Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are so many things you don’t remember. You could list them all, if you wanted to. But you can’t, because the memories are broken. Latching onto things long past would sour the moment. The here and now. Everything around you isn’t what you expected, but you don’t have old expectations to fall back on.

Perhaps that’s for the best.

You surreptitiously look around your family as you all walk through an endless forest. Odile is carrying Bonnie on her shoulders and forcing herself not to grumble. Bonnie gently taps on Odile’s head, directing her as she would a noble steed. They risk being thrown off by the grumpy researcher, but the kid persists despite the danger. Bonnie catches you glancing and shoots you a cheeky grin. You respond in kind, your own cheek pushing up your eyepatch.

Isabeau walks next to you, his big arms stretching high above his head. You hold your breath so you don’t catch a whiff of his slight odor. Camping is fun and all, but a proper bath hadn’t been in the cards for a few days. The sunlight pokes through the leaves and dances on his light skin. You catch yourself smiling and wipe your mouth to force it away. You said so many awful things to him, and he still confessed his love. 

Does that make you desirable beyond rationality? Or does that make him desperate beyond belief? You shudder at the thought, two terrible realities that couldn’t possibly coincide. You don’t remember a time when doubt didn’t leech away your strength. Too long has that dust clouded your vision. 

You lean forward a little and watch Mirabelle past Isa’s wide frame. She’s fiddling with something in her hands, hidden from view. Your keen eye spots a glimmer. A coin? A scrap of metal? There’s no time to investigate as she catches you, staring. Her lightless eyes widen for a moment before relaxing. She pockets the item and slows a little.

…Is she hiding behind Isabeau? You can barely spot the bounce of her bow as you all continue to walk, grass and twigs cracking underfoot. You frown and look forward toward Odlie and Bonnie. Mira’s been avoiding you. It makes sense, after what you’ve done. You had so many perfect opportunities to end the loops and you didn’t even know it.

The perfect loop. The friendships strengthened, bonds forged in fire. You learned so much about them, and you love every small detail. Odile’s difficult youth, Bonnie’s courage and fear, Isa’s identities, and Mira’s compounding struggles. Every bit of them is a piece to a larger puzzle, and you compiled it so precisely. 

Still, you threw it all back at them. You can’t admit how much pressure you were under. Loop’s constant taunts, the knife you put at your throat, and the untrust you weaved each time you manipulated your players all culminated in the truth:

You’re a bad person.

Your hug yourself under your cloak and a quiet sigh escapes your lips. You can’t apologize to them all, not again. Time after time on your journey to Bambouche, you would crack and shiver. Every time you longed for your hat to hide under, someone found you instead. They’d hug you tight until you got used to the gift of touch again.

…again? Had you been used to it before? Isa said someone Crafted your cloak with as much care and love as anyone could possibly thread into clothing. You had people, it was clear. And, even before you were Siffrin: You tossed it all away. You ran, only surviving a doomed island north of Vauguarde by a strike of good (or bad) luck.

This may be the first time in your life, forgotten or remembered, that you chose to stay. That you were allowed to stay. So, here you are at the end of a long journey. How could you be ready to start the next?

“What’s in the bun?” Bonnie’s voice breaks your monologue. Finally, something to focus on other than yourself. A chance to start the day again.

Odile raises her eyebrows and glances up at Bonnie. They’re idly plumping her hair with both hands. Flatly, she says, “More hair.”

Bonnie scrunches their face, “Nuh uh. It’s wrapped up around something, right?” They wriggle a finger inside the bun and guess, “Like, a ball or a big rock.” They gasp, “Or a snack?! Do you keep food up here?” 

You all giggle except Odile. She removes one of her hands from Bonnie’s leg on her shoulder and smacks Bonnie’s hands away. “Don’t touch.”

“Come on…” Bonnie pouted and crossed their arms. “You gotta tell me!”

Isabeau chuckles, “Bonnie, let M’dame keep her secrets.”

Odile rolls her eyes, “There’s nothing inside. I take great care of my luscious locks, thank you very much.” She mockingly swipes at her bangs, though she clearly grooms herself often. You’ve seen it, while no one is looking. She slithers away from the group and comes back pristine. You think she’s seen you watching her, but she trusts you not to reveal her secrets.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Hey Sif,” Isa leans over to you and whispers, “In the loops, did you ever find out what Odile is researching?”

You hesitate. Of course, you learned pretty early on that Odile is keeping up a mysterious façade. There is no research. Rather, there is: but keeping everyone guessing is more fun for her. She likes to see everyone pluck at the question, gnawing and biting at what they think are hints that will unveil some mysterious path of the Ka Bue-born intellectual.

You look ahead and see Odile’s shoulders tense up. It’s clear she heard Isa, and she probably knows that you know what she’s been up to. Time to play your part: No more putting your family in bad situations.

You look up at Isa and shrug with a defeated smile.

He’s devastated, his jaw falls slack and his cheeks deflate. “AW, really?” he asks more loudly, “All that time with us and you didn’t figure it out?”

“Isabeau,” Mirabelle gently pulls on his arm, “Maybe let’s not talk about the loops so much?”

She’s looking out for you? That’s her nature, you suppose. She’s still mad at you. She’ll never not be mad at you. This will end, they will leave, this will end, this will end, this will end-

“Shoot!” Isa holds up his hands, “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

…You’ve noticed that new dialogue snaps you out of your thoughts more easily. Back in the loops, you’d zone out and get lost in the patterns, the voice in your head reminding you that you deserved to be stuck on the stage. Now, new dialogue-

Stop. This isn’t a stage. Focus.

You look down and count your footsteps. One, two, three, four. You take a breath and say, “That’s okay. Talking about the loops isn’t so bad sometimes.”

Odile chimes in, “Just not all the time.”

You wish you weren’t made of glass. The slightest nudge and you’d fall off the shelf, a figurine dethroned, and shatter on the ground. They’re tiptoeing around you, you know that. They’re the ones who should be upset, they shouldn’t be taking care of you. They-

…

Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.

Bonnie turns their head and looks at you, perplexed. “Sorry, Frin. Doing the same day over and over must’ve been like…” They scrunch their face as they search their brain for the most perfect and astute analogy. They come up with, “Like eating crab!”

Again, you shrug. “I like crab.” Your grin pushes up your cheeks, “Juicy.”

“WHAT?!” Three of the four of them shout simultaneously. Bonnie lurches backward in shock at your admission. They grab Odile’s head for stability, but that only brings both of them down. “Woah, woah!” They both holler as they plummet to the grass beneath them. You deftly leap forward and catch Bonnie before they fall. Odile wasn’t so lucky.

Thud. 

“Boniface!” Odile shouts as she rubs her head, “I-! You-!” She groans, flabbergasted, and gives up. “No more piggy-back rides.” She stands and wipes the grass from her coat.

You place Bonnie down and gently pat their shoulders, smiling kindly. They breathe easy and say, “Thanks, Frin. I- WAIT!” They shout and back away from you, “You eat crabs?! Like, touch them and cook them and eat them?!”

You pucker your lips and taunt them, “Yes…” You pull off your glove and reveal your darkless skin, “...with this hand!” You wiggle your fingers in their face. They quickly reach into their pack and smack your hand away with their frying pan. That would have hurt if you weren’t so numb to pain.

“Bonnie!” Mirabelle scolds them, “No hitting!”

Bonnie glares at her, “I’m not a dog, Belle!” They point their pan at you, “This weirdo over here eats crabs!”

“Is that such a problem,” Odile pouts, “that it required throwing me to the ground?”

Bonnie holds up their pan like a sword and declares proudly, “Yes!”

“It’s just, well…” Isabeau shrugs but his face is a little grossed out. “It’s weird? Why would you eat crab? They’re just… bad.”

Ominously, Mirabelle adds, “...They’re inevitable.”

You tilt your head and innocently tease them, “Tasty.”

“I’m gonna hurl…” Bonnie sticks out their tongue and pretends to heave.

Odile shakes her head and looks at you. “Some kind of Vaugardian thing, right?”

You nod.

Mirabelle fiddles with her bow, looks like she’s trying to focus on anything but the crab. “Sometimes I forget we’re from different cultures. Do they eat crab in Ka Bue, Madame?”

“Not really, but we don’t have quite the aversion to it that you all seem to have.” She explains.

…This is all becoming too familiar. If you don’t interrupt, she’ll start talking about dolphins. You feel the sudden urge to run. You settle for destroying the script before the words make you nauseous. You look up at Odile, wide-eyed, and ask, “Have you ever tasted crab, Odile?”

She blinks and looks at the others. They’re eagerly awaiting a response. Isa leans in, Mira holds her hands behind her back. Bonnie gently taps the rim of their pan into their open palm, ready to attack if necessary. Odile reads the room and plainly says, “No. I have never eaten crab.” Her eyes fall on Bonnie but she keeps her gaze forward, “And Boniface would definitely not like the taste of crab.”

They pout and grip the edge of their pan. “OF COURSE I WOULDN’T!” They look like they’re about to say more when they look into the bed of the shining metal pan. They raise an eyebrow and tilt their head a little. “...huh.”

It becomes clear to you they’re getting ideas. You smirk, having both successfully deviated from the script and you both gave Bonnie a new meal to cook. If they were brave enough.

“Bonnie, no!” Mirabelle shouts, her calm veneer shattered. “We’re not cooking crab!”

“WHERE WOULD I EVEN FIND A CRAB?!” They groan and trot forward, ready to move on from the topic. 

But you’re having too much fun with this new script. You mumble, “...Beaches.”

“Sif!” Isabeau glares at you with malcontent, “Don’t encourage them!”

Bonnie rolls their head and groans as the group follows them, “I’m not gonna cook crab!”

Odile won’t drop the bit either. “Of course. Only a master chef could prepare such a delicate meal.” She shoots you a smirk and you smirk back. It’s nice to see her let her hair down, so to speak. 

Bonnie doesn’t say anything. They’re leading the group so you can’t tell what their face looks like. You’ve seen their face thousands of times, memorized every detail for every emotion. You can read them like a fiddle. At least, you could when you knew the lines.

Time to keep ad-libbing. You elbow Odile in jest and say, “Only the bravest chefs can get it just right.” This is fun.

“Stop it, you two!” Isa whines playfully, “No one in their right mind would cook a crab! Don’t tease Bonbon!”

Odile holds up her hands, “Alright, alright. Siffrin, why do you want them to cook such a horrid thing?” She's still smiling and puts the burden on you. 

Your turn. Pun time. “Why? Beclaws it’ll be tastier than anything they’ve ever eaten!”

You snicker and Odile smirks with a contented sigh. Isa and Mira feign nausea but let it go. Bonnie stops in their tracks.

Gently, like a leaf falling from a tree, you hear them sniffle.

Oh no.

“Boniface?” Odile asks, “Why did you stop?”

They wipe their nose. Their words are strained, caught in their throat like the common cold. “...You guys don’t like my cooking?”

OH NO.

Your incessant need to be the funny-jokes-pun-person made Bonnie upset!

You did this!

You’re awful!

You’re counting your heartbeat now. Thirty-one, thirty-two. Soon you’ll be counting breaths, but you don’t want to get there yet. You want to say something but of course you'll say something stupid again. So, you hold back.

Odile is confused. “Of course we like your cooking, Boniface.”

“But…” They shake their head and wipe their nose again, “You said only the best chefs can cook crab. I can't cook crab.” They turn and point directly at you, their face twisted in anger more than sadness, “And you said it'll taste better than everything! Everything I've cooked?!” 

They're mangling your words but you didn't think them through at all. Just a chance to be funny and you took it without considering the emotions of others. Always meeting yourself at the end goal, always the joke and always the barb. 

Under your cloak, you grip your dagger tightly. Pick it up. Put it to your throat. Loop back. Start again. Quickly, now. Before this gets worse. 

… But you can't risk it. This isn't a loop. The show is over, the stage dismantled and rebuilt again. Apologize to Bonnie. 

Your breaths are ragged. “I'm sorry, Bonnie. I didn't mean it.” You so desperately want to look away but you can't. They need to see how ashamed you are. Let them look directly into your eye, your jaw trembling and shoulders shaking. 

You're manipulating them. You know that, right? You know how your body responds to shame. You know it'll make Bonnie forgive you when they see your ailment. Is it really your shame? Or is it you knowing how to expertly pull their strings, along with everyone else in this family? 

