Archive of Our Own ^beta

The caretaker dressed in black with the expression similar to hers, the person she knows well from their own words as Marguerite's discarded Siebel, the stranger wearing Siebel’s face, the only other one besides Elisabeth who ever saw her, real world or otherwise: this is the person that approaches in soft, fleeting footfalls.

She knows immediately that this is not her Siebel. But then again, she is not their unruly charge who could never properly hold love either. And even further, this is Siebel, no matter what. So she stands up, and allows them to come to her side, brushing off the grass sticking to her dress as she rises.

“Ah,” Siebel says when they are in earshot. It is a little odd, she must admit, not to hear the twinkling of a bell or a meow accompanying the words or her footsteps. “I had not thought to ask, but are those chocolates in your lap?”

Now that she has remembered—has allowed herself to remember—a memory resurfaces, welcome in the light: a younger her tiptoeing around glass shards in the kitchen, peering at the sweets Siebel had stashed in their arms. Perhaps for Marguerite, perhaps for a personal stockpile. At some point, her imagination had gotten away from her and dared to assume they were for her. Are those chocolates? she always asked without fail, staring mercilessly into the wrappers.

Haven’t I already given you chocolates earlier? Siebel always replied.

I don’t think so, she said glibly. Fearless in the certainty that they would prioritize her request. And prioritize they did, never failing to grant her at least three extra pieces. It was something she held over Elisabeth until she destroyed their endless. miserable, normal days with her own two hands.

But I will not be deceived, she'd thought once, yet here she is. Here they are.

If Siebel doesn't remember, she supposes she could erase the incident from her mind as well. But she had not grieved the remnants of her younger self for nothing, and she was unwilling to let go of those early afternoons with Siebel whenever Marguerite and Elisabeth were out and about, sitting by the piano with Siebel as her witness to frustrated hours of learning amateur pieces. She'd even recalled dragging them by the arm to listen to her latest piece, their warm expression when she'd finally managed a proper run-through. Hours and hours of the sun setting, and a steady warmth by her side.

It had not occurred to her then, but she had not been Elisabeth, and yet she was loved, was she not? A discarded twin and a discarded caretaker, matching forlorn expressions, and still she cannot deny that Siebel, no matter the form, was not someone she could deceive herself into not caring for.

“Chocolates,” she says. Glancing at the pile mysteriously gathered in her lap, she considers for a moment, then holds one out to them. “Have one.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright. I shouldn’t be taking your candy, it would hardly feel right.”

She frowns. When they had first offered her chocolate, she nearly batted it out of their hand before reluctantly plucking it from their grasp. She'd thought nothing of it at the time, but the rejection stings when on the opposing end. “I have more pieces than I know what to do with. Take it.”

Liar, the voice she wrongly, cruelly, truthfully attributed to Elisabeth hisses. She bats it away. There is no more need for running, here, and she hardly needs this entire stash.

“If you insist,” says Siebel, before popping it into their mouth. They ponder for a moment, as if marveling over a long-forgotten treasure, before nodding. “This is very rich. You have good taste, I assure you.”

I wonder who I got it from, the girl thinks with no small amount of amusement. “Thank you.” She rests her hand against her chin, stares back into the accursed house. Or perhaps it was the house she cursed all by herself. “You remember the piano?”

“Ah, yes." Siebel shakes their head, as if awakening from a long dream. The girl almost sighs to herself. "I don't believe I played it myself, but it sticks out in my memories for some reason. It compelled me to come back today, though I couldn’t say why.”

Besides Marguerite, Heinrich Faust, the man she supposed she could call her father, comes to mind. If Siebel knew of his death, it may explain their impulsive behavior… but she could not recall seeing them at the funeral, and she had never particularly cared about the man she called ‘Father’ either way. She’d never gotten to know him beyond the shadow of his back as Elisabeth took his hand for a trip to the sea, and a moment, short yet so very long, where she'd stood in front of him and screamed when he took them away from that endless, miserable place and even still refused to tell her what ever became of Siebel.

“A funeral was held today,” she decides to share, opting for a neutral tone. When Siebel turns to her, struck by something akin to grim understanding, she hurries to add, “No, it was only my father. I hadn’t the slightest opportunity to spend time with him.”

Elisabeth hadn’t even shown up, and I was more exhausted by the strangers around me than weighed down by any sort of grief, you see, she resists sharing.

“I see… I’m still sorry for your loss.”

