Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sky goes dark.

You watch.

The sky cracks open.

You watch.

The sky bleeds.

You watch.

The sky, it warps, it changes, it cracks like an egg cracking, like a broken egg, and you can practically hear the Housemaiden talk about Change and changing yourself.

The irony is not lost upon you.

You watch the sky shudder and change, bleeding some unspeakably, incomprehensibly, viscerally bright shade. You’ve never seen it before. It might be a colour, might be that strange thing stardust spent loops trying to figure out, talking to you about theories and possibilities.

You remember theorising that seeing colour is a sign of things breaking.

You watch and you stare up at the sky and you watch and you stare at the House and you watch and you stare as the sky swallows itself whole, that visceral colour folding into itself, rings of light bursting from the epicenter.

You watch and stare as stardust warps too, growing and towering into the sky, a contradictory paradox, observable and unobservable all at once. You can’t hear him, but you know they’re screaming.

It’s an infinity, an expanse of what can be and will never be. It glows, except it doesn’t, because it’s dark.

You wonder how this will end. You wonder if stardust will make a wish like how you did. You wonder what kind of wish they might make.

And then-

And then it doesn’t matter anyway.

The stars fade, the dark sky bleeding and giving way to the light sky of a warm afternoon. The red giant, the dying star that was your stardust is gone and you know, in your heart of hearts, that it’s over now.

Stardust has gotten their happy ending, their happy ever after.

There’s no more King, no more second tries, no more loops.

…No more loops.

…Who are you, anyway, without the loops? Who are you, no longer yourself, no longer a person? Who are you, unnatural skin and starlike glow, in a world no longer trapped?

Who is Loop, if not the loops personified?

There is no use for you anymore, is there?

…No more loops, no more Loop.

You look at your hands. Or, you would, if you could, because you might be able to feel them, be able to press the static starry skin into itself, be able to feel the soft flesh of your palm squish beneath the pressure of your fingertips, but you definitely can’t see any of that. Not even an outline, not even if you squint.

There’s no room for Loop in a world free of loops.

There’s only room for one Siffrin and you’re not Siffrin anymore.

You’re fading.

You’re fine with that, you think.

You don’t know what you’d do with yourself otherwise anyway. There is no home waiting for your return, no family to greet you with open arms, no path you have planned for any future you might once have held.

There’s no point in sticking around.

You can’t see your arms.

…You don’t want to see any more.

You close your eyes and let the Universe take its course.

Fading into the gentle hands of the Universe is peaceful. It’s nice, almost. The eerie silence of a tree with no birdsong fades too, fades into a quiet breeze and the gentle lapping of ocean waves on the shore. You can almost feel a sandy ground beneath you, coarse and sharp all at once. It’s a familiar sensation. It smells like the sea.

It feels like what home could have felt like, once upon a time.

The thought stings, hurts somewhere deep in your chest, hitches your shuddering breaths.

So you don’t think about it anymore.

Instead, you think about how kind it is, for the Universe to grant you one final kindness before putting you out of your misery. A dying wish, a final sensation of home. All that’s missing are the people who might have loved you, once upon a time.

…

…It’s taking an awfully long time for you to return to the greater expanse of the Universe.

…

…

…

You open your eyes.

The Favour Tree is gone, nowhere to be seen. There is no grassy expanse before you, no House of Dormont seated over the hill in the distance. The branch beneath your hands, beneath your body is gone, replaced by actual sand.

The smell of the ocean is real. The sand between your fingers is real and bright. The sound of lapping waves is real.

You watch as the lightless frozen ocean fades into a more acceptable shade, the reaches of the King’s curse untangling itself from the land, right before your eyes.

You stare out into the distance.

There is an island there, off in the distance, and you can’t quite make out any of its features, can’t quite figure out how you know, but you do. You know.

You know that the island is one that you will never be able to sail to, no matter how hard you try. Your heart sings for it still, yearns for a life you can’t quite remember, a life you will never again remember, a life that was a lifetime ago, a life you can never return to.

The Universe is mocking you, you think.

The Universe’s favourite cosmic joke, you think.

Neither of the thoughts are new ones.