…We've been over this before. They chose to stay with you. They helped you to finally sleep. They called you their family before you even had a chance to pry it out of them. Being hated isn't as bad as being alone. Remember that when they eventually leave you. 

You grip your knife tighter, feeling the silent vibration of the metal leaving the sheath. Wait til they all turn round. Let the edge find your skin. Dance along the cool rivers and white waves, let the lightless blood fall away in the hoary light. 

You freeze as Bonnie's expression changes. They huff and cross their arms, “That was mean. I don't like it when you're mean.” They look up at Odile for a moment too, but look back down to their boots. 

Odile looks at you, then at Bonnie. She steps forward and kneels down, placing her hand on their shoulder. As gently as she can muster, Odile says, “Boniface, I apologize. I was wrapped up in our jokes and didn't consider your feelings. Rest assured, we all love your cooking. If we didn't, we would insist on cooking ourselves.”

Mirabelle leans forward, her chimes sounding off from her brooch. “She's right! I've never had a complaint. Not even when we have leftovers!” 

Isabeau frowns, “Sometimes I think your food is too spicy, but I have a really low tolerance for aggressive flavors.” He laughs, “So, that's a me problem!”

Bonnie sniffles and looks at everyone again. They take a breath and say “Okay. Good.” They straighten their posture and say, “I'm not gonna cook crab.”

“Oh thank Change.” Mirabelle exclaims and breathes a sigh of relief as Isa's shoulders slack. 

“BUT!” Bonnie yells, causing Odile to flinch. “If a crab comes my way, and we kill it, and it happens to fall into my frying pan…” They smirk devilishly, “Then whatever happens, happens. And it will be MAGNEFFICIENT!!!” 

“Magnificent, Boniface.” Odile can't help but smile as she stands. 

“MAGNETIC!” 

Isa barks a laughs, “Yeah! Magnetic crabs!” 

“Magnetic it is, then!” Mirabelle giggles, “If you're going to eat something, it might as well be magnetic. Right, Siffrin?” 

She's trying to bring you back into the conversation. Play your part. Don't deviate. With both hands now on your unsheathed knife, all hidden by your cloak, you stick out your tongue and smirk. Stick to the jokes that worked in the loops. You may be out of them but you know how to keep everyone happy. 

As the group continues its walk, you're trapped in your own thoughts again. You hold your knife close to your chest like it's some sort of comfort. A quick exit is always at your fingertips. No one needs to know how experienced you are at killing yourself. 

You're bottling everything up again. That's what you always do. You hide. You quiver. You drown yourself in the splintering waves to avoid the chance of loss, and the chance of love that parallels. You keep apologizing like that will somehow make it better. Begging their forgiveness until they feel obligated to grant it. Manipulation in its purest form. 

They'd be better off without you. Your absence would be a blessing, wouldn't it? Maybe that's a gift you can give them all. Again though, it would be self-serving. Leaving them before they can leave you would only prove how selfish you are. You'd be going from one extreme to another: From considering their feelings by constantly apologizing, to considering only your own feelings by abandoning your relationships. 

These things are temporary, the good and the bad. Bonnie seems to have recovered from the wicked and cruel and mean and horrible jokes you were making. You're so thoughtless. 

Odile slows down and walks next to you in the back of the group, far enough to be out of Bonnie's earshot. She whispers, “I must admit, I feel like such an idiot. I didn't mean to hurt their feelings.”

You raise your eyebrow. Had Odile even said anything to Bonnie? You were the one making jokes and being nasty. You can't remember what Odile said. Did she say something? You started it, right? About… Something. You made Bonnie upset. Of course you did. But, how? What did you say? It was mean and awful. Of course it was. What-

“I guess we'll have to find a seafood restaurant on our journey. Maybe they'll serve up some crab for us.” Odile elbows you a little. 

Crabs. That's what this was about. You forgot. Of course you forgot. Anything to reset the loops, or anything to reset yourself. That's just what you do. 

“Siffrin?” 

Play the part, you colossal oaf. You try to blink away your ghastly expression, the one you know will make others worried about you. It's a weapon, really. You look up at her and say, “Yeah, I guess we'll sea about that.”

She stares blankly at you. 

“Sea what I did there?” You force the words out like water through a dam, but you think you pulled it off. Pretending you're fine. 

She still says nothing. 

How else can you spin this? “Sea, like… the ocean?” 

She blinks and asks, “What are you holding?” 

Huh? Holding? You look down at your cloak. Your hands are pushing the cloak forward by your chest, she can see the raised outline of your fingers. What are you holding, anyway? You feel for-

Oh. The dagger. You remember now. With one imperceptible motion, you swiftly move your hands downward, sheath your dagger, show your hands from under your cloak and wave them. “Nothing at all!” You say, honestly. Nothing anymore would have been more accurate. 

Odile squints and pushes her glasses up her nose. You hope she lets it go as she looks away from you. 

You need to be more careful.

Chapter Text

Dreams often escape you. You spent so long without sleep but started every loop rested. When you sleep, your mindscape fills with grey air and sharp walls closing in, then widening again. A diaphragm in the sunless night. You don’t even remember falling asleep but the stars greet you as you blearily open your eye. 

It’s not yet morning. You sigh contentedly as you feel Isa’s strong arm around your waist. You’ve slept so much easier since he offered to hold you tight. It’s always awkward, since his affection for you is out in the open. But he wanted to help you sleep and this was the best way he knew how: By stopping you from squirming all night.

It’s been working so far. He probably doesn’t get any sleep, having to mind after you. He’s giving too much, you’re just a siphon, a parasite, a-

…Stop it. They came back for you. They want to stay with you. Count the stars that gleam into you, one, two, three, four… five. 

You lose count. There are too many, and they make you sad. You know why they do, and yet you don’t. Did you have any stars of your very own? A constellation named for you, or by you? Was the universe something to hold onto, or did it truly not care before the world forgot the warmth of its embrace?

You can’t go back to sleep like this. Your campsite is situated by a small stream: Maybe the sounds of water can calm you down, get you back to sleep. You wish it was deep enough to go fishing in. That’d be nice.

You deftly wriggle free from Isa’s embrace. His arms idly clasp around his torso and he mutters something in his sleep. Undisturbed. Getting back in will be a challenge, but let’s take this one step at a time. 

You don your cloak and take a look around camp. Everyone else is in their tents, you and Isa were the only ones under the stars. Sometimes the lights comfort you, even with the sadness they bring. Duality is an odd state of mind. Maybe you’re just trying to train yourself to love the sky again.

You feel oddly weightless as you walk toward the stream. Like something within you is off-balance. Must be the grogginess. A cool splash of water will do you good. You actually smile as the evening air drifts through your hair, the light from the firmament spilling onto your skin. An owl hoots in the distance and the leaves rustle above. The forest is beautiful when you’re focusing on anything but yourself.

Trickling water draws you closer and closer to your goal. The grass and dirt shift into fine sands. You feel like taking your boots off. The stream is just ahead, slowly careening over rocks and pebbles. You could hop over to the other side if you wanted, with a bit of an extra leap. You didn’t plan on frolicking but maybe that’s just what you need to keep your mind off of things.

Then, you see them on the beach.

In their pajamas, Bonnie is squatting near the shore with a stick in their hand. They’re drawing something in the sand. The moon shines over them, they look tired. You think you can see them shivering but you’re not sure.

You probably ruined their day with the stupid crab-jokes. Leave them alone. Don’t make it worse.

…No. They should be in bed. Check in on them. Anyone in the family would. You should do the same to keep in their good graces, to keep them from a b a n d o n i n g y o u-

No! Do it because it’s right. Do it because it’s kind.

You make your presence known by gently clearing your throat. Bonnie looks up at you for a second, then back down at their drawing. You plop down next to them, the water gracefully flowing in front of you and the night sky looming above. Across the stream, you can see fireflies flashing their lights. You nudge Bonnie’s elbow and say, “Look over there.”

They look up and stare ahead, tracking the lights with their eyes. You take the opportunity to look down at their drawing. It’s just squiggles and shapes, no discernable patterns.

They look down again and get back to drawing. “...’s just bugs.” They quietly say.

“Pretty bugs.” You smile. They don’t respond. They’re tired, that’s clear. But this loop is still so new and unfinished. You can’t tell what they’re thinking. That’s probably a good thing. You shift gears and ask, “It’s pretty late. Whatcha up to?”

“...Looking.”

You tilt your head but keep your eyepatch out of their sightline. “For what?” You ask. 

“...Crabs.” 

Right. You did say crabs can be found on beaches. Again that rush of guilt floods into your heart, clutching at your chest intensely. You start counting your heartbeat and breathe in, then out again. You can't help but apologize once more, despite your concerns that you apologize too much as a way to manipulate your family. 

It's in your nature, you suppose. 

“I'm sorry, Bonnie. I went too far with my jokes.” You look out into the water and hope the river comes to swallow you up. Anything but facing your mistakes or exposing them to others.

They dig their stick in the sand with a little more force and say, “You said that already.” They don't look up at you. 

You can’t apologize again. They’re still hurt.

N O T H I N G Y O U D O M A T T E R S

You shiver under your cloak, the cool river air gently blowing around you. Bonnie shivers and finally sits down in the sand, dropping the stick. They hug themself but look away from you.

Without much thought, you unclasp your cloak and wrap it around their shoulders. Immediately they breathe a sigh of relief. Bonnie looks at you and gives you a once-over. Quietly, they say, “Your pajamas are funny.” 

You look down at yourself. Your shirt is loose with a ruffled waistline and long sleeves. It's shorter than your torso so your pale midriff is exposed to the night air. Your leggings are tight around your hips but loosen up as they approach your shins. Again, the seam above your ankle is ruffled and curvy, gently blowing in the wind. And you're still wearing your utility belt, in case unexpected combat breaks out in the middle of the night. 

“Huh.” You shrug. “I guess they’re funny. But so am I!” You make a silly face and try to joke at your own expense for once. 

“Yep.” They say a little flatly with only the barest hint of a smirk. “Did the people who made your cloak make your pajamas too?”

Their question gives you pause and you frown slightly. You truly don't know the answer. These clothes were in your pack when you first started traveling, when your home first burned in the memory of the world. You rest your hands on the ground and start tapping your index finger into the soft sands. You count each tap, one two three four five-

“Za told me your cloak has Craft in it. But that's stupid, Craft is for beating people up.”

You shrug, happy to steer the conversation away from your ever-vanishing past. “Craft is for a lot of things. Healing, change, building.”

Their eyes light up a bit, “And cooking!”

“Yeah!” You excitedly say, “Like the spicy meal you made for Pétronille that blew up!”

They look at you quizzically, “I told you that story?”

Shoot. You nervously chuckle, “Uh, yeah. Once, when I was stuck in school forever.”

“Oh! That makes sense.” Bonnie tightens their resolve and sits up straight. “I'm gonna do it again, even if Nille doesn’t want me to. I’ll master cooking Craft. Then I'll be the best cooker in the world!” They hold their hands up high and lift the cloak. The cool air finds its way inside and Bonnie immediately lowers their hands, sighing as the cloak warms them up. 

You chuckle. “I believe in you, Bonbon!”

“Heh. You better.” They nod with a cheeky grin. You're glad they dropped the questions about your clothes. You don't need the headache and you certainly don't want a reminder of how you'll end up alone in the end. 

Bonnie seems far more comfortable than when you first sat down. That’s progress, you think. They lean back and lie down in the sand, their pillowy hat acting as a… well, as a pillow. Words escape you sometimes. You should find better words and hold on to them. That way they can’t leave!

You lean back as well, the cool sands chilling your exposed skin. You almost lose Bonnie in your periphery, blocked by your poofy hair. Their eyes are squinting, then opening as their lips scrunch across their face. They ask, “Remember when you got big?”

You cringe. Untethering yourself from reality was bad enough but forcing them to watch you collapse still haunts you. But it all worked out! Or, it’s still working out. 

…You should apologize again.

With a quiet sigh, you say, “Mhm.”

Bonnie scoots a little closer to you, “I didn’t like that. I mean, I wanna get that big someday.” They curl up into your side and you adjust to let them in. “Heh. I could beat up jerks if I was as big as bigfrin.” Their smirk fades and they stop talking.

You’re genuinely confused, now. “Bigfrin?”

They hum idly. “Big. Frin. Bigfrin.”

You chuckle and say, “If you were big, you could carry me everywhere.”

