#executhorn

                                      SNOW    PERMEATED    HER    SOUL    long    before    the    vision    did,    childe    thinks.    it    was    only    ever    natural    that    she'd    be    surrounded    by    ice    from    birth    to    death    no    matter    how    far    she    ran,    just    like    he'd    be    surrounded    by    blood.    they    both    came    into    this    world    screaming    and    will    leave    the    same    way.

                     frost    nips    at    his    skin.    he    can    see    it    from    here,    mondstadt,    all    it's    ugly    windmills    and    overgrowth.    dragonspine    is    cold    in    a    different    way    than    zapolyarnyy,    but    it's    as    close    as    he    can    get.    he    thinks    perhaps    the    abyss    and    winter    are    not    so    different.    warmth-leeching.    unloving.    demanding.

                     tongue    runs    along    teeth,    forever    sharp    and    iron-coated,    as    harbinger    waits    patiently.    he    always    does.    waits    to    here    the    soft    crunch    of    her    heels    landing    in    the    snow    beside    him    from    above;    quieter    still    does    she    breathe.    not    quiet    enough.    her    frosty    lance    catches    his    and    now    they're    frozen    together    from    parrying    his    attack    /         he's    always    like    this,    bite    first    bark    second.    defiant    grips,    she    cannot    pull    away    and    neither    can    he,    merging    their    elemental    weapons    together    so    neither    of    them    can    run.    intimacy    in    close    proximity.    foggy    breaths    mix    between    the    crossed    poles,    and    he    leans    closer.    closer.

                       how    long    can    they    stand    there    ?              staring.    watching.    talking    without    talking,    like    they    did    when    they    were    kids.    this    looming    silence    that    was    never    a    burden,    but    freedom,    snowflakes    clinging    to    lashes    that    flutter    with    a    language    only    they    know.    they    had    arranged    this,    after    all,    as    they    always    have    since    they    reunited.    codes    hidden    in    letters    like    they    couldn't    communicate    through    the    traveler,    but    where's    the    fun    in    that   ?

                       finally,    rosaria    speaks,    and    its    grip    nearly    falters.    how    familiar    a    taste.    he    knows    the    feeling    intimately,    feels    it    still.    despite    knowing    better,    he    needs    her    the    same    way    he    has    needed    few    others  (  atienne,   scaramouche,  marceline----do they think about him  ?      ).    stupid,    stupid    thing,    letting    people    in.    but    for    her    its    the    worst,   because    she--------she    has    always    known    him,    like    his    family,    but    she    has    never    flinched    away.    he    has    never    flinched    from    her.    like    two    halves    of    one    whole,    wolves    biting    one    another's    tails    and    continuing    to    starve.

                       snow    in    her    soul    /    or    maybe    it    was    always    him.    if    the    abyss    and    the    winters    are    so    similar,    who    is    to    say    they    are    not    the    same    as    well    ?          always    leeching    her    warmth    until    she    is    bound    to    carry    cold    metal    and    frost.    perhaps    it    infected    her,    or    they    were    born    to    be    this    way.    the    tsaritsa    chose    them    both    for    a    reason.

thunder    cracks    their    weapons    into    pieces,    and    childe    buries    his    fingers    in    her    hair    and    pulls.    buries    them    both    in    the    snow    when    he    pins    her    down,    presses    his    canines    to    the    soft    flesh    of    her    jaw.

                          "           i    haven't    been    able    to    feel    in    years.    i    think    you    stole    that    piece    of    me    when    you    left,    and    one    day    i'm    going    to    carve    it    out    of    you.    "                         moves    hands    to    press    palms    to    her    ribs,    through    corset    boning    he    might    feel    her    ribs.                     "             or    maybe    i    should    take    a    part    of    you.    then    maybe    we'll    be    even.    i    need     you,    rosaria:    you're    the    only    one    who    understands.        "

                 being    a    weapon.    loving    it,    at    your    core.    that    deep    part    of    you    that    was    born    for    it.    ghastly    genes,    permeating    their    organs    and    turning    their    flesh    to    rot.    how    would    ajax    and    rosaria    be    so    good    at    their    jobs    if    they    did    not    love    every    second    of    it    ?

                   no.    it    isn't    about    violence.    it's    about    desperation:    their    visceral    need    to    be    known    and    unknown,    to    be    touched    and    loved    anyway.    turned    away    but    everyone    else,    wanted.    he    smothers    her    because    he    has    to,    he    wants    to,    he    needs    to.    needs    someone    to    experience    him    and    only    him    and    by    the    archons,    if    she    smothers    him    back,    may    he    suffocate    in    her    avalanche    and    die    numb.

kisses    the    snowflakes    in    her    hair,    curling    from    where    they've    melted.    as    close    to    tender    as    they    can    get,    like    this,    afraid.