The waves lap at your lightless feet, chilly in a way that’s almost comfortable. Your glow reflects off the waves - you can see as much.

…You don’t want to see what you look like. Stardust’s rendition was enough, you think. It’s bad enough to live with the knowledge that you will never again look like yourself again - you don’t have to cement it with the knowledge of what you look like now.

Ignorance is bliss, you think.

All you need to know is that you are still a star. You are still the person who swallowed a star and let it swallow you whole in turn, forever marking you as a stolen fragment of the larger Universe.

Someone screams.

You turn. You look. They are staring right at you.

You’re not dense - you can catch a hint if it’s being yelled right at your face. You know you’re not wanted here.

So, you push yourself to your feet, turn away from the stranger. You put one unsteady foot in front of the other, let instinct take over, and start to walk.

You do not look back.

There used to be wanderlust in your bones, carved into your very being.

You used to need it, used to be a slave to the urge, the need, to be on your feet and keep walking and walking and walking, wandering the lands for something that you now know that you will never be able to find.

You don’t. Not anymore.

All that’s left now is the bone-deep wariness, your feet dragging behind you with every step that you take. All that’s left now is the need to curl up somewhere, to lie there and wait for the Universe to finally take pity on your sorry self. All that’s left now is exhaustion.

You’re not the Traveler. You can’t travel anymore. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

Instead-

You are pitiful, you are self-sabotaging, you crave the familiarity and you seem to only ever want to bring yourself to ruin.

-Instead, you find a tree.

It’s ironic, somehow, the way you always end up doing the worst things you could do to yourself - trap yourself in a time loop, give up and watch a version of yourself succeed at all the things you never did and never will get to, escape the prison that was the Favour Tree only to end up returning to another large tree.

It’s a good tree. A big one. The canopy will provide decent shelter during the day. There is a hollow beneath its roots that you can rest in during the nights.

A tree is not a home. It is not a house either. You have no supplies for yourself, nothing to rely on for your survival but your own flimsy memory.

It’s alright.

You’ll make do.

Your tree gets many visitors, people from the coastal town nearby who come to it to hang little wooden tablets from its branches.

You didn’t notice it, that first day you settled there, but there were already plenty of them hanging above you. You read a few out of curiosity - scribbles hoping for Vaugarde to be saved. You stopped reading then.

What a joke.

It’s funny, almost, how you ended up right back at another Favour Tree.

Honestly, it’s just like you to do this to yourself.

You spend your days at the foot of the Favour Tree.

You can’t eat, so you don’t bother wasting your energy going hunting. You just… stay there. At the foot of your Tree, ducking behind the trunk and beneath the roots when the townsfolk get a little too close for your liking. You don’t i how you look, but you know enough. You know how you look, dazzling as it may be, you know people won’t quite share your appreciation for it.

Appreciation. Ha.

It doesn’t matter, that any appreciation you might have had for your starlike form has long since eroded into a thorough sense of bitterness. It doesn’t matter, that you can’t quite stand to find a reflection of yourself, to actually learn how you look. It doesn’t matter that all that you recognise as you has long since been ripped from your grasp.

You spend nights by the ocean.

No one is there by the ocean, not at night.

You only emerge onto the shores when the moon is high in the sky, when any sane person would long since have fallen fast asleep in the comfort of their homes. You try to squash any jealousy that arises at the very thought, to no avail.

It’s easy to feel jealous.

It’s an emotion that comes easy to you, one that has come easy to you, ever since you assumed the form that you now have. It’s a curdling where your gut would be, the urge to sink your nonexistent teeth into the object of your jealousy, digging the tips of your fingers (Only soft flesh, even. Look at that! Ha! You’ve been deprived of even your fingernails~!) into the flesh of your palm as much as possible.

It’s especially easy to feel jealous on those nights by the beach - the moon and stars hanging over you, the shadows of an island some distance off of the shore. You don’t remember much of that place. In fact, you dare say you remember nothing of that place. The only things you know about it are stolen from the pockets of your stardust’s memories, little fragments that are no longer yours to call your own.

That’s how you know anything about it - because the memory of it isn’t yours to keep.

Jealousy comes oh-so-easily to you on those nights, and you cling to it, because jealousy is better than the empty nothingness that you sit with in the day.