They shake their head, “Nuh uh. No free rides.”

“But you could carry Dile and Za and Belle, too! And your sister.” You negotiate for future transportation. Your legs are so little, after all.

That idea amuses them. Bonnie snickers, “She’d never be able to boss me around again!”

You smirk and wheeze a small laugh. You gingerly rub their shoulder. You’re still not entirely used to contact, but this is nice. And Bonnie knows they can touch you. You’re doing your best to let them all in.

Slowly, Bonnie sinks into your arms. They’re tired, it’s finally starting to show. But they still have things to say, it seems. “You know how you made that wish, the one that made you do the same day forever?”

You nod.

“I think…” They yawn, “If I could do a wish to stay with you and Za and Belle and Dile and Nille, I’d do that too. Like you did. Maybe without the looping.”

Your breathy laugh feels fresh, like a spring breeze. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

As soon as you feel like it’s time to get up, Bonnie again drifts into a new conversation. “I don’t know if I’m gonna hug Nille when I see her, or punch her in her belly.”

They’re doing a very good job at making you laugh tonight. Strange, how you were sure they hated you earlier for the crab-bit. They never talked too much about Pétronille during the loops, just bits and pieces here and there. Now that you’re all on your way back to Bambouche perhaps Bonnie will be more open. “Tell me about her?”

“Nille? She’s my older sister.”

You raise your eyebrow.

“Well,” They look up at you, “You know what siblings are like.”

No, you really don’t. You stare at them blankly.

“Yes you do.” They nuzzle into your chest, “You’ve got us.”

A mass builds in your throat like a growing pile of snow. It’s tight and you inhale sharply. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to this, being part of a family. You might be crying. Maybe your tears are remnants of your old life, memories of a family you lost. Maybe they’re gifts to the family you’ve gained. Impossible to tell. All you know is that your cheek is wet.

They don’t notice, thankfully. They can probably feel your chest heaving a little more. Bonnie says, “Siblings can be jerks and they can make you sad.”

Your heart gnaws to climb out of your aching chest.

“...But they’re always there for you. Cuz after they’re mad, they remember that they love you. It’d take a lot to mess that up.”

You try to control your shaking voice and poke further into Bonnie’s thoughts, “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Hmm.” They think about it briefly, “Murder. Or like, one pun too many.”

So harsh. So unforgiving. The balance between love and hate can be tipped only by living in your truth, your passion, your destiny:

Puns.

“Bonnie?” You wind up the pitch, “I commit murder every day.”

They look up at you, very confused. 

“...Because I’m killing you with my puns!”

They grimace and punch your stomach. Oof. Child fists, hands of steel. Your breath escapes you as you chuckle victoriously.

“That’s it!” They roll away from you and kip up, nearly stumbling as they stand. “No more! YOU ARE BANISHED FROM MY SIGHT!!!” They toss their hands forward under the cloak and yell, “BEGONE WITH YOU!!!!”

You hop up and roll your eyes, “Okay, okay. That’s enough for tonight.” As you’re about to offer them your hand, you freeze. That manipulative nature of yours strikes again. They’ll feel obligated to take your hand, to touch you. Why would they want to? You’re d i s g u s t i n g- - - -

-Stop it, stardust. They were literally cuddling with you moments ago. They came to you. They found comfort in you. Remember that. Don’t let that terrible voice of yours win. At least, don’t let it win while the others are looking. Let them see your true self when the time is right.

Right now, you need to get this kiddo back to bed. You outstretch your hand and uncurl your fingers. They reach up from under the cloak and take it without hesitation. You both turn from the stream and make your way back into the woods. You can’t exactly remember which path you took, so you rely on your keen sense of smell and follow the ashy taste of smoldering embers in the air. The scent delicately dances on the cool breeze, blending with the unmistakable fragrance of soil and grass.

You should take more night-walks. They’re nice! Especially when you have good company. You look down at Bonnie and smile. They blink their eyes asynchronously and smack their lips. Are they even awake? You should carry them.

“Frin?” They ask before you get a chance to scoop them up, “Where's your knife?”

Huh?

They tug at your belt, “...‘s not there.”

No, that’s not right. You always wear your tool belt, adorned with pouches full of useful junk and a sheath for your dagger. It’s a comfort to you. You can protect your friends better if you have your dagger. You can plunge it into your throat if-

Shake it off. 

You look down at your belt and finally realize why you felt so weightless when you woke up: Your dagger is gone. That’s…  concerning. Where could you have misplaced it? No matter, you’ll be back at camp soon, and you know you went to bed with it. A quick search after you put Bonnie to bed, that’s all you need.

Bonnie yawns, “I see you holding it a lot. You touch the edge with your finger when you think I'm not looking. But that's stupid, you're gonna get cut.” Their eyes are closed as they walk, guided only by your hand. “Stupid Frin. Knives are… pointy.”

…

.

.

.

They saw you. Caught you in the act. Fiddling with your knife, remembering how it felt against your skin, and then inside your skin. In the loops your dreams were piecemeal, like snapshots of the prior day warped in warmth and the screams of your companions. The tears gave you half-sleeps with barely remembered dreams. The knife gave you so much more: Release. Punishment. You finally took responsibility.

That was nice.

Bonnie saw you teetering on the edge and was concerned. They are concerned. Of course they're concerned. They have a good heart, one you insist on ripping out. If anyone else saw you flirting with one last loop, they would have brought it up sooner. Guess you just caught their attention.

Bonnie is almost stumbling over their own feet at this point, and you scoop them up despite your frozen skin. Your arms are shaking, not under the weight, but under the stress. Again they curl into you and mumble into your chest, “Are you gonna carve again? You haven’t in forever.”

You breathe in, and out. Count each one. Remember them, because no one else will. You whisper, almost as a test to see if they’re still awake, and ask, “Do you want me to carve you something?”

They hum drearily.

“What do you want me to carve?”

You can’t hear much as their words are half-dazed, the firm grasp of sleep taking hold. One word rises above the rest, and however faint, you hear it.

“...Water.”

Hm. That’ll be a challenge. But, that’s half the fun of carving: You figure it out as you go. At least, that’s how you carve. Maybe more professional carvers have a better way, but you don’t care. You’re not them, after all.

Ideas start to come in waves. You finally make it back to camp: Isa is still dead asleep, Mira and Odile are probably still in their tents. Carrying Bonnie with one hand now, you silently open the flap to the tent they share with Mirabelle. She’s sleeping soundly and your light steps don’t risk waking her. You tuck Bonnie away in their sleeping bag and take your leave.

As you leave their tent and enter camp, your absent smile falls away. You need to find your dagger. But, something else comes first. It’ll be a good distraction. If you’re going to carve for Bonnie, you need a suitable piece of wood. Scattered around your camp are twigs and small branches from the overhanging trees. You take a moment to look up and breathe, moonlight bathing over you as it flitters through the dark leaves.

It takes a bit of scrounging beyond the perimeter of tents, but you eventually find a recently-felled birch tree. The thin stump is burnt and splintered. A lightning strike? Whatever it was, you’re fortunate. Chunks of wood are scattered around the stump, some of them burnt and some of them broken off cleanly. You find a small piece, a bit bigger than your palm. The darkless wood and light bark look solid enough. 

You lift the piece to your nose and breathe in. It’s sweet! Birch has a very nice smell. You remember drinking an almost sugary tea, the aroma wafting up in visible steam. Your favorite drink. There were so many birch trees sprouting from lightless sand, all tall and pretty, dark and light patterns climbing their tall trunks. Days you’d spend running through the woods-

&_#__:. 

.++==|}

(^a[[

)#3Ip–==

…

.

.

.

The birch wood smells sweet! This will be a perfect piece for a carving. If you can ever find your dagger, that is. You sigh and silently return to camp.

Now, the search begins. You check your tent, by the fire, outside the other tents, in your pack, and even on your belt again. You briefly consider checking your companion’s packs and tents, but decide against it. That would be rude. You’ve already invaded their privacy enough.

But you’re starting to panic. You need your dagger. It’s an extension of your hand. You have to be ready for anything, even the bad moments where you hold it close and wish you had less to live for. Clutching it tightly against your chest like a stuffed animal just feels right. You can’t explain it. You can guess, but-

…Stars. Odile noticed you were holding the knife, didn’t she? She asked “What are you holding?” and you sheathed it away. But, that was all under your cloak! She couldn’t have seen it. Right?

She’s smarter than that. Of course she knows. And if Bonnie saw you touching the blade, maybe the others saw too. With the dagger nowhere in sight, and its absence marring your empty palms, you have to ask one damning question:

Did one of them take it?

Chapter Text

You didn’t sleep much after bringing Bonnie back. If you did sleep, you certainly didn’t dream. You keep biting your lip and flexing your fingers, counting every time you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one… Keep counting until the feelings go away. You don’t want to be upset. You don’t want to be fragile. 

While no one is looking (or so you hope), you make a fist, raise your thumb, raise your little finger, and place it to the side of your face. You think about Loop, the part of you that wasn’t so lucky. The part of you that lost everything, they saved you. Their absence was something you once wished for. Now you can’t spend a day without thinking of them, of their well-being, if they’re gone or if they’re a part of you still. 

…Nothing. No cheeky platitudes or annoying jabs. Looks like you’re on your own just like you’ve always been and always will be once they all leave you behind and forget you forget you forget-

Back in line, stardust. You’re not running away this time.

Take this one step at a time. You had your dagger, now you don’t. Odile saw you holding something, which you know was your dagger and she probably only suspects. Bonnie saw you with your dagger. There’s a commonality between these facts. The shortest path between two points is a line. 

Someone took it. Okay! So. They did it because they are concerned. That makes sense. They care about you and won’t leave you until you force them to, which will obviously be very soon if you start accusing them of stealing your most prized possession. 

…Is the knife really more important than your coin? Or Loop’s? You’ve forgotten which one you have and which one you gave to them.

Don’t panic. Think this through. Don’t go sneaking around and digging in their business. Bad idea. Best course of action is to play dumb. You pulled it off in the loops well enough, sometimes. Of course, you had the benefit of reality resetting itself when you failed. Now you have to tread lightly.

But how to investigate without breaking the script? Last time you ad libbed, you hurt Bonnie’s feelings. The stage is set for another day of camping. You’ve done this before. 

Whenever your family camps near water and is nowhere near a town, you all take the opportunity to shower. The ladies and Bonnie usually go first, since they all wake up earlier than you and Isa. You both need your beauty sleep, after all! And your hair isn’t going to tangle itself. 

Once they return to camp, clean and slightly pampered, you and Isa take your clothes and soaps and towels to the stream. You take care to stand back-to-back a few paces apart in the water. Privacy is still important, but an extra pair of eyes watching for any threats is equally important. Less-so now that the sadnesses are gone, but it's still a good habit. You’ve seen a bear before. You could probably take it down, but do you really want to? They’re cute.

Isa always gets so nervous when you two bathe. You know he never steals glances and you certainly don’t look over your shoulder at him. That would be rude! Though, you understand his predicament. He loves you-

W H Y

-and he must be flooded with discomfort. You hate to have that effect on him. But you’ve learned that you can’t control who you have a crush on.

Besides, Isa’s warmed your heart in more ways than one. But you know how damaged you are (and always will be). Maybe romance should wait until you’re… better? At least until your family feels less inclined to take your sharp objects away. That could take years. Decades. An eternity of waiting for them to stop caring for you.

…You smile as you rub the bar of soap across your body. If they’re always worried about you, that means they still care about you! Maybe someone taking your knife is a good thing. They won’t give it back until you’re better, so simply don’t get better! Because, then they’ll stay with you to take care of you! You don’t need the knife to kill yourself anyway, but they don’t need to know that! This is a great idea!

You chuckle at the absolutely deranged line of thinking. If you weren’t so good at recognizing your manipulative nature, you might be okay with that plan. You scoop water from the stream into the pail and dump it over your head, your wet and matted hair blocking your vision. You shiver in the cold but laugh again at how horrible you can be sometimes.

“What’s got you giggling over there?” Isa asks with what you assume is a smirk (You’re not turning around to check and neither is he). 

You hum and admit, “Myself.”

He laughs, “Makes sense. You’re a funny fella!”

You expected this morning to go a lot more poorly. Maybe you’re just used to expecting the worst from yourself. You think about facing down your sadness, its shadowed voice spewing hatred at you in the voices of your family. If only you had the courage to laugh in its face back then. Would things be different, or does awareness of your horrible tendencies not matter at all?

