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Her Majesty must know that Rosalyne is watching her, must feel the residual caress of heat against her ice-cold skin. When the Tsaritsa had first spilled Rosalyne's ashes across her desk, she'd turned her eyes up towards where the heat spread, as if she knew exactly where Rosalyne was at all moments.
Not even Rosalyne knows exactly where she is at any given time. She hasn't regained enough strength to coalesce a physical form, and so is suspended in limbo as she wafts through the air, carrying only heat with her. Even so, the Tsaritsa has always made a point to acknowledge her, to approximate eye contact as best she can with a being who is everywhere at once.
Yet now, she ignores Rosalyne completely. Her veil and boots are already neatly tucked away, and her delicate fingers are making quick work of the lacing on her bodice. Archons above, she really is undressing!
She's been changing in the suite's restroom for the past couple of weeks, never entering her quarters in anything more revealing than a nightgown. If Rosalyne wanted to ogle, she'd had to make do with watching as her lady's gown rode up in her sleep, granted only glimpses of her pale thighs.
But now, this! The Tsaritsa has never dawdled in war, and she doesn't in this regard either—the lacings are undone and the dress is slipping away from her body, leaving only her corset, stockings, and undergarments. Rosalyne suddenly feels like there's somehow to much of herself, like she must collapse whatever is left of her even further, until there's nothing left of her to intrude upon Her Majesty's privacy.
(Rosalyne sincerely hopes it's not self-indulgent to believe this is for her sake. After all, what's stopping the Tsaritsa from changing in her bathroom, where Rosalyne's prying eyes can't reach?)
The Tsaritsa is making quick work of her corset. One knot, then two, then three, with calculated precision. She never hesitates, not even in her fleeting moments of rest, and before Rosalyne can steel her resolve to not look, by Her Grace, don't look! the corset, too, is sliding away from her torso.
There's an air of dignity surrounding the Tsaritsa even now, adorning nothing but her chemise and panties. Rosalyne can't help but watch her movements as she moves to sit on her bed, every bit as regal as she is in her throne room. Her body is fairly petite compared to what Rosalyne's had been, seemingly too delicate to house the ruler inside, but the Tsaritsa commands it well, crossing her skinny legs with such purpose that Rosalyne can't help but admire the pale stretch of her thighs.
"Rosalyne, you pervert," the Tsaritsa speaks suddenly, and if Rosalyne had a physical body she would flinch. Her lady's words are cold and her visage impassive, but Rosalyne can tell she's teasing by the way she lets her musings waft through the air without following them with an order.
There isn't much Rosalyne can do to answer her, still so weak following her death. She does her best to press herself against the wall so the Tsaritsa isn't bothered by the heat against her skin. The Tsaritsa gives a mirthless laugh. "Good. You didn't think you deserved this after losing so disgracefully against the traveler, did you?"
—And Rosalyne would hate to hear those words from anyone else, but coming from the Tsaritsa they taste like seduction. Her lady is crueler than usual tonight, but Rosalyne could never find it in herself to mind.
The room falls silent again. The Tsaritsa drops her leg so she can lean towards the corner of the room Rosalyne's spirit occupies. Her chemise falls down with the movement, granting a generous view of her cleavage. The memory of nerves, of her stomach coiling and temples burning molten, eats away at Rosalyne's consciousness.
There's a few agonizing moments as the Tsaritsa leans even further, Rosalyne tantalized with the knowledge that if her chemise falls any lower, she'd see her lady's dainty breasts.
Finally, the Tsaritsa takes pity, extending her arm with a small smile. What's left of Rosalyne answers to the beckoning on instinct, coalescing in a poor approximation of a Crimson moth. It's exceedingly difficult as Rosalyne's strength stands now, but if the Tsaritsa wills it, it must be done.
"Good girl," and that small smile curls wider. "You know, the Balladeer made off with the gnosis while you were negotiating with the Raiden Shogun." The fact that he left Rosalyne to die goes unspoken. "Now Tartaglia has to go on a goose hunt to retrieve it from him. You wouldn't have betrayed me like that, would you?"
They both know she would never, the echoing mirage of Rosalyne's voice filling the silence, Of course not.
"What you lack in strength, you make up for tenfold in loyalty. Once Il Dottore has completed the construction of your new body, I'm sure you'll take every effort to keep it functioning for me, won't you?"
Again, the answer is obvious.
"Such a good girl for me, Rosalyne. Once your body is back, you can train until you're strong enough to take on a hundred outlanders." She pulls her hand closer, until Rosalyne's residual heat brushes against her lips. "If you do your best, I'll give you a reward. How would you like to keep me warm at night?"
In her fluster, Rosalyne loses control of herself, and the crimson moth resting on the Tsaritsa's finger dissolves. The Tsaritsa simply laughs, her voice a nightingale's twinkle.