                              “        i   don’t  speak   -----   nobody’s  listening.                                                  it’s  not  safe  to  seek  the  attention.         “

WHAT   A   FUNNY   THING   TO   SAY.                     i   don't   want   to   fight   you.            in   any   other   circumstance   maybe   that   wouldn't   be   so   funny,      but   he   knows   her   reputation   and   too   many   know   his.      and   sure,      there   may   not   always   be   a   face   to   the   name   at   first,      in   which   case   he   gets   the   little   moments   like   this.      tthe   hesitation.      isn't   she   supposed   to   be   mondstadt's   guard   dog   ?

                         isn't   she   supposed   to   this   scrawny   little   girl,      holding   his   hand   behind   an   old   shed,      waiting   for   the   coldfront   to   break   so   they   could   go   home   with   their   half-rotten   dinner   ?

                         isn't   he   supposed   to   be   some   poor   little   kid   whose   never   seen   hell   and   come   back   laughing   ?

                         teeth   grit.      it's   rare   for   his   composure   to   falter,      but   the   smile   he   usually   finds   around   the   traveler   and   their   collection   of   allies   is   struggling   here;      her   frosty   demeanor   reminds   him   of   his   allies.      so   he   lets   go   of   it.      but   the   speed   at   which   she   reflects   his   arrow   impresses   him,      and   too   soon   and   it's   flickered   back   into   place.      after   all   these   years,      they're   still   the   same   reflections   of   one   another   as   they   were   before,      despite   the   changes.      the   difference   is   that   at   her   core,      rosaria   might   still   claim   to   have   a   heart.

                         tartaglia   followed   her   for   hours.      she   knew   it.      but   he   couldn't   resist,      drawn   in   by   the   frost   and   the   rumours.      keep   an   eye   on   his   enemies   but   in   reality,      she   struck   him   as   familiar.      the   only   confirmation   he   needed   was   the   sharp   reflexes   and   his   name   on   her   tongue.      he's   wanted   to   know   for   so   long--------still   that   rotting   shell   of   a   child   whose   best   friend   was   lost   to   the   cold   and   the   cruelty   of   reality.      he   remembers   when   he   used   to   want   to   prove   she   was   alive.      

                         now   he   just   wants   to   know   if   she   still   bleeds.

                                          "         you'd   think   someone   who   works   as   hard   as   you   to   stay   unknown   would   try   a   little   harder   to   feign   ignorance.      not   a   lot   of   people   call   me   that   these   days   !         you   look   pretty   good   for   a   dead   girl,      but   i   probably   do   too.      "

                        the   next   arrow   is   notched,      but   doesn't   fly.         he   doesn't   even   aim,      head   cocked   to   one   side.

          tartaglia knows the trail of footprints behind him.  he knows how to hide,  of course,  but he isn’t,  so he’s left them in obvious places.  no point in denying his presence when he’s gone out fo hsi way to be noticed by the knights.  it’s this reason that he doesn’t turn when he feels her appear.  approach.  what ever it is rosaria does.

          they always seem to meet like this,  amongst the cold.  he recalls the first time they reunited,  her eyes piercing through the night sky amongst frigid breezes by the sea.  is it her,  oir him,  that brings the ice ?

         how soft the voice;  now he turns,  breaking gaze from ivory to the figure above.         “    ahh   ...   do you think it’s snowing in snezhnaya too   ?     “

            “   sister rosaria ,  lovely night ,  isn’t it ?   “   no ,  it was no ordinary meeting ;  after all ,  not many got to see the once outrider bloodied up ,  walking home in the middle of the night .  a bruise here and there ,  although one clearly on the side of his face .

      yes ,  he was retired :  but considering the situation with the outriders currently (   most away with the grandmaster of the knights ,  only one active remaining   ) ,  he didn’t mind in helping .  although ,  of course ,  without amber knowing so .   “   no need to go that way ,  nothing to see there ,  anyway .   ”   only a few outriders on the ground ,  taking a nap !

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃,    ghosts of the past flickering at every corner.   it feels as though the weight of the entire castle had come down upon their shoulders in their guilt.    a mother lost,   a father  …   just the same.   they have become just as a ghost themself,   wandering the corridors as though behind one of the doors lay hidden what was before.    is it a home still ?    they’ve not spoken in a while,   too lost in their thoughts to notice rosaria‘s approach,   her hands reaching for them.    her touch is cool,    a guiding lantern in the fog that fills their mind.    adrian tries to focus on her voice   …   it seems to come from far away.   their name rings a hand in the dark,    reaching.