…Too much thinking before breakfast. Maybe you should stick to the original script. As you wring out the soapy water from your hair, you innocently ask, “Isa?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Have you seen my dagger?” The water pours down from your hair as you squeeze out every last drop, “It wasn’t in my belt this morning.” Or last night. But you don’t need to mention that.

He answers quickly, “Haven’t seen it. Oh no!” He panics, “Did I roll over it in my sleep?” You hear him tapping his skin, as if searching, and he yells, “IS THERE A KNIFE INSIDE ME?!”

You grin widely and laugh, “You absorbed it like a sponge.”

He bemoans and cries, “That’s not good for my complexion!”

With puckered lips, you jab, “Cut it out Isa!”

“...Was that a knife pun?” He whistles, “Not your best work, Sif.”

You roll your eyes, “Need food. Then I’ll take another stab at it.”

He howls a gigantic cackle and slaps his knee (you assume. You can’t see him. Don’t turn around you weirdo). “Now there’s the Sif-pun I needed this morning.” His laughter slowly quiets into soft chuckles and he says, “I’m all cleaned up, you still need more time?”

“Done!” You grab your towel from the shore, dry off as best you can, and get dressed. Isa does the same, still back-to-back. You don your weightless utility belt and frown at the empty sheath. You know someone took it, but Isa is a pretty bad liar. You can take him off the list of suspects.

As your cloak drapes over your still-wet hair, you say, “Keep an eye out for my dagger, please.”

“I’ll do better than that, I’ll use both eyes!” He starts to laugh but freezes. You’re both facing each other now and he looks mortified (why? You’re both fully dressed). “Uh…” He stammers. “Sorry.”

You tilt your head and blink. Why is he apologizing? That was a funny joke. Not really a joke, just a fact. But the truth can be funny!

“The, uh…” He points to his left eye, “You know?”

You blink. He doesn’t move. He’s breathing a bit more noticeably. Why does he look so guilty? His eyes are-

…Oh. Right. Eyes. Did you forget, or did you just find it unimportant? Are you disregarding yourself again? You try not to think about it. Isa needs you to accept his apology.

You smile and say, “Don’t worry, Isa: I thought it was funny.”

He nervously chuckles, still not at ease. Maybe a pun wasn’t the best card to pull. Not a very original trick, but it usually works.

“Anyway,” He rubs the back of his neck, “It couldn’t have gone far. We could ask the others to help look when we break camp?”

You shake your head, “Nah, they’re busy.” No need to rouse their suspicion until you feel the time is right. You have to gather what little strength you have left, after all.

“True. Morning busybodies, those three.” You both gather your supplies and start walking toward camp. He rubs his chin and thinks aloud, “I wonder what Bonnie’s cooking up for breakfast.”

“They seem tired.” You reason, “Probably keeping it simple.”

“I hope so.” You can hear his stomach grumbling, “A heavy meal doesn’t sit well in the morning.”

Funny, you could chomp down the same amount at any time in the day. A gift and a curse. Your burden to bear.

You’re still toweling off your poofy hair as you approach camp. You’re hopeful that the early autumn sun will dry you as the day goes on, but odds are you’ll have to sit by the fire with your other long-haired compatriots. Both of them are still suspects, one more than the other. Give Odile the benefit of the doubt.

There’s still the off-chance that you simply misplaced your dagger. You’re still as forgetful as the day you washed up on that beach and stumbled out of your boat. It’s probably someplace you didn’t look. Everything’s got to be somewhere, until it's forgotten.

You shiver in the morning sun. You breathe in, and out. Morning doves are sounding off in the trees above you, their long caws slow and precise. You start to count them. You don’t know exactly when you started counting things. After the loops, probably. Keeping track of a repeating thing is like being in your own little loop. Patterns become recognizable and you can better plan out your next course of action.

Your jaw trembles as you count, seven, eight, nine. Do… Do you miss the loops? Ten, eleven. You miss the control, that’s for sure. You don’t miss the failures. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. You miss talking to Loop. You don’t miss forcing everyone to love you (though, somehow, you still managed that last bit. Nice going, stardust). Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…

The sun is shining and your face is warm. You don’t know what day it is, but you’re sure it isn’t Tuesday. That’s nice. Air is chilled only a little. It’s quite the long final bow from Summer.

“There you are!” Mirabelle calls from the low-but-still-burning campfire, “We were getting worried.”

Bonnie waves their fist from behind their camp-stove, “I didn’t care! Dile and I were making bets.”

“M’dame!” Isa holds his hand over his chest, “Teaching the youth to gamble? How unbecoming of an educated woman!”

Odile snickers from inside her tent, “We were betting if you drowned or got eaten by a raccoon.”

“A RACCOON?!” Isa is almost insulted, “Why would raccoons eat us?!”

Nevermind the fact they thought you drowned in a tiny little stream.

“Cuz they're hungry!” Bonnie yells again as they flip a delicious-smelling omelette in their pan.

Isabeau feigns mortified sadness and groans, “You guys don’t think I could beat up a raccoon?”

Odile rolls her eyes as she emerges, her hair expertly wrapped up in a towel. “No, I think you’d make friends with the woodland creatures. My money was on drowning.”

Mirabelle perks up and exclaims, “Oh! That happens in one of my favorite books! The Prince of the Animal Kingdom!”

“Drowning?” Odile asks. 

“Uh,” Mira stammers, “N-no. Befriending the animals.”

“That doesn’t sound like your usual monsters and romance fixations.” Odile sits down next to Mirabelle but with a space between them both. She asks, “Should we read it for our book club?”

She politely smiles and nods, “Yes. Definitely. The prince can talk to animals but no one else can. He and his adorable friends have to stop-” She slowly closes her mouth and thinks for a moment before realizing, “Well, they have to stop a monster from destroying the kingdom.”

Bonnie groans as they start to plate their beautiful omelettes, “Don’t tell me: the prince falls in love with the monster.”

Isabeau walks toward your tent and idly starts looking for your dagger. He adds, “No, no: the prince falls in love with the monster’s kid!”

“And they have to teach the monster-queen the meaning of friendship after a few torturous scenarios.” Odile leans their head toward Mira with a knowing grin, “Does that sum it up?”

Mirabelle’s lips are tightly scrunched and her glare is fierce. “...I’m not talking to you people anymore.”

You giggle along with the group. Teasing her is fun sometimes, and you’ve all spent enough time with her to know when to stop. You wish you had that same understanding with Bonnie. Sure, they may be more volatile than your resident housemaiden, but that’s no excuse.

You trot over to Bonnie’s cooking station, a raised stovetop that can be easily broken down and stored away. Quite the impressive camping supply you found in that town near Bambouche. You lean forward and get a good whiff of the omelette. It smells divine. You can see chopped peppers and onions inside the gooey cheese. There’s probably some eggs in there too. Or is the egg the thing that holds all the stuff together? You’re not sure. Doesn’t matter, really. Tastes great. Bonnie probably made their own omelette without cheese.

Before you can compliment them on it, Bonnie shoos you away. “They gotta cool down. Get outta here!”

You pout and ignore your grumbling stomach. Turning back toward the campfire, Mira catches your eye. She smiles and calls your name, patting the seat next to her. “Let me brush your hair! It’s the least I can do, since you didn’t make fun of my book.” She scowls at everyone else but her smirk is barely hidden.

“Variety is the spice of life, Mirabelle.” Odile thoughtfully says as she flips through a book of her own.

You smile at the exchange and sit down between Mira and Odile. Odile hasn’t said much to you and you notice her shift away from you when you sit. Slight a movement as it may be, you find it suspicious. Not unusual, though. Why wouldn’t anyone veer away from your revolting flesh? You leave a trail of burnt things in your wake. Best not to get caught up in the flames.

The corners of your smile start to wane. Thankfully, you’re facing the fire as Mira brushes the hair on the side of your head. Your thoughts drift into the air as her brush pulls at every knot and tangle. You lose yourself in her ministrations and start to count each stroke. They’re slow and sometimes erratic (on account of how much hair is up there) so counting is different than you’re used to. Less frantic. Six… seven… eight… nine…

Your eye is half-closed and your head starts to sway. Dancing on the edge of a knife has its advantages, like how suddenly you can be in total bliss after moments of despair. It’s exhausting, you admit. But it's better to have these lovely moments infrequently than not at all. 

You notice that she's stopped combing. Probably assessing how to tackle such a mess of hair. 

“Uh…” Mirabelle squirms, “Oh. I, um… I seem to have lost it.”

Hm? Lost what? You glance over your shoulder and see the panic in her dark eyes. 

“...My comb.”

Bonnie screams, “YOU LOST YOUR COMB IN FRIN’S HAIR?!?!”

That’s certainly a script-breaker. The group laughs and you smile contentedly as Mira fingers her way through your enormous locks. You count every time the tips of her fingers touch your scalp. She’s warm. You hope she never finds her comb. You hope it’s trapped inside you forever, like how Isabeau absorbed your knife. You just want her to keep touching you.

…Please. Please stop. You don’t want to be like this. You want to enjoy this genuinely funny moment. The group is teasing Mira only a little but they’re mostly joking about how you refuse to cut or even maintain your hair. It’s embarrassing, sure. You want to sink into your collar and hide under your lost hat. But more painful are the thoughts you have trapped in your head. You’re really just circling the drain, not learning from your mistakes. If healing isn’t a straight road then you’ve gone way off-course.

Maybe it’s a good thing that someone took your dagger.

“Found it!” Mira cries out. You feel a tug on your scalp. Then another. Mira grunts, firmly locking both hands on the comb. She stands up and struggles to get the comb out. You can’t help but giggle, despite yourself. She grumbles, “Argh! I can’t… get… it… out!”

From your seated position you’re wiggled back and forth, side to side. Mira’s growing more and more frustrated as she tosses you around like a ragdoll. That thing is really stuck, huh?

“Sounds like a job for our resident muscle-man.” Odile hums as she flips a page in her book.

Isa jolts up from your pack and stops looking for your dagger. His eyes are wide and full of stars. “A chance to prove how big and tough I am? Say no more!” He claps giddily and walks behind you. 

Mira finally lets go and you dramatically roll your head around like you’d been flung from a taut slingshot. Bonnie chuckles. Isabeau leans forward, you can feel his breath on your scalp. A little closer and he’ll make contact. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

He whistles and says, “This is impressive. Sif, have you ever lost a brush or comb in here?” He parts your hair and fiddles with the comb, thumbing the thick knots and grazing his nails on your skin. You try not to shiver. 

To answer his question, you simply shrug.

Odile smirks, “That’s not a no, Siffrin.”

You look around camp, as though searching for an answer, and say, “I can neither confirm nor deny past events. My forgetfulness is now selective.” You can’t help but snicker.

“Wait a sec…” Bonnie thinks for a moment, then shouts, “DO YOU KEEP SNACKS IN YOUR HAIR LIKE DILE DOES?!?!”

You stick out your tongue a little and wink at them. Their eyes gleam with excitement and curiosity.

“Boniface…” Odile rubs the bridge of her nose, “Never mind.”

Isa stands back up with a laugh. “Okay! Here’s what we do. Mira, your fingers are small so you’re gonna grab the comb. My big man-hands will just break it if I squeeze too hard.”

Mira gasps, “Don’t break my comb!”

“I won’t! Listen! You’re gonna grab it. I’m gonna stand behind you,” He does so, “And, with your permission, I’m gonna grab your waist and pull!” He claps, affirming how bold and respectable his plan is. “You pull the comb, I pull the you!”

This is getting out of hand. Could it really be that tangled?

Mira takes a deep breath, the kind only a hero would take before saving the world. She knows that determination well. “I agree to your terms. Shall we begin?”

Bonnie has abandoned the camp-stove and is enraptured by the plan. They kneel next to Odile, who has closed her book and watches with great curiosity. Odile leans to her side and quietly asks Bonnie, “I bet you half my omelette they pull out more hair than comb.”

Bonnie flicks their tongue over their teeth and smirks, “You’re on!” They shake hands and seal the bet. 

Mira’s fingers again graze your skin. You try not to shiver but can’t help yourself. She jumps a little and asks, “O-Oh! Are you okay, Siffrin?”

Wuh oh. Don’t give yourself away. You quickly nod your head and smile.

“Okay, then!” She confidently grabs any part of the comb she can get her fingers on and says, “Ready!”

