thing? To be 'entangled' with me?"

"It is a distraction," Arlecchino said, though she didn't pull her hand away. "I have a reputation to maintain. I am 'Father.' I am the cold, calculating heart of the House. I am not... a romantic lead in a staff member's fever dream."

"You worry too much about what the shadows think," Columbina said. She stood up on the bed, her feet barely making an indentation in the mattress. She was still shorter than Arlecchino, but the height of the bed brought them eye-to-eye. "The rumors make them fear you more, don't they? A man who fears his leader is useful. A man who is confused by his leader is even easier to manage."

Arlecchino looked at her—at the sheer, unbothered grace of the goddess. Columbina didn't understand shame, or reputation, or the social hierarchies of Teyvat. She existed outside of them, a creature of pure moonlight and whim.

"They think I've gone soft," Arlecchino whispered, her thumb brushing against Columbina’s knuckles.

"Let them think you've gone soft for a goddess," Columbina replied, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "It makes you seem even more untouchable. Who else could tame the Damselette but the Knave?"

Arlecchino felt the tension in her shoulders begin to give way, replaced by that strange, cooling calm that only Columbina could provide. The absurdity of the situation—the rumors, the shirt, the ink-birds—suddenly felt less like a disaster and more like a reprieve.

"You are a menace," Arlecchino said, though there was no heat in the words.

"I am a guest," Columbina corrected. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Arlecchino’s. The scent of Glaze Lilies and mountain air was overwhelming now, drowning out the cedar and the charcoal. "And I am hungry. Do you have those little cakes with the red berries? The ones the children like?"

Arlecchino sighed, finally letting a small, tired smile break through her mask. "I will have them sent up. But you are putting on your own clothes first. I refuse to let the steward see you in that shirt again. My heart—and his—cannot take it."

"Fine," Columbina pouted, though her eyes were sparkling. "But I’m keeping the shirt. I’ve decided it’s my new favorite thing. It feels like you, even when you’re being a grumpy soldier."

Arlecchino watched as Columbina glided off the bed, her movements weightless and hauntingly beautiful. The Damselette began to hum that lyricless song again, the melody weaving through the cold air of the room like a silver thread.

As Arlecchino walked to the door to summon a servant—knowing full well that whoever answered would be looking for "evidence" of their coupling—she realized she didn't actually care. The fire in her blood was quiet. The insomnia was a distant memory. If the price of peace was a few scandalous rumors and a missing silk shirt, it was a bargain she would make every single time.

She opened the door and found Filiol standing there, his hand raised as if to knock again. He froze, his eyes darting past Arlecchino to where Columbina was currently twirling a white ribbon around her fingers.

"Filiol," Arlecchino said, her voice like cracking ice.

"Y-yes, Father?"

"Bring tea and berry cakes for two," she commanded. She paused, her obsidian eyes narrowing just a fraction. "And if I hear one more word about my choice of houseguests or their attire, I will personally oversee your next training session. Do I make myself clear?"

Filiol turned a shade of white that matched the Snezhnayan snow. "Crystal, Father! Perfectly clear! Tea and cakes! At once!"

He bolted down the hallway.

Arlecchino closed the door and turned back to the room. Columbina was watching her, an enigmatic smile on her lips.

"You were very scary just then," Columbina said, her voice light. "I liked it."

"Sit down, Columbina," Arlecchino said, gesturing to the small table by the window. "And try to act like a Harbinger, just for ten minutes."

"I am acting like a Harbinger," Columbina said, sliding into a chair with impossible grace. "I have successfully infiltrated the Fourth’s inner sanctum, stolen her clothing, and commandeered her breakfast. I think Pierro would be proud."

Arlecchino sat across from her, the weight of the day finally lifting. Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls of the House of the Hearth, but inside, the cold was a comfort, the silence was a song, and the fire was finally, blissfully, at rest.

"You are impossible," Arlecchino murmured.

"And you," Columbina replied, reaching across the table to take her hand again, "are finally awake. That is all that matters."