"Yes, you would like that, wouldn't you?" The Tsaritsa lets her head drop down to the mattress, straight white hair spiraling around like a halo. Rosalyne quickly follows to settle over her like a blanket, like the warmth of a loyal pet. The Tsaritsa's skin pinks below her, a vibrant stain against pure white, and Rosalyne knows it's just her sensitivity to the heat but the way her ears burn red and her eyes settle into dazed crests makes it seem like something inexplicably more indulgent.
Shifting uncomfortably beneath Rosalyne's heat, the Tsaritsa looks hot and bothered more than anything else. "Rosalyne," she hisses like a warning, even though it'd be much simpler to just sweep Rosalyne away with a cool breeze.
Instead, her thighs fidget to the rhythm of her breathing. Sweat soaks through her thin chemise, clinging to her slender frame and executing the erratic rise and fall of her chest. "Rosalyne," she grunts again, but still does nothing. She could easily erase Rosalyne from existence if she really wanted to, and yet she doesn't, so Rosalyne keeps going. She settles her mass around the Tsaritsa's thighs, the burning pulse blistering the sensitive skin and dying it a screaming red.
The Tsaritsa voice breaks on a half-whine, and she finally reaches her hand down to rub over her panties. "You're insufferable."
Rosalyne knows, though, that if the Tsaritsa really didn't want this, she wouldn't be the one grinding against her own palm—she would have changed in her bathroom like she always does and their routine would have continued unchanged. But she didn't, and now here they are, with the Tsaritsa tucking the silk away to finally sink a finger inside herself and Archons, she's warm here if nothing else.
Rosalyne wonders when was the last time the Tsaritsa had someone to do this for her, and aches to have her body back, any body back so long as it could take the burden off her lady's hands. What archon has to resort to their own fingers—and what a failure Rosalyne is.
"Come— come on," the Tsaritsa grunts, and Rosalyne hurriedly glides up her torso, to where the frigid Snezhnayan air has hardened the archon's nipples into stiff peaks. Rosalyne curls her heat around one, and as the steam rolls off her pale skin the Tsaritsa arches into Rosalyne's warmth. Her breathing stilts, a breathy stacco that crests as she shoves another finger inside herself.
"Mo— more." It's meant to be an order, but her breath stutters on a moan and, were Rosalyne so daring as to entertain the idea, it'd almost sound like she's begging. She can't even muster the control to school her tone as she continues, her words carried by a desperate whisper, "It's not enough."
Of course it's not. Not when the Tsaritsa's fingers are so much smaller than Rosalyne's. She's so delicate like this, bare of her court robes and heavy fur capes and that thick veil barely concealing her sharp gaze. Here, with her clear eyes clouded by lust and desperation and whatever else Rosalyne's touch conjures in her, she looks much less like an Archon and much more like a girl. Just a girl, but she took the weight of humanity upon her shoulders and pledged to destroy the world that destroyed Rosalyne. Archons, Rosalyne wants to break her; break her and then piece her back together and then break her again, and again, until she's impenetrable to all but her touch.
"Rosa—" the Tsaritsa calls, her voice breaking and soft and wonderful. Rosalyne wishes she knew the Tsaritsa's true name, because the title suddenly feels misplaced. "Rosalyne, p-please, I…"
She can feel the Tsaritsa swallow heavily, her chest heaving with the motion. Her eyes squeeze shut and she is decidedly not crying, but Rosalyne fancies she would be if she were anyone else. The Tsaritsa angles her thumb down over her clit, bucks her hips into the touch, and calls out again, "Rosalyne, I need you."
If those were Rosalyne's fingers, she would keep fucking the Tsaritsa through her orgasm, till she lost control herself and let those crystalline tears fall freely from her eyes. But those aren't Rosalyne's fingers, and the hand falls limp as the Tsaritsa's body becomes a ragdoll beneath her. It's probably little comfort, but Rosalyne does her best to smooth herself across the Tsaritsa's body like a blanket, following the rhythm of her queen's heavy breathing.
The Tsaritsa says nothing, just dips back her head and sighs, slowly regaining her composure.
"My lady," Rosalyne would say if she could, "my queen, my goddess, my beloved… I am here."
Because any notion of love would be ridiculous; what love could Rosalyne hold that would be even a fraction of the Tsaritsa's own? But she is here, even if she has no body to call her own and her presence blisters the Tsaritsa's sensitive skin.
The Tsaritsa curls over, like a child hiding away from the night, and pulls her arms to her chest. Her hands are cupped, as though she could hold Rosalyne in her arms and keep her close.
"Stay here with me," she whispers, but the authority has returned to her by now and it's by no doubt an order.
Rosalyne wouldn't have it any other way, pressing tiny blisters into her queen's skin as if to prove it.
I'll stay.