It’s hard to tell since you’re now facing your captive audience of Odile and Bonnie, but it sounds like Isa has placed himself behind Mira and grabbed her waist. He shouts, “Ready! Sif, you ready?”

You nod with a smile.

Bonnie is biting their lip, hands clenched into tiny fists. “This is gonna be SO funny.”

“Sif,” Isa confidently commands, “Don’t move a muscle. Ready… Steady…”

Bonnie and Odile lean forward in anticipation.

“Pull!” Isabeau shouts. He and Mira grunt as they dig their heels into the ground, pulling and pulling with their combined might. Your head is being yanked but you don’t feel any pain. After so long in the loops, you’ve grown thick skin. You wince only when your neck is turned a little awkwardly.

Mira yells through her exasperated ‘pulling-a-comb-out-of-someone’s-hair’ noises. “Almost…! It’s… almost… out!”

“Come on, Belle!” Bonnie cheers, “Go, Za, go!!!”

You feel a significant snap in your hair. Something just broke, and not a bone. Simultaneously, Mira yelps and falls backward into Isa. Both of them land on the grass with a thud and you fall forward a little. Your hair feels less tangled, somehow. But you’re more concerned with that sound. You quickly turn around to see Mirabelle laying atop Isabeau’s legs. He’s laughing and asks, “Did you get it out?”

Mira’s jaw falls and her brow furrows as she holds up the comb, one half in each hand. It’s broken. But, that’s okay, right? It’s just a comb, right?

She whimpers, “...The Head Housemaiden gave me this comb… When I first joined the House of Change…” She looks like she’s about to cry.

It broke. 

In your hair.

You feel the blood drain from your face and into your chest.

Y O U D I D T H I S

…

Breathing is hard. Fast. You can't remember a time when you weren't hyperventilating. You can’t just make yourself miserable, can you? You have to drag others down with you. Your back isn’t even to the wall and you’re destroying things that your family loves. 

A small voice tries to crawl up your brainstem as Isa consoles Mira. It says this isn’t your fault! It was an accident! 

A completely avoidable accident. If you’d only cut your hair, taken better care of it. The lump in your throat expands to block your windpipe but you're still breathing with a terrifying fervor. You jolt up and stand, ready to run but rooted in place by invisible vines. Your skin is cracking.

“Siffrin?” 

Her voice echoes as she stands. You step back, the world pulling you away and begging you- no, daring you to run away. Turn to the woods like a wild animal, ravenous and uncaring. That’s you. Your jaw aches. 

“Sif?” 

Isa reaches out but you smack his hand away. Your chest expands and collapses like a dying star, faster than lightning. The air you’re pulling into your lungs hurts. It scrapes and gnaws at your vocal cords. They’re each calling your name now, surrounding you and closing in. You turn heel and try to run but you can’t even get that right. You trip on your own feet. The stage turns on its axis, your world goes horizontal as you fall. They all shout and scream as they lunge toward you.

Your face feels hot. Bright specks flicker up from the ground, dancing in front of your eye. One of the lights touches your iris, and a sharp bite takes hold.

You fell into the fire, didn’t you?

Chapter Text

You dream that you aren’t made of glass.

There’s lightless sands beneath you, soft and hot. You run your fingers through them. Sift and shift and slit and Sif. The sand falls through the holes in your hands. It makes you sad. You know why it makes you sad, but you’re trying to let go.

You’re staring out into a sunless sea, waves crashing against the edge. You want to turn around, to see the island again, only to prove that it was there. You don’t need to come back here. You’re moving forward, not backward. But your past, it brought you here. The least you can do is thank it. So you stand, your skin sharp and coarse. You turn around to see-

Ah. Of course. There’s no island, just you. Your shadow. Your silhouette. A voice in form, corporeal at last. You know the things it’s going to say, you’ve heard this all before. Still, you listen. No need to be impolite.

…They hate you.

You nod, not exactly in agreement but in understanding. You’ve heard this all before.

…They’ll leave you.

You find it in you to smile. Lifting your leg is like raising a boulder to the sky. Step forward, you’ve heard this all before.

…Alone. Alone. Alone.

You walk towards it. Smiling. Strike when it least suspects it. You’ve heard this all be-

ALONEALONEALONEALONEALONEALONEALONEALONEALONEALONE

It screams and you don’t care. You reach for your dagger and lunge forward, but you stumble when you grasp at the air. Your dagger is gone.

…Your dagger is gone.

But you can’t adjust in time. You fall forward, straight through your shadow as though you missed a step on the staircase. It’s a gentle fall, quiet and unending. 

And lightless.

“...Siffrin…!”

Ah, those sweet voices.

“...Sif…?”

Your eye closes, though it's hard to tell in the lightless air.

“...FRIN…!”

You smile. Songs of slumber, calming and safe. 

“...Siffrin…?”

Death outside of the loops is foreign to you. If there’s life after death, you hope it's simply this.

…You’ve heard this all before.

In a deep haze, your eye cracks open. You feel stiff. Stiffrin. That’s what they’ll call you. Did you choose your name because it can be merged with so many words? A joke for you alone? You should thank your former self, when you have the time. They were probably as funny as you are now. 

You wonder if he was as damaged.

As if answering you, your eye opens further and you see stars. The universe leads you to the waking world. What can you do but follow?

You feel Bonnie curled up at your side. You’re careful not to move, in case they’re sleeping. You try to look around without moving your head. Your eyelid feels a little more swollen than usual, it’s obscuring your peripheral-

That’s right. You fell. Into fire. Stupid, stupid Siffrin. You only have one eye left, you need to be more careful. A panic attack like that was no excuse to stumble. On your guard all the time, that’s the price. Bonnie would never forgive themself if you went blind. Be more careful for them.

At least you can still see. You got lucky.

Your eye darts around. There’s Isabeau, pacing by the fire. Mirabelle is sitting on a tree stump, breathing hard. Craft-exhaustion, you’ve seen it before. She’s been healing you, hasn’t she? All day, by the looks of it. You wish you could feel a tug on your stomach. You exhausted her. She’s too good-natured not to help, they all are. 

You can’t spot Odile. Maybe she made the right call and left. Then again, your eyelid is swollen and your unkempt hair gets in the way-

Stars! Your eye widens as far as it can and you shoot up, ignoring how clenched and sharp your glass-skin feels. You broke Mira’s comb! Apologize before she leaves you!

“Mira!” Your words crumble out of your dry throat like falling gravel, “I’m-”

“Wah!” You accidentally push Bonnie from your side and they roll off the sleeping bag into the grass. You blinding idiot!! Make sure they’re okay!!!

You whip your head around toward the kid. You try to put on a comforting voice but the gravel falls out again. “Bonbon! Are you okay?” Coughs follow your panicked words. You reach over and ignore your shaking arm, the right side of your body feels too taut around your bones. You cry out, “Are you hurt?” as you grab their shoulders then quickly check their arms. You’re touching them. Stop.

“Frin!” Bonnie smacks away your hands and wraps themself around your midsection. Not nearly the death-grip you’re used to with their hugs. They’re being careful. Just like you should have been.

“Siffrin!” The others rush you, though they don’t touch you. They’re all talking at once, even Bonnie now. You wince and turn your head. Too much noise. You can’t love each of their voices if you’re unable to single them out. 

“Hold on, gang!” Isa’s voice carries over the rest, “Give him some space!”

They all back off and you slowly open your eye again. They’re all staring at you. Concerned. Worried. But there’s something far more pressing. Something universe-shatteringly important. You swallow to try and moisten your throat but nothing comes of the attempt. Prepared as always, Odile hands you her canteen. You drink the water down greedily. 

This is her water. Stop scarfing it down like it’s yours. Disgusting-

STOP. You wince and keep drinking. You need water to live. You allow yourself a little forgiveness for this one. But just this one.

With a gasp, you lower your head and drop the canteen on your bedroll. You bring your knees close to your chest. No cloak to hide under. 

You look at Mirabelle and try to stop your teeth from chattering. Too fast to count. You can speak again, and you beg her forgiveness.

“Mira?” You ask in utter defeat, “I’m… I’m sorry I broke your comb.”

She blinks, the concern in her face giving way to confusion. She asks, “My… comb?” Her jaw drops and her eyes widen. “That’s what you’re worried about?!” She almost sounds mad. 

Isa can’t help but chuckle, “Sif, buddy.” He places his hand on your shoulder, “What are we gonna do with you?”

They’ll throw you away. Your eyes downcast and you curl up into your raised knees. Disappear. Do it. Vanish. You don’t even realize that you’ve reached for your knife. Just to hold it would be nice. A starting point to making things right.

But it's not there. The sheath is empty, so you adjust your belt and pretend it was an idle motion. If one of them noticed, you honestly don’t care. They’ve seen you at your worst already. 

…And they didn’t leave. Remember that, stardust.

You take a deep breath, then another, counting them like waves careening over lightless sands. You can almost see it. But you push the half-remembered ghosts away. What you can see in front of you is much more beautiful. You just have to be brave enough to look at them.

Like a lost kitten emerging from a thorny underbrush, you look up at your saviors. You can’t focus on just one of them. They all care so much, it’s overwhelming. The backdrop of stars behind them feels almost cruel, like the universe dangling playthings in front of you. Puppets returning to the stage.

You blink. The universe leads, but does it care? Maybe you believe in a universe that doesn’t care, and in people that do. You’re one of them. You know that, right? If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have apologized to Mira about the comb. Even if it was self-serving, to keep her from leaving you. She still deserved an apology.

…They’ve been staring at you for too long. You might think yourself to death, at this rate. Did they ask you a question? Maybe you heard a voice, something soothing. Maybe that’s why your chest isn’t throbbing anymore. Skin still feels stiff, though.

“Siffrin?” Odile asks calmly, “We asked how you’re feeling. Your burns were…” She pauses and takes a breath. “Are you in any pain?”

You’re really not, just a little uncomfortable. You shake your head with a tepid smile. 

Mirabelle pouts and stamps her foot, “Don’t lie to me, Siffrin. I’ve been Crafting healing spells all day. You-” She pauses and breathes in, then out. Did you teach her to do that? They all picked up on it in the loops, but did they already know? She continues gently, “Your eye got the worst of it but I was able to help. You’re sure you’re not in pain?”

If only to ease her worry, you crane your neck, flex your arms and legs, and wiggle your fingers. You bring your knees close to your chest again and you nod.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Mira holds up three of her fingers. You see them clearly.

Try to make her feel better. You blink and say, “A million?”

Mira and Odile groan, Isa chuckles. And Bonnie is silent. That wasn’t very smart of you. Bonnie leaps up and scampers over to their pack. They open it up and start digging around, feverishly looking for something.

While Bonnie looks, everyone else is still staring at you. There’s a better way to lighten the mood, but you’ve already done enough damage. Be careful. It pains you to ask, but you mutter, “...Who won?”

“Won what, buddy?” Isabeau asks with a kind smile.

You look down at your knees but try to smile. “...The bet.”

Odile huffs a single, short laugh. “Boniface did. Even though the comb was broken-”

You shiver. Isa and Mira give Odile a stern look.

Odile pivots, “They barely pulled out any hair. Seems like it's too thick to be torn up.”

You grumble, “Too stubborn, more like.” You manage a laugh and look up. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble.” To your surprise, you’re cooking up something special.

“Siffrin-” Mira starts but you cut her off.

You raise your hands and say, “No, no: You can say it. I’m hairibble, aren’t I?” You snicker, “You’re gonna weave me, aren’t you?”

Isabeau bursts out laughing. You’re glad he can take the self-immolating joke, at least. 

Odile gives you a disappointed scowl but a smirk is buried underneath, you can tell. “Gems, alive.” She mumbles.

Mira rests her head in her hands and half-jokingly says, “You are the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”

You grin and stick out your tongue. You hope she’s kidding, but you got some laughs. You-

“NO MORE PUNS!!!” Bonnie pushes past Mira and Odile and kneels in front of you. They hold up a small thing wrapped in dark paper. They open their mouth to say something but close it again, and look away from you.

You stare at their hands for a moment, then take the thing. What is it? You slowly open it and smell… food. Cheese and peppers and a dash of thyme. It’s the omelette you never got a chance to eat this morning!

Your stomach growls. You can’t hold back, it just smells too good! You bring the paper up and bury your face into the omelette. Delicious, even cold. In seconds, your cheeks are full and you’re struggling to close your mouth while chewing. You should feel embarrassed, mortified that they’re all staring at you, judging you, for devouring your food like a beast.

