Chapter Text
Rosalyne has not once found even a spec of pleasure in her decades-long, expansive journey across Teyvat. Sumeru had little of notice outside the Academia, of which the novelty had long worn off for her; Liyue's fine cities and promises of success was worthless to her; Inazuma had greeted her with the suspicion everywhere else had tenfold; Fontaine was too romantic, to the point it made her skin itch up to her neck; Natlan made it difficult for her to burn much of anything, with how any monsters living there had already adapted to its monstrous heat; and Mondstadt…
(...may have been home once, but no longer. Not with Rostam dead, and the people afraid of her, and the absentee God coasting along as though nothing had happened.)
And so, she had found her way to Snezhnaya. And from then till now, has been content to greet ice with fire and stay far, far away from the few villages she has found near where she'd carved herself a home out in the sticks.
'Home' is generous, but this is the place to which she returns each night to… well, not to sleep, for she had forfeit mortal life over a century ago, but simply to think. Of Rostam, mostly, if only in a vague attempt to retain some humanity. It does little for her, but she keeps with it nevertheless.
It's after a year of waging her own private war against the monsters in the Snezhnayan countryside that she has her first encounter with the country's government. A group of soldiers appear as little specks of color over the sterile whiteness of the landscape, giving definite shape to the horizon that had been muddled by grey lands and grey skies and a never-ending storm.
But there they are, a stately bunch marching in perfect synchronization with each other, uncaring for the snow under their feet.
Rosalyne's first thought is that they're here to arrest her.
And why not? The gall to try would be impressive, at the very least. But there is no urgency to their steps, and as their silhouettes close in upon her, she takes sight of their leader, clad in a myriad of clashing colors as he almost skips towards her, his face obscured by a stage-mask.
She remains still, simply watching as the masked fellows make their slow, but purposeful, trek towards where she stands. She lets the fire nested upon her upturned palms burn out, leaving only a smoky after image. She does not even need to sniff the air to know that she reeks of everything wicked in this world.
The brigade pauses their march once they're within a yard of Rosalyne, only their leader continuing his jovial little hop towards her.
"Pierro, the first of her Majesty's Fatui Harbingers," is his introduction, in lieu of any proper greeting. Rosalyne does not deign to respond, for there is little dignity in introducing oneself as Rosalyne, Crimson Witch of Flame.
He appears unaffected by her silence, his mask smiling eerily ahead, not quite at her but through her. That mask obscures his mouth, and so Rosalyne finds herself minutely startled when that empty, warbling voice begins again:
"You astound me. You have but a human body, and yet you carry such a power within you. You claim that you have no tears left to cry, no blood left to shed, but surely this is because you have filled yourself with fire…
"Though your body has long been covered in scars, fierce flames are all that now may flow, like molten iron, from your eyes and your wounds."
Rosalyne's hand, still cupped around wisps of smoke, clenches into a palm. This Pierro, this fool, seems to know everything about her, or at least everything that she'd been reduced to after calamity struck all those years ago. He laughs an empty, thoughtless laugh, and shakes his head.
"But we appear to have gotten off-topic. The reason I followed the trail of smoke and tracked you down is that I wish to strike a deal with you…"
Finally, that inscrutable gaze seems to meet Rosalyne's own, for she feels the cold chill of Snezhnaya seek into her bones, and for the very first time—
"Let the flames that now devour you be extinguished by the grace of Her Majesty.
—the liquid fire that had engulfed her entire being upon the precipice of despair now melts away, and she draws a cold, still breath.
Pierro simply smiles, "What say you?"
The Fatuis' appearance belies that of their leader.
Where the soldiers are all corded muscle and nauseatingly bright colors, her Majesty is but a petite woman adorned head-to-toe in white. The skin revealed by the generous cut of her gown — her shoulders, her neck, and the expanse of her legs — is a pale, unblemished white. It awakens an itch in Rosalyne, whose own skin is a landscape of blood-shed and carnage.
If the Tsaritsa and Rosalyne share one thing in common, it's the coverings over their eyes. The Tsaritsa's upper-face is obscured by a delicate mask fashioned out of stained glass, with patterns of slow-flakes intricately carved into it. The rest of her face lies in the shadow cast by her hood, leaving everything but the pretty curve of her lips up to Rosalyne's imagination.
(Is it narcissism to imagine one's own face upon that of a goddess? For the maiden before her strikes Rosalyne as awfully similar to the one she used to be herself.)
