In the face of death, Signora dared not show any semblance of vulnerability, of concern. To be a Harbinger was to carry out the Tsaritsa’s will, and to carry out Her will was to devote their lives to Her pursuit. To be a Harbinger was to witness bloodshed, to strike down any enemies of the Tsaritsa.
How unfortunate it was, that things had to turn out this way. How unfortunate it was, that you dared oppose the Tsaritsa’s will, securing your fate as not an agent, but as no more than another body, sent off to the Palace’s morgue to be buried in an unmarked grave.
A shame she had to play the role of executioner.
Every blow she delivered, every word out of your mouth (or rather, the lack thereof), felt like a blow unto her frost-shackled heart, penetrating through those walls she had masterfully constructed; this pain, it felt so very familiar, distant, foggy memories of a past lover’s demise under a reddening sky resurfacing.
Were the vows she had exchanged with you for naught? So worthless that they were nothing more than a second thought? Promises so insignificant that they were doomed to be broken from the very moment both lovers had said ‘I do’? Blood tarnished both her uniform and yours, frost encasing part of the body underneath Signora’s fingertips.
“I can’t believe I ever could have loved you.” Signora spoke, venom dripping off every word as she, at last, let go of your body, watching as frost slowly, torturously, began to encase you, memorializing every wound, every last bruise and scratch. Though she feigned detachment, though her icy eyes scanned your figure with such disdain, Signora – or rather, Rosalyne – knew well she was weak. Too weak, for she had let the walls encasing her heart melt for a traitor, for she, despite it all, desperately clung to the you that she knew, for acknowledging your betrayal, your slow death, was to let her final image of you be tainted forevermore.