But! You need food to live. You haven’t eaten all day. You want to live, don’t you?

You ignore yourself. Finally swallowing the last of the scrumptious meal, you lick your lips and smile. Bonnie is glowing. They’re always so happy when you enjoy their food. Like their meals are an extension of themself and their creativity. You haven’t met a meal from them you haven’t liked.

It would be so great if they tried cooking crab. 

You hum peacefully and say to them, “Delicious!”

They’re still beaming but you can see doubt in their eyes, “Even though it's not hot?”

No doubts allowed! You say, “I think it’s better cold. Cheese gets all solid. Chewy.”

They chuckle and hug you, this time more tightly. “Don’t fall in the fire again.”

You pat their head and hug them back, “Okay, Bonbon. I-”

“I mean it.” They look up at you, leering at you with a vengeful scowl. Oof. They do mean it.

You place one hand over your heart and hold the other up in the air and make a promise, one you’ll try your best to keep. “I swear on my honor as a silly little rogue, I will not fall into the fire again.” You place your hand gingerly on their thick hair and sweetly say, “I super duper promise.”

They nod and tap your sides before stepping back. “Good.” They say a little flatly. They kick the dirt a little with their oversized boot and ask, “...If you were in forever school again, you’d tell me, right?”

That elicits a singular laugh from you but you stop it from becoming a full-on comedic bit. They’re scared. Softly, you reassure them, “Bonnie, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”

Their frown shifts quickly into an ecstatic grin. “Hehehe” Bonnie quietly cackles, “Frin likes me best.”

Isabeau gasps and puts his hand on his chest, “Defeated by a pre-teen? Calamity! Catastrophe!” He dramatically falls over into the grass and whines, “How can we endure it?”

Sarcastically, Odile says, “We’ll get by, somehow.” She rolls her eyes at the display.

You smirk at Bonnie and they smirk back. You both know Odile wanted to be your favorite.

“O-Okay everyone, give us some space!” Mirabelle claps and starts shooing them away from you, “I need to check Siffrin’s wounds.”

Odile groans as she stands up, more from her aching bones than of frustration. “Take care of our silly little rogue, as they so aptly described themself.”

“Yeah!” Isabeau gently pats you on the back as he stands up, “And we’re gonna make some dinner for him, too!”

“You mean I’m gonna make dinner. You’re just gonna watch.” Bonnie says as they head toward their camp stove. They snicker and tease him, “Imma make a jalapeño salad.”

“NO!” Isa yells as he follows them, begging, “Please! My delicate tongue can’t tolerate such spice!”

You and Mira laugh as Bonnie continues to torment him. Mirabelle turns toward you, her expression a little more sad as the laughter fades. She holds her hands up close to your face and you recoil a little. You didn’t mean to, just instinct.

“Sorry,” She pulls back for a moment and asks, “May I?”

You nod. She cups your face, her hands are warm like always. She turns your head so she can inspect the side of your face that got burned. Gently, she instructs, “Tell me if this hurts, okay?”

You nod again. She gently moves your skin around, poking and prodding with more care than you deserve-

No, just with more care than you were expecting. You’re getting better at re-framing your negative thoughts. Sometimes.

You notice her shoulders slack as she sighs. She looks more tired than usual. Why is that, you wonder? Did she not sleep enough? Does she-

Right. Craft-exhaustion, or at least a minor variant of it. She spent all day healing you. You should thank her. And apologize. In that order, so it doesn’t seem like you’re only apologizing. That would make everything about you. Manipulator.

“Thank you.” You quietly say, trying to look her in the eye but failing.

She tilts her head, “For what? Oh!” She jumps a little, “For healing you? Of course! No need to thank me.”

Your chin dips a little and you stare at the ground. “You should get some rest. I didn’t mean to exhaust you.”

She suddenly turns your head toward her, her brow is furrowed. “I don’t want to hear you talking like that.”

You blink, “Like what?”

“Like we wouldn’t help you.”

You look away. She might be able to grab your head but she can't control where your gaze drifts. 

She shakes your head a little and you look up at her serious face. You realize she can control your gaze. She says firmly, “Listen to me. I would wash every cinder from your eye, for days if I had to. It might tire me out, but I know you’d do the same for me.”

She’s right. You would, and you have. In the loops, and even before: Jumping to action, having her back, doing the little things that you could correct. You’re reminded of when you made fun of her tiny dying plant, or when you showed genuine disinterest in the Change belief. You can’t correct your mistakes anymore. If you had your dagger, maybe…

She lets go of your head and rolls your sleeve up. She turns your arm around and darts her eyes across every inch of darkless skin. You hope she’s not mad at you for thinking less of yourself. But, how else are you supposed to act? Surely people don’t just go around thinking positive thoughts in their heads, right? 

If anyone did, you suppose Mira would be one of them. She contrasts you well. It certainly would be awful to have a party full of Siffrins, after all. You smirk at the thought. You and Loop were too much together already. Two was quite enough.

…Do you really miss them? Or was it easier to forgive them than it is to forgive yourself?

Mira sits up, satisfied at her handiwork. She breathes a sigh of relief. “I-I think you’re gonna feel a bit stiff for a few days. Sorry I couldn’t do better.” She clasps her hands in front of her and fiddles with her fingers.

Now who’s apologizing too much? You laugh, honestly, “I can handle being Stiffrin for a while.” You knew that would come in handy. 

She giggles and is immediately put at ease. She loves a good pun, especially when she needs a laugh. With a contented sigh, she reaches in her pocket. “I guess now’s as good a time as any.” Her voice is low, more to comfort herself you think. She pulls her hand out from her pocket and holds her fist closed. She looks up and says, “I made something for you.”

Really? You don’t receive gifts very often. Not that you even know how to accept one. You look down at her fist and she slowly opens it. It’s a small round disc of metal. A coin. Engraved with two circles, one inside the other: The symbols of Change.

She explains, “I notice how you flip that coin in the air, or twirl it in your fingers. I thought this would make a good addition to your collection.”

You’ve lost track of which coin in your possession is yours or Loop’s, and yet they’re both the same. You stare at the glimmering metal. This is what she’s been hiding from you, isn’t it?

She runs her fingers along the edge. “I visited the blacksmith last time we stopped in town. I asked him how much to make a shiny-looking coin. I didn’t know which metal would be best. He gave me the strangest look. At first, I thought that he thought I wanted to forge an issik. I was ready to run away, I was so embarrassed!”

You giggle and tease her only a little bit, “You? Forging Vaugardian currency? You were the best and brightest of us, Mirabelle Plums!”

“I know! But, he looked at me and said,” She puts on a burly voice, “A coin? I’d name my firstborn after you if you’d asked!”

You cringe, flaring your nostrils a little. Neither of you enjoy the spotlight, that’s what Isabeau is for. Being a savior has a lot of downsides. 

“I almost made that face!” She points at your snarl. “It was awkward, but he Crafted the coin. I’ve spent the last week engraving the symbol. See?” She holds up the coin and shows you both sides. The circles aren’t perfectly round but you’ll cherish them all the same. She explains what you already know, “Each circle shows that we are all part of something bigger! The first circle is inside the bigger circle, which is also inside a bigger circle!”

You nod, and allow her to explain further. You’ve heard this all before, so you start to tune out a little before catching yourself. You snap to attention. You can’t do that anymore, even if conversations slip into the familiar. Conversations like these only happen once in this new loop.

After her explanation, she says something unscripted. She places the coin in your open palm and closes your fingers around it. She holds your hands and softly says, “...I wanna teach you about Change. Not like, the prayer and ceremony. I want you to know how it's helped me in my life, because I think it can help you too.”

You don't have much to add. This is all so new. In the loops, you only asked about Change when it suited you. But Change, pious or not, is a constant force gnawing at your feet, pricking at your fingers and churning in your stomach. You patiently smile as she continues. 

“I know how much Change scares you. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared of it myself, sometimes. What I mean is, Change can be like a guide. It’s following you all the time, because life is always changing. You have to learn how to veer off-course. Let it take control.”

You know she has reservations about the Change belief. She didn’t get much of a chance to talk to the Head Housemaiden before you escaped the clutches of Dormont. You tilt your head and raise your eyebrow.

She knows what you’re thinking. “Change is important. Even if I think that… staying the same is important too. Being comfortable in your own skin. They’re both happening a-at the same time? B-Because, even if you reach a point where you’re happy and stable, things around you can change?”

You breathe in, and out. You finish her thought, “...And you have to embrace the changes, even if it hurts the person you choose to be?”

Her eyes light up. “Y-Yeah! Something like that!” 

With a smile, she pushes your hand closer to your chest, then pulls away. You open your fist and look down at the coin. It feels cold in your hand. Your skin is tingling. This is so nice! You look back up at her and say, “This means a lot to me, Mira. Thank you.”

She smiles and clasps her hands together, “I'm glad you like it!”

You feel a great relief as the weight on your shoulders lifts. You say, “I saw you fiddling with this a few times. I thought you were still mad and you were hiding from me!” 

As imperceptibly as possible, her face shifts. Her smile feels sterile, like she's keeping it up despite herself. She doesn't say anything.

Oh. 

She's still mad. 

Your own smile fades. You're never going to get past this, are you? A stain on your friendship with her, with each and every one of them. Somehow your relationship with Loop ended better than how this conflict makes you feel. You hold the coin close to your chest and don't (or can't) say anything. 

Ever caring and kind, Mirabelle recognizes that you see through her faux-smile. She sighs and drops the facade. Dimly, she admits, “I… I don't want to be mad at you, so I'm trying to do nice things for you instead.”

You blink but don't look up from the grass, drifting in the moonlit winds. “But you're still mad at me?”

“…Yes. B-But, I want to start again, put the mistakes behind us.”

Mistakes behind you, she means. 

She continues, “It was so long ago, now. I really shouldn’t be mad anymore. I’m sorry.”

You've lost count of how many times you've apologized, of how many times you've let them all down (in the loops or otherwise). You know they've been keeping track of your mistakes since Dormont. How could they not? You were keeping track for a while but lost count around… maybe one hundred? 

How long has it even been since you left Dormont? Months? Less? More? You don’t remember. You don’t deserve to remember. If you can't use the knife to punish yourself, maybe this can be the next best thing. 

“It's okay, Mira.” You finally look back up at her, “You can be mad. You have every right to be.”

She's looking straight at you now, lips thinly stretched across her cheeks. Maybe she doesn't have it in her to hold on to anger. 

Compromise could work here. You perk up and make a bold suggestion, “Tell you what: tomorrow when I'm all rested? I want you to really lay into me. Shout, scream, heck you can smack me. I can take it!”

She's aghast, leaning back in shock. “Wha- no! That's so mean! I don't want to yell at you!” She shakes her head, “You asked me to do that when we beat the King, remember? A-And I didn’t want to do it then, either!”

…Did you offer this already? Makes sense. Sounds like something you’d do. And you just did. You shrug, “Okay, you don't have to yell. Just say what's on your mind, plain and simple. I think trying to avoid it isn't good for either of us. I can't defend my actions or apologize anymore. But, saying what you're thinking will help. Catharsis, and all that.” You feel like that's the most you've said at once all day. 

“B-but,” She shakes her head and disagrees. “You'll get hurt!”

You don't mean to laugh in her face but you let a small chuckle escape your lips. “Mira, I guarantee I've said worse things to myself, so it's fine!”

Again, her face shifts. Her guilt at even the thought of berating you has vanished, replaced by something more worrying. She looks scared, almost. Like she can't fathom that you berate yourself every second of every day. Why is she surprised?

You ask, “...I mean, everyone does that, right?”

Mira blinks. She’s stunned, really. “...No?”

Your eye widens. “Oh, uh…” This isn’t going like you hoped it would. “Me neither?”

“Siffrin…” She takes your hands again and smiles sadly. “I’m not sure when and I’m not sure how: But I’m going to teach you to love yourself as much as you love us. As much as we love you.”

You shrink into your collar- wait. You’re not wearing your cloak. It’s not like you could ever really hide in there. But the barrier is nice. 

Still, it’s good to have a feelings-buddy. You smile, look back up at her and mutter, “I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

You still feel terrible. But at least they know. It's one thing to remain closed off, bottled up until the pressure becomes too much. It's entirely different to lay your fears bare for all to see. Feels freeing and suffocating at the same time. They see you at your worst and they still accept you. 

