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“Welcome back, my dear Rosalyne.”
Those are the words Pierro has wanted to say for months now. They slip past his tongue easily. Almost practiced. Almost too perfect. But the woman before him smiles and receives them without hesitation.
“I’m back,” she says, her voice as silky and sweet as it usually is. “And I have what we need.”
She produces a piece from inside her cloak. The shape is exactly as the Tsaritsa described. A chess piece, imbued with the faint glow of anemo energy. The gnosis of the anemo archon and the reason why Signora left Snezhnaya, to begin with.
The truth is, if it’s up to Pierro, Signora’s return is enough. It’s unlike him to worry, but he has been worried about her. After all, Mondstadt is a place that holds many memories for her. Most of them are unpleasant, he knows. And the pleasant ones have been tainted by flames and betrayal.
So, he wondered if she would be alright. He wondered if he should volunteer to go in place of her.
But it is her duty. Like his duty is here, as the leader of the Harbinger. Not to go on adventures, even if they may be dressed as missions.
He had to fight it, of course. The desire to go after her. The need to make sure that Mondstadt does not break her a second time.
But he kept himself contained. He kept himself here.
And now, she’s back. Now, she wears that smile on her face. Sultry and beautiful, even if it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
When she hands the gnosis to him, she presses her delicate fingers against his palm. Despite the fire in her body and her heart, the tips of her fingers are almost too soft. She looks up at him, her eyes framed perfectly by her long eyelashes.
“Don’t look so sad,” she says. “I am back.”
“And I’m here to welcome you back,” Pierro murmurs. “Still alive.”
“Still alive,” Signora agrees. “And still so courteous, even when you don’t have to be.”
Slowly, she moves her hands so they’re pressing against his chest. She brings herself up so her face moves close to his.
For a moment, their breaths mingle. So hot in the country of snow and ice.
Such a perfect prelude to the kiss that comes so naturally.
They do not have the desperation and hunger of youth. Nothing quite like they’ve seen from their other harbingers. Their kisses are perfectly soft and perfectly chaste. Tongues do not seek entrance. As if lips against lips are all the heavens ever will for them to be.
Pierro holds her by the hips. Tenderly, just enough so her body is pressed against his. Gently, just so he can feel her warmth.
And when she presses another kiss against the corner of his lips, he exhales.
He is duty-bound to the fatui and to the Tsaritsa. For so long, that means abandoning any sort of affection for others. Harbingers they may be, but they are still, at the core of it, tools for the Tsaritsa’s desire.
Signora should simply be that. Any fondness between them should stay as that of comrades with a similar goal.
But now she’s here, he seeks her kisses.
Now she’s here, he seeks her body.
Even if their touches are gentle and almost too chaste, they are touching each other all the same. They are a sort of desire all the same.
One for warmth instead of fire. One for sweetness instead of spice.
Pierro could never expect he would be here. Perhaps if he’s the type to rely on others, he might even seek help to believe that he could feel this way and could be adored by such a beautiful girl.
But ah, it’s the same for her, isn’t it?
When they found her all those years ago, she was a mess. When they found her, she had been betrayed by her own heart and her own country.
She would never love again — that’s what her eyes said then.
This might not be love. No, he is certain that this is not love. Not from her. And most likely, not from him. But it is close enough.
Signora adores Pierro enough. Perhaps as someone sturdy, someone who would never leave her. Pierro adores Signora all the same — a beautiful girl, so frail yet so firm.
So full of love, yet so twisted by hatred.
“Now,” she says as she runs her fingers against his cheek. “What shall we do until I’ve to leave again?”
He wants to stay like this. He wants gentle kisses and equally tender embraces. But he laughs softly. He places the most affectionate kiss against the bridge of her nose.
“You must be celebrated,” he says. “For bringing the gnosis back.”
And for facing the anemo archon who has ruined everything for her and coming out of it triumphantly. He does not say this, of course. This story is not for the whole world to know.
“I suppose you have got a celebration in mind?” Signora asks.
She moves so she’s linking her arm to his. Side-by-side, they could almost seem like lovers. Warmth against warmth, the delusion might be able to convince them of quite as much.
But Pierro chuckles.
“Of course, my Rosalyne,” he says. “No songs, no dances, no wine.”
No Mondstadt, right to where she is.
“Somber,” she hums. “Perfect.”
He misses her, yes. He wants her, yes.
But the world deserves to see the beauty of her repair.
She deserves a crown of glory, even if made of ice.