Those pretty lips part, and like the tingle of bells, or the falling of snowflakes, a gentle voice whispers, "Thank you for taking the time to come see me."
"You say that as though time's not the one thing I have plenty of." At Rosalyne's snide remark, one of the Fatui grunts tsks and puffs his chest up.
"Ah," the Tsaritsa says, her voice a little tinkle. She addresses her soldiers, "You do not need to stay here. Perhaps it'd be best for our guest and I to talk privately."
That same guard squares his shoulders in defiance, ready to protest, but is interrupted by a clap on the back. With an acknowledging nod towards her Majesty, Pierro gestures for his men to follow him, and makes his departure, his retinue in toe.
The door whines as it crawls closed behind them, shutting with a thud heavier than Rosalyne thinks a door made of glass should be capable of.
"So you want me to fight," Rosalyne speaks, before the woman before her can part those pretty lips and enchant her with that honeyed voice. "For you."
"Yes; I hear that you're incredibly capable with those flames of yours. We'd be honored to welcome you into our ranks, my fair Lady."
It sounds like a pet name when spoken in that silvery tone, whispered like a secret between the two of them, and that's when Rosalyne remembers: the Tsaritsa is the Goddess of Love.
The fanciful part of Rosalyne wonders if that means she could love even a woman as broken and monstrous as she; the pragmatic (and by every measure active) part of her concludes instantly that this must be a ploy to get her guard down.
"You do realize that I detest the gods every bit as much as I do the Abyss, don't you? What makes you think I'd stoop to your level?"
"I also wish to fight against the Abyss, and the gods above. If we could fight together, then—"
"That's cute." Rosalyne takes a stride forward, wrenching the Tsaritsa's head up with a hand braced under her chin. They make eye-contact, then, but Rosalyne can only make out the slightest hint of dull gray past her mask. "But you're too soft. I doubt a sweet, little thing like you could even look an Abyssling in the eye."
The Tsaritsa takes her lower lip between her teeth in what Rosalyne thinks must be a pout. She offers a hoarse chuckle, pulling the Tsaritsa's chin up higher so that their noses can brush. It stirs some sick delight inside her when she realizes that she's forced the goddess to stand on her toes.
Suddenly, those delicate lips are pursed into a frown, and in a decisive moment a gloved hand reaches between them to pull that intricate mask off. It's a motion so quick that Rosalyne doesn't register it as it happens, only realizing what the Tsaritsa has done once she hears the shrill shriek of glass shattering against the floor.
When their eyes meet yet again, Rosalyne can see Her Majesty's clearly; they're a pale grey, clear and yet brimming with sincere, unguarded emotion. There's a determined furrow in her brows, as she says, with a voice now hardened into ice, "If you cannot bear to stoop down to my level, then pull me up to yours."
She's truly beautiful, Rosalyne decides, meeting that glare with wide eyes. She realizes now that this must be the first time another person has dared to meet her gaze, and something breaks inside her.
"I lost someone, too," the Tsaritsa continues, her voice hushed down to a whisper, "But I couldn't grow stronger from it like you could. So I suppose you're right: I'm weak. That's why…" and her gaze shifts to the self-inflicted scar across Rosalyne's right eye. "I need you to teach me how to be strong like you."
"And what if I burn you?" Rosalyne ponders, watching the wisps of smoke sneaking up from between her fingers and the Tsaritsa's skin.
"If you burn me, then…" she takes a long, steady breath, "...then I shall grow colder until I am too cold for you to melt."
And so Rosalyne burns her.
First, with her free hand pressed against the exposed skin of the Tsaritsa's thigh, groping it purposefully as though her burning palm is a brand. The Tsaritsa's breath stutters, and Rosalyne feels something long-dormant inside her stir awake restlessly, clamoring to the forefront of her mind until the only thing she can discern is the pretty pink flush spreading across the Tsaritsa's skin, white as ivory.
But the Tsaritsa is an Archon in the end, and when Rosalyne moves her hand up, closer to something undeniably precious, she sees that frost has already begun to cover the burnt skin. Cryo energy settles across her thigh, soothing the burns enough that they don't scar, although Rosalyne can still see the hot-white traces of her hand's path.
The Tsaritsa's eyes are sealed shut, her face pursed around a quiet, humming whimper. It brings Rosalyne pause, and, a beat late, her conscious mind catches up to the unconscious and she realizes how badly she'd like to see those clear, kind eyes trained solely on her. She's lonely, is her private justification for the desire, though it means little when one of the Tsaritsa's eyes crack open expectantly and the pace of Rosalyne's heartbeat stutters.