How long will it last? You're not sure. But you're going to try and enjoy it while they're still here. Might be days. Might be years. You just don't know. The lack of certainty keeps you awake at night. Mirabelle was right, you're terrified of change. You should have seen the loops coming a long time ago. 

You remember the look on Mira's face when you told her about the mean things you say to yourself all the time. You're reminded of how she looked at you early on in your journey, when you told her that traveling with everyone was “the happiest you remember being.” Everyone else would probably look at you the same. The way you think, the way you feel: it's not normal. Perhaps everyone has these thoughts occasionally, the ones where you drag your own name through glass and fire, the ones where your idea of a blissful sleep comes from your knife at your throat. 

Ah, your knife. You still haven't found it. You need it back. Bonnie asked for a carving. ‘Water’ might be a good challenge. A tidal wave maybe? No use in planning if you can't even start. 

You've broken camp, everything packed up and the fire put out. You and Isabeau didn't find your dagger. He asked, “Should we tell the others it's missing?” 

You shook your head and said, “It'll turn up!” 

You weren't wrong. You know Odile has it. If Mirabelle had it, she probably would have mentioned it last night. Then again, you never asked her. Talking to people is hard. Accusing the people you love of theft is borderline-impossible. 

The benefit of Odile having your dagger is that a conversation with her would be easier than with Isa or Mira. They'd stammer and deny it or say something that would give them away. You trust Odile to speak plainly with you. You've seen it before. 

You remember the observatory. Staring at the stars for some comfort as you once again expertly slit your throat. After so many endings, you were able to drown out the screams by singing songs in your head. But, the last time? The last time you fell into that bloodless sleep, something changed. 

One of the last loops, Odile caught you as you collapsed onto the floor. Everyone else was screaming, but not her. She looked at you, eyes hidden behind the glare of her glasses. Her lips twitching, fingers covered in lightless blood as she tried to put pressure on the wound coinciding with Mira’s fruitless healing Craft. 

She knew it was over for you. She carried you toward the window, the others clamoring and clutching at your cloak and hands. She sat down with you in her lap, stroking your hair. You couldn't breathe, your eye was closing but you forced it open to see what she needed you to see. 

“Siffrin, look up there.” Her throat clenched around her words like a vice. She swallowed, and quietly asked, “Do you see the stars?” 

You were clinging on for as long as you could. Belief in the universe was gone, but she saw how much of an impact the sky had on you in that loop, and before. She never screamed when you killed yourself, never. Odile had always watched you. Perhaps first out of suspicion, slowly molding into concern and then into love. She took notes, cataloging a specimen to learn about it, to understand it. She knew you had a complex relationship with the firmament, and, as you deteriorated in the loops, she saw how much you were pulling away. 

The dagger didn't come as a surprise to her, it seemed. 

You remember looking up through the glass and watching the lights twinkle. You couldn't speak to answer her question. But yes, you could see the stars. You gently nodded as your skin froze. Your eye drifted shut as the last of your blood drained away like snow melting in the sun. 

Odile held her hand over yours and squeezed. She shivered, her fingers clenching yours too tightly but you couldn’t feel her anymore. In a breath more heartbreaking than the rest of their screams, Odile simply said, 

“...Good.”

.

You

Felt

A

Tug

On

Your

Stomach-

. 

. 

. 

And the sun greeted you. The grass was warm, a hint of sugar carried on the wind, and your body was whole again. This time, however, your face was wet. You woke up crying. You turned on your side and curled into yourself, hugging your knees as you tried to hide from the light. Before Mirabelle approached, you heard Loop's quietly defeated voice in your head:

“...I told you that was a bad idea, Stardust. Stick to the tears. Please.”

You inhaled sharply and choked on your sobs. You nodded in agreement and defeat, thin blades of grass rubbing against your cheek. It wasn't Isabeau crying that broke you. It wasn't Mira screaming that broke you. It wasn't Bonnie clutching to your leg as blood drained over them that broke you. 

Odile's stellar gesture didn't break you: It surprised you. Hundreds of loops later and what surprised you the most was that her reaction, which had been muted up to that point, was the most heartbreaking and beautiful thing anyone had ever done for you. She took note of you, remembered you, and gave you exactly what you needed at the very end. You didn't know you needed it yourself.

You don't blame the others for reacting how they always did. Perfectly normal. You assumed Odile didn't care or tried to feign composure for the others to cling to. But, of course she cared. Of course she'd protect you. You'd do the same for her. 

You hope none of them feel the way you do about yourself. Is suicidal the right word? Something close to it, at least. You don't know if you could recognize the signs like Odile could. Maybe you'd see it in Odile first if she were to think about choosing her own exit. She's more empathic than she lets on. 

You had to try the same things again and again to learn what they were feeling at any given time. Smashing your head into the wall until it gave way, until you found the answer. But Odile? She figured you out in almost every loop. 

Perhaps she's figured you out now. 

You bring yourself back to the present. Your throat feels warm and you check it for blood. Nothing is pouring out from you, you're still here. You don't have a dagger to end it with, anyway. 

The family has stopped for lunch. You've just cleared the edge of the forest, ahead of you are wide fields covered in waving bright grass. A series of hills crest the horizon and the sun is high in the empty sky. Bonnie is cooking while Mirabelle watches intently, asking questions about their process. Isabeau is lying on the grass, gentle snores bubbling from his lips as he naps. 

Odile gives you a subtle nod and motions over her shoulder. Perimeter check. You and Odile still do them every time you stop, even though the sadnesses are gone. Old habits. But it's a good chance to ask her for your dagger back. Maybe you can make her understand why you need it. 

You count the seconds as you walk by her side in silence. Seventy-four, seventy-five, you're getting used to how the numbers fall away from you. Numbers are unchanging, following a strict guideline with rules and regulations. They'll always be there for you to return to. 

Odile's gaze is cast ahead and her hands are in her loose pockets. Your cloak billows in the gentle wind, warm air coming up from underneath. You breathe in, and out. Time to find the truth, and to thank her for it. With a small but sincere smile you look up at her and ask, 

“Where's my dagger?” 

She stops in her tracks and you do the same. You don't expect her to deflect or to lie. She takes a deep breath and… Doesn't say anything. She doesn't look at you. Maybe she needs a little help. 

You reassure her, “I'm not mad that you took it. I was, maybe part of me still is. I understand why you did. You can be honest with me. You always are, and I trust you.” You feel like you shouldn’t trust her anymore, that you should be furious with her for going behind your back. Like Mirabelle, you don’t think you’re good at holding on to anger. At least, you don’t like being angry at the people you love.

The tension in her shoulders starts to fade. Anyone who hadn't spent so much time with her wouldn't have noticed the change. Her breaths are softer and her posture less rigid. She doesn't look at you, but she quietly admits, “I have it.”

Mystery solved. Now for the hard part. Gently, you ask, “May I have it back, please?” Show the madame the respect she's earned. 

She winces and says, “Siffrin, I'm… not sure that's a good idea.” 

Your heartbeat quickens. You'll never get it back, will you? Never hold its firm hilt, never let the light reflect from the blade, never feel the sharpness against your-

… 

Breathe, stardust. Don't forget to breathe. 

How can you earn her trust again? She appreciates honesty and truth above all else. Use that. You're not manipulating her, because you don't know if she'll give it back. You're not forcing this, you're just using your instinct. You know how she thinks, appeal to that. 

You look ahead and keep walking. She makes a small noise in surprise, then catches up. You continue your perimeter check side by side along the tops of the hills, far from camp. You swallow your fears and gingerly say, “I know what you want to ask me. Go ahead.”

She's slow to respond, but she does. Her voice is tight. “You've used the dagger before, haven't you?” 

You nod. They all know you had to die to loop back, but you only talked about the tears or the banana peel or falling to the King. You spared them the bloodless arteries and cold, blissful sleeps. 

She pushes her glasses up her nose, an idle fidget to feign calmness. She quietly says, “I gathered. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I know that doesn't change how you felt– how you're feeling.” A nervous chuckle escapes her lips, “I always assumed you and I aren't the kind of people who talk about feelings.”

You laugh through your nose, “You're not wrong.”

Odile smiles a little, then takes another breath. “I hope, in the loops or in the present, I haven't pushed you so far away that you felt suicide was the only option.”

No, no, no, no. You can't put this on her. It was always your choice, and yours alone. How can you explain that? When words are caught in your chest, building up like bile, what can you say to stop her from believing this was her fault?

The last time you held the blade to your throat, the last time you bled out: She was there. Cradling you. Sailing with you into the stars until it was time to let you go. She’s the one who understands you the most. In some ways, she’s just as lost as you. You can’t remember a time when you weren’t lost, but she had a foundation. Something pulled at her, drew her out from her home and sent her seeking a piece of herself. You admire that. 

You feel your heart sinking further into your torso. A pervading instinct overwhelms you like the tide. You stop in your tracks and turn to face Odile. Looking up at her is incredibly difficult. Your neck aches as you tilt your head upward, meeting her tired gaze. The bags under her eyes are getting bigger, you think. Slowly, you raise up your arms and invite her in for a hug. 

She’s clearly taken aback. Everyone knows of your “aversion” to touch, or so they used to perceive. You’ve quietly explained to each of them that you don’t hate touch. You’re just not used to it. In fact, you need it. But you can’t ask for it. That would be weird.

…You’ve heard this all before.

Odile looks you up and down, her gentle smile slowly returning. She un-pockets her hands and welcomes your embrace. Her arms are around your shoulders and she pulls you in, your face at her midsection. You could sink into her skin. She’s not as warm as Mirabelle, but neither are you, so that’s okay.

You open your mouth to speak but don’t realize how close she’s holding you. Your words are muffled by her shirt. She chuckles and asks, “Come again?” and loosens her grip.

You pull back and repeat, “It was never your fault. Yours or anyone else’s.” You can’t look at her, shame climbing your spine like hundreds of tired spiders. It takes you a moment to admit, “Actually, it was thanks to you that I stopped.”

She raises her eyebrow and chooses her words carefully. “I stopped you… from going through with it? That makes sense, based on my actions. I took your dagger because-”

She freezes. Did you let your expression darken? She noticed, didn’t she? You thought she understood. Now is not the time for miscommunication. There were multiple loops where you did it. So many that you lost count. And no one ever stopped you.

Not until the last time.

Fear is not an expression you often saw from her in the loops. It's a little foreign to you now that her jaw is slightly dropped and her nostrils flared. She pulls you back in for another hug, tighter this time. Her breaths sound like marbles in a jar, shaking and crashing against each other. In a whisper she says, “I wish I- rather, I wish that version of myself in the loops caught on more quickly.”

You shake your head and pull back. “You did your best. You saw so much, understood me more than anyone I’ve ever met.” You laugh, “Sorry. You understand me. You did in the loops, and you do now. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have you in my life.”

Saying these things is incredibly difficult but there’s no time for meek shame. Express yourself honestly and maybe, maybe you can get what you need from her. Take it back. 

…You’re a very good manipulator, now matter how you try to spin it.

She holds you tighter and you both stay in that simple embrace for a while longer. The wind pushes your hair around and you count each time her diaphragm inflates and deflates. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. She’s as honest with you as you need to be with her, despite her taking your dagger behind your back. 

As a lone cloud covers the sun, dimming the light a little, she asks you, “What did you mean, when you said I was the reason you stopped?”

You nod and brace yourself. This will be an ugly story to tell, but she’s earned your trust more than you’ve earned hers.

As you tell her about that loop in the observatory, you both sit down on the slope of a grassy hill overlooking your far-off camp. She’s intently listening to your every word without changing her facial expression. You know your words are striking into her heart like-

Well, like a knife would.

Still, she maintains her composure. For your sake or hers, you can’t tell. You find your flight-or-flight instinct has returned as you weave this tale. Waking up in the field after Odile cradled you in her arms, Mirabelle at the start of the next loop tried to comfort you as you sobbed and sobbed: In that loop, you lied to them and said it was just stress leading up to the King. 

Everyone accepted that, except Odile. She gave you concerned looks for that entire loop. If you had tried to kill yourself again, she would have cradled you once more.

And just like that, with your lips dry and arms held tightly around yourself under your cloak, you finish your story. So many experiences in the loops that are yours alone to carry. It was nice sharing one like this, despite the events that lead you here. You look at her and smile. “Odile, thank you.”