Jealousy is second nature to you.

The townsfolk are strange.

You’re fairly sure you’ve minimised all interactions with them, but sometimes-

Sometimes, it’s unavoidable - some townsfolk crossing your path as you take a stroll through the woods, skirting around the outskirts of town. Those interactions are simple, some sort of surprise or shock from the townsfolk as you flee back into the foliage.

But, sometimes-

Sometimes, they come to your Tree.

Not just to clap their hands and wish, not just to hang little wooden wish tablets on their branches, but to leave what you can only call offerings by the roots of the Tree.

It’s strange.

It’s new to them too, you think. You can tell from the way they hesitate with their bouquets, their trinkets, their food, as they approach the clearing. You can tell from the way they glance around, searching for something you don’t quite know. You can tell from the way they look back as they leave.

You didn’t know what they were looking for, who they were offering everything to.

But now you do.

Now you know-

“Oh deity of the night sky, I beg of you, grant me the gift of knowledge.”

You were careless. Unobservant. Your mind wandered a little further than it usually does, a little further than you normally let it, during the day. Someone approached, and you weren’t present enough to realise the need to hide.

And now there is someone at your feet.

You blink.

The lady in front of you is young, you think. Her thick hair pulled back into a puffy ponytail, her head pressed to the ground she’s kneeling on, her palms facing towards the sky. Her fingers press loosely around one of those wooden wish tablets, inscriptions scribbled across it, inscriptions that you can’t quite read in the way it’s held right now.

You look around. There’s no one else here, and she’s clearly talking to you. Is this a thing that this town does?

“...You have the wrong person,” you tell her, eventually, when it’s clear she’s waiting for an answer, an acknowledgement of some sort.

The Devotee looks up, face round in a way that’s familiar, that tickles some memory at the back of your mind. She furrows her eyebrows. “...Are you not the god that watches over the Favour Tree?”

“I’m not… a god,” you say, and try your best not to sound bitter, try not to think of your stardust theorising that you were part of the Favour Tree, all the way back in Dormont.

She blinks, pushing herself upright. “But you’re…” She falters, the words no longer coming to her.

…You breathe in, and out.

And then you pull a smile to your eyes. “Yes, I’m beautiful, aren’t I~? Stunning and showstopping, that’s me!” She stares at you, face frozen. You drop the dramatics. It’s not right, you think, to put on such heavy airs around anyone but your stardust, even if it’s easier. “But no, I’m not a god. There’s no god here for you to beg salvation from.”

You watch as the Devotee’s fingers clench around the tablet, watch as she turns and stares off to the side. You wonder, for just a moment-

She stands up, motions abrupt, and dusts off her pants. “Well,” she says, voice suddenly sharp and guarded as she prepares to leave. “Sorry to bother you. I’ll get going.”

“Okay!” You say, pouring as much false cheer into your voice as possible. Your voice falters before you can properly say your goodbyes.

…

Her ears are pierced the same way as the Kid’s, you notice.

You wonder.

“Or-” The words come slowly to you. You would roll them around in your mouth if you still had one, sound out every word as you speak it to life. As it stands, you don’t have a mouth, so you merely speak.

You think you might know who she is.

“I’m no god, but I might just have the answers you seek.”

She doesn’t turn back to face you. You don’t know her name, you can’t remember it, so you can’t call it out. It sounds like a river, you think, and you think, and you think, but-

But you have other options to grab her attention.

You are you, and so you are callous, you are manipulative, and so the words you say- “Like where the Kid is.”

A pause.

You and your tragic black hole of a brain can’t quite remember their full name, but you narrow your eyes into as much of a smile as you can because you remember- “Where Bonnie is.”

It does its job.

“Not a god,” she repeats, finally turning back to face you. There is a hardness in her eyes, solid and steady and everlasting like the mountain ranges of Mwudu. “But still a deity, then?”

You beam. “No, no, still not quite there. I’m just a helper!” You press a finger over where your lips would be, if you still had them. “Helpful Loop, here to help you with-”

You almost stumble over your words, almost promise to be here to help with the loops. The loops, the same loops that are over, that the Devotee will never have to live through