Something about those eyes, cold and empty of all but love for this world, reminds Rosalyne so much of how she used to be, before she lost her mind, before the calamity, before even Rostam. She is the Maiden of this age, for Rosalyne knows with certainty it is no longer her.
(But will it stay this way for long, when the Tsaritsa so earnestly wishes to follow the charred, bloody path that Rosalyne did?)
"M'lady…" Rosalyne hiccups, and amends her mistake by brushing her fingers further upwards. The Tsaritsa's thighs shake, almost violently, and a delicate, freezing hand latches itself onto Rosalyne's shoulder. It's so cold that it burns, as does every other part of the Tsaritsa's body.
All but that which greets Rosalyne's fingers when they find their destination, finding it to be molten-hot as it aches under her touch. Finally, the Tsaritsa loses her footing and stumbles forward against Rosalyne's chest, and those eyes are hidden from her yet again. But this time Rosalyne only pauses long enough so she can brace the Archon's body between the nearby loveseat's armchair and her own body.
It's been over half a century since another person dared to look at her, more than a century since she's held another in their arms. It inspires a certain awe in Rosalyne to think that this is the Tsaritsa's power — that, if anyone would be willing to hold her, it'd be the Goddess of Love — so she indulges them both, letting the Tsaritsa melt under her touch till the time she learns to harden herself and freezes over just as Rosalyne had been engulfed in flame.
When they're finally done, the Tsaritsa collapses onto the loveseat, pulling Rosalyne down into her arms.
"La Signora," she hums, almost as though she's whispering a pet name. The gentle smile on her face, lit aglow with the pale light of an eternal winter, is the most ethereal thing Rosalyne has ever seen.
"Hm?" Rosalyne groans into her chest, shifting so her arm can wrap around the Tsaritsa's waist and pull her closer.
"That should be your title, like the rest of the Harbingers have."
"I never said I was going to join your army. Their uniform is nauseating to look at."
"Harbingers don't have to wear a uniform. Pierro simply wears it because he likes it."
"A fool he is, just like his namesake."
The Tsaritsa's head falls back with a quiet laugh, trickling past her lips like the tingling of bells. "You're familiar? Do you know what La Signora means?"
"Do I strike you as someone with much interest in comedy? Enlighten me."
Tilting her chin down towards Rosalyne, the Tsaritsa answers her in a hushed voice, as if the meaning is a private secret shared only between the two of them, "it means, The Fair Lady."
(Rosalyne had already known this, but, in a rare moment of selfishness, had feigned ignorance. In truth, she'd wanted to hear those lovely words, uttered like sweet nothings, just once. She savors the gift, knowing full well that this is likely the last time anyone will see the Goddess of Love as she truly is: a gentle, amorous thing with eyes so liberal in their loving that they could quell even the Crimson Witch of Flames.)
The next morning — after awakening to find the Tsaritsa still fast asleep beneath her, her body beautifully nude and adorned with the whitish traces of Rosalyne's palm — Rosalyne seeks out Pierro.
Even without seeing his face, she can sense his smug amusement as she approaches him.
"I must again urge you to join our ranks, dear Witch. The Fatui are eager to welcome you."
—Such is his greeting.
He seems unsurprised when she answers, "I understand. Then, let glacial ice take the place of my erased past and extinguish these undying flames. Let the darkness of corruption, the pain of the world, and the humans, beasts, and the sin they carry all be purified by silent ice."
The image of the Tsaritsa, gently compassionate, with a gaze warm enough that even her biting cold seemed loving, crosses Rosalyne's mind, just as the feeling of liquid flame, like spilled blood, staining her hands. The pure white flame had endured even the glacial kindness of the Tsaritsa.
"We share the same goal, you, your Tsaritsa, and I: cleanse the sources of distortion in this world: short-sighted, ignorant gods and the darkness and corruption of the Abyss."
She wonders if Rostam would still love her as she is now, or if he could accept the path she is about to embark upon—
"Good. I will do whatever it takes to become an effective instrument in the advancement of our common cause."
—But the Crimson Witch of Flame answers to no one, least of all a corpse. As such, she finds that she's speaking mostly to herself as she continues, "For even if I dress in pure white from head to toe, the ashes of the dead that have long left their stain on every inch of my being can never be cleansed."