She pushes her glasses up her nose again and clears her throat, asking, “For what? It wasn’t me in that loop.”

“I know.” You shrug, “Thank you for being you.”

She smiles back, her lips imperceptibly trembling. “You’re welcome. And thank you for sharing that story with me.” She leans back a little and her eyes glance somewhere else, somewhere far off and elusive. Her words tremble as they get caught in the air, “...You know I can’t give your dagger back, right? I’ve seen you staring at it when you think no one is looking.”

You look away. You understand. But, you don’t. She doesn’t have the right. She-

T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A C K T A K E I T B A 

…

.

.

.

.

.

.

(Ding!) 

(You got a MEMORY OF WEAKNESS!)

(You’ll always remember this.)

(You just lost the right to hold your dagger, maybe forever. Nice going, stardust!)

.

A heavy breath escapes your mouth. She’s right, you know. You can’t be trusted with it. Maybe that’s for the best. You do want to keep going in this loop, don’t you? Of course you do! This is the blinding perfect loop! You screwed everything up but you’re still here! Everyone is still with you! You’re playing the long game now, stuck with your mistakes for as long as the knife doesn’t return home. 

JUSTKEEPGOINGASTHEYSMOTHERYOUWITHLOVEENDLESSNAMELESSFORMLESSAREYOUEVENREALARETHEYWASTHISAJOKEALLALONG

Desperation climbs over you as you try to hide your shudder, wrapping your arms around yourself under your cloak.

Its absence makes you feel weightless. You’ll need to start carrying more souvenirs and knick-knacks to re-balance. You start counting your pockets and how many of them are full. You feel around in your pouches and- oh! You perk up and pull one of your souvenirs from under your cloak. This might be a good compromise. 

You carefully don your mask and force the shivers downward. “Odile,” You carefully ask, “May I please have my dagger for a few hours?” You show her the birch wood that you retrieved a few nights ago. It still smells nice! Nostalgic, almost. You smile, “Bonnie asked me to carve them something. I haven’t carved in so long, and I really want to make them something special.”

Odile doesn’t seem convinced. She probably believes you, but the harrowing story you’ve shared has put her on edge. 

You negotiate, “I can carve it right here. You can stay with me, if you don’t mind sitting for a few hours.” Somehow a flicker of confidence shines through you. “I promise I’ll do more damage to the wood than to myself! But you’ll be here…” And then, the confidence fades. You look down at the wood. She’s never going to agree to this. You mutter, “...You’ll be here to keep me safe.”

You shut your eye tightly. This was a terrible idea. Bonnie deserved something nice. You could find something else to cling to, like that old doll in the House or a lump of clay. Each couldn’t replace your dagger, but Bonnie takes precedence. Your gift to them has turned into an empty promise. They-

You open your eyes at the slightest touch. Odile has moved closer to you. Her hand is on your shoulder. You look down. In her other hand, she holds your dagger. You almost smile at the sight of it. Her fingers delicately hold the blade and the hilt is facing you. Your gloved hand is shaking as you reach for it. You wrap your fingers around it and try to pull, but Odile is holding on tightly. You look back up at her.

Her expression is gentle but her brow is firm. She says, “That’s a very kind thing. Bonnie will love whatever you carve for them. I’m trusting you with this, and I’m not leaving your side. When you’re done, do you agree to give it back to me?”

To your surprise, you don’t hesitate. “Yes.” Doing something nice for someone you love outweighs the need for sharp comfort. You take some solace in recognizing that.

She nods and lets go of the blade. You thank her and get ready to carve, bringing the blade to the bark (and not to your throat. Good job!) and start to peel away at the first layer. You stop during your first cut and look at Odile, practically sitting at your shoulder. Nervously, you say, “Um, blood circle.”

She blinks. “What?”

You deftly flip your knife once in the air and catch it by the blade. Odile winces. You make a circular motion with the hilt of your dagger, outlining a radius with your arm's reach parallel to the ground. “First rule of carving. Keep people out of the blood circle so they don't get hurt if the blade slips.”

Her face falls flat and she shakes her head. “I'm good right here, thanks.”

You know she wants to keep you safe. But you want to keep her safe too! You can't stand to see her or anyone else hurt on your behalf. “You could get hurt this close to me.”

The double-meaning of your statement sets your stomach churning. 

Her face is unmoving, “Do you think I care for you so little that hurting me would matter?”

That… That's a lot to take in. Your head feels less stiff, like a headache you didn't know you had was suddenly whisked away. You stare at her for a moment and try to hide your surprise. Shock, more like. Why do they all keep surprising you? Did the loops set your expectations of them too rigidly, or are you only now recognizing how low your self-worth is?

In the end, it doesn’t matter which is accurate. She said something very kind, and all you can do is smile in return. You should carve her something nice. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if she was watching you like a hawk, though. For now, you focus on Bonnie.

They asked for ‘water’ while in a delirious state. You could go simple and make a teardrop or a fish. Bonnie deserves more than simple. They deserve your all. Put every scrap of talent you have into this piece. If you don’t, they’ll leave-

You pause and breathe. Without thought, you put the blade to the bark and begin to carve. One, two, three, four, five, you count each stroke of your dagger. Focus on the numbers. Get lost in the wood. There’s something beautiful inside, you just have to shave away the excess layers. A shell traps the piece within. You’re the only one who can bring it out. This is your burden, your blessing and curse.

Plus, it’s really fun.

You haven’t carved in so long. The loops didn’t offer many opportunities to get creative. Instead, your new fishing hobby filled your afternoons in Dormont and on your current journey to Bambouche. Maybe you fished in your lost life, maybe you carved, maybe both. You’ll never know, and you’re not sure what’s better: rediscovering a piece of your old self, or finding something new that you love.

That’s honestly a good predicament to be in. You- oh! This is coming along nicely. You barely noticed how much progress you’ve made. You’re shaping the bottom of the wood into a small circular base. Atop it, the wood is very awkwardly whittled into a large curve. Still chunky and unfinished, but you’re starting to see the vision. Chip away enough and the body will emerge whole.

“Please be good, please be good, please be good…” You begin to mutter as you carve out the finer details. Wood shavings are almost flying away from you. They begin to pile up in your lap, decorating your cloak. For all you know, Odile may be getting hit with loose wood. But you can’t take your eyes off your creation. 

As the curve becomes a wave, you slow down and focus on the finer details. You use the point of your knife to pluck out tiny clumps atop the wave. It sort of looks like foam, if you squint. On the outer arch of the wave you begin to carve up and out to give it some depth. Hard to make a solid thing look like liquid but the challenge is almost rewarding enough.

The look on Bonnie’s face when they see this will be even better. You hope they enjoy it. If they don’t you can always loop back and try again.

…You chuckle under your breath. That wasn’t a joke, you could literally try again with another piece of wood. It’d be a new loop because you’d be trying something different! See? You’re getting better! Maybe that’ll be enough to convince Odile to give your dagger back!

Again, you chuckle. She must be looking at you strangely but she is too courteous to interrupt your creative process. Fixing your broken mind is like art, in a way. Splashes of paint over here, some wood shavings over there, and you have… something. You’re not sure what. Where were you going with that thought? You-

Oh! It’s done!

You breathe in, and out. It looks… It looks really good! You’re glad you found birch, the light wood brings out the little details. It’s a tidal wave, wide and imposing. Still fits in the palm of your hand. Maybe Bonnie will put it in their room when you finally make it to Bambouche!

And there it’ll stay!

Just like how Bonnie will stay with their sister, once you’re all done travelling!

…Your smile fades. Every time you think you’re trying, you’re suddenly not trying hard enough. You don’t have to sit with it for long. Odile turns and looks at your project.

She raises her eyebrows and nods slightly, “An ocean wave? Very impressive, Siffrin. Boniface will love it.”

Compliments feel nice. Sometimes easy to accept. You ask, “Really?”

“I do. You’ve been at it for hours, it was worth the effort.”

You look up at the sky. You didn’t even notice the sun was lowering. The afternoon was in full bloom. Everyone at camp must wonder what you’ve been up to. But they know not to dissuade you and Odile from your secret quests. This was a good diversion, despite the missteps your voice took. 

You stand up and stretch your arms high above your head. In response, your stomach gurgles. You need nourishment. You smirk and ask, “Think Bonnie saved any food for us?”

Odile stands alongside you and laughs as she dusts the grass and wood shavings from her jacket. “I’m sure they have some choice words for us, missing lunch and all.”

You smile and pocket the carving. You step forward, ready to head down the hill.

“Siffrin.” Odile’s voice suddenly shifts.

You stop, turn, and face her. She looks oddly serious. You blink and wait for her to continue.

She outstretches her hand, just a meter away from you. “Your dagger, please.”

Your heart locks up. You’re still holding your dagger, the one you can no longer hold on your own terms. This is what you agreed to, after all. Slowly your hand reaches forward. You can practically hear every bone in your arm creak and yawn. You’re shaking. Before you can even think about placing it in her palm, you hesitate and pull back. You know what her answer will be but you stammer on, anyways. “C-can I just, hold on to it?” You grip it with both hands now, bringing it closer to your chest. “J-just for a while?”

“No.” You've seen that look in her eyes before, just before combat. Odile is ready to protect you no matter what it takes. She outstretches her open palm but doesn't try to grab your dagger. “You agreed, Siffrin.”

Like an animal running on instinct you clutch the dagger. Tighter, tighter, tighter. You can’t lose this, you need this. Better this way, right? Your skin tightens around your bones, your jaw clenches and you feel pressure on every single tooth. Count the seconds it would take to drain yourself, to start again start again start again start again start again start again start again STARTAGAINSTARTAGAINSTARTAGAIN-

“Siffrin! Breathe!” Odile's commanding voice snaps you out of your breakdown. You inhale a great and wide gasp. You'd been depriving your lungs of oxygen for uncounted seconds. Your arms are trembling almost violently. The paralyzing gaze she strikes into you is the only thing keeping you from running away. Your eye is painfully wide and your peripheral vision begins to blur.

Still, her voice cuts through the fog. Odile asks again, more softly this time, “Siffrin, please: Give me the knife. I don't want to have to take it from you.” 

You doubt she could if she tried. But her voice, her patience, her calmness: It all swirls together into a mass of warmth. You feel absorbed. Your tension begins to drip away like water down a drain. She once held you, guided you into the stars. She’s doing this because she loves you.

A thought returns from the day prior. You believe in a universe that doesn't care, and in people that do. 

Your vision clears. Odile, your researcher, your confidant, your friend: She stands before you unmoved by your collapse. You could bring down the sky and she wouldn't flinch. Your shakes distill into trembles, then into a cold numbness. You're still breathing. 

Odile's cheeks rise a little and she breathes a small sigh. She can see you're starting to come around. “You're okay, Siffrin. I'm still with you.” Her hand comes closer and closer, inches away from your own. “Now, give me the knife.”

Shouldn't you be counting? How many times has she (or the others) promised to stay by your side now? Give it to her, stardust. 

Slowly, you unclench your deathly grip on your sacred icon, the piece of you that no one else can call their own, and you place it in her hand. It peels from your glove like wet skin pulled from a sheet of ice. When it finally escapes your grasp, you feel weightless. Empty. Hollow. 

But you know what can fill that void. 

She quickly pulls her hand back and tucks the knife away in her belt, concealing it with her jacket. Again she places her hand on your shoulder and says, “Thank you.”

You take a few moments to breathe. You nod and sit back down, as though you were pulled to the ground by the remnants of your panic attack. Odile sits beside you. The warmth of the sun is returning to you now. You're keenly aware of every small blade of pale grass beneath your legs and you press your hand down into them. You wriggle out of your gloves and weave the grass through your fingers. It's nice. It's real. 

So is Odile. 

You look down at your darkless hands buried in the blades. You can't ask this with an ounce of courage so you resort to begging. Quietly, words breathe out of you like smoke rising from the fire. “Can we keep this between us?” 

Hesitantly, Odile agrees. “I… can. But, one of us will need to tell them soon.”

“I will, I promise.” You nod in defeat. A thought of caution springs to life. “I-If we get into a combat situation-” 

“I'll toss it to you.” She grips your shoulder firmly says, “And after the fight, you'll give it right back to me. I'll take care of this until we can take care of you. Okay?”

For once, giving up control doesn't seem so bad. You barely smile and say, “Okay.”