When you’ve helped cover up the death of my 'uncle', I wonder how much you truly mean that? The girl tilts her head. A fleeting part of her wonders if Elisabeth would have been so desperate to seek her out had she disappeared under suspect circumstances, but she shakes it away. Elisabeth had found it in herself to smile at her when she finally went to see her after the incident, and Siebel had it in themself to wear the same dour expression she permanently had by the time they crossed paths.

Perhaps, no matter what, a disappearance is a disappearance, and would be appropriately addressed. Even if it is her.

“It's okay,” she settles on saying, because it is. She has no strong feelings on the matter. “But because of the funeral, I own the house now. You can go in and see the piano if you’d like.”

Siebel startles. As they used to do when they would spot her doing something and stirred up a fuss over it. “I couldn’t possibly—”

She doesn’t know if the long stretches of time spent untensing her shoulders because the familiar bell chime followed her around the house as her ever-trusty shadow, or if the near-automatic trust from the past she’s recently just stopper cowering seeps into her actions now, but her mouth is opening without her permission. “If it would make you feel better, I will go with you.”

“Are you certain? The house seems huge. It would be easy for a child to get lost in.”

Ah, and hadn’t the cat done their very best to interrupt her steps and paw at her bag if she was on the wrong track?

“I know where the piano room is,” she says, with far mote solemnity than she means to, but enough to be appropriate. “I can show you.”

As this is a normal hallway and not a nightmare sequence borne of her gaudiest insecurities, they do not encounter any monsters lurching towards her in the dark or any such nonsense. As such, it gives time for questions to spring to mind in the viscous silence, and an unfortunate question emerges from Siebel’s mouth:

“What’s your name?”

Ah, the girl thinks. If only you had asked anything else.

I am the only one who will call you Elisabeth.

I don’t want Siebel to call me Elisabeth, she thinks, nearly stomping her foot in defiance, I want them to call me as I am. I want them to address me more familiarly than ‘the child’. Then, I will at last be worth something. I will have proof that someone wanted me here.

After a moment, a thought, so quietly, filters in: And just who reached out when you were escaping? Don't be ridiculous. You already have proof.

Because of this, and because it is Siebel asking, she answers properly. “I don’t have one.”

“…What do you mean?”

“Only my sister was given a name. Elisabeth. I was not named.” After a moment: “You never called me Elisabeth, so please do not start now.”

“I… see. I do not retain my memories of this place very well, only that this home was the site of some tragedies and poor decisions.” The footsteps pause. The girl follows suit. "I hope you weren't involved in any of it."

She allows herself one bittersweet smile. “This was my home when you worked here as a nurse. I knew of you.”

Though she does not turn around, she can feel a looming presence behind her and stifles a fond sigh. The same presence that crept up on her when she took to drawing on the walls, the same gaze that would dart to her if she didn't get away fast enough while leaving their diary somewhere new. She never had her doubts, but the same Siebel is still with her, dream or reality, past or present.

"I apologize," they say at length.

"No need," says the girl. You may well have been the only one, aside from Elisabeth, who treated me like anything at all. “You spent time with me. I enjoyed myself well enough.” I am grateful you played with me when I did not allow myself to reach out. “You kept my drawings and helped me learn the piano.” I am grateful you stopped seeing me as a burden. “It's okay that you don't remember. I can remember for the both of us."

In front of the piano room now. Siebel's hand freezes over the doorknob. "That hardly seems fair. Those sound like lovely memories."

I am grateful you were kind. “It's okay,” she repeats, firmness etched into every syllable, because it is. Because they arrived in her hour of need, as they always seemed to. Because they are here now, and she is no longer the girl who could not properly hold onto love. "If you want to make up for it, teach me how to play the piano."

They study her expression for a few moments before settling into some sort of contentment as they ease the door open. "That, I can do. Though I don't want to intrude on your current living situation, nor do I know how to play."

She cobbles together a rough smile. It is weak, as she is tired, but the attempt comes easy to her. "My aunt won't mind." Perhaps she even has a piano at home. She never went looking around the house the way Elisabeth did. "And you couldn't play back then either."

No sooner do they skim their fingertips over the stained keys that they utter, as if possessed, "I will be a horrid teacher. All I will be able to do is stay beside you and listen."

The girl steels herself. She wants, for the first time, to reach for something, and the terror clutches at her throat for a moment. But she persists. "That's okay. I don't want to relearn alone."

A longer pause than all the others. Then, softly: "I see. I would be honored to accompany you as you practice, in that case."

Then let me stay outside with the child, and play with her, Siebel had written once. She never got to tell them properly, but she felt the same way.

Even now, as she accepts and gives them another chocolate as a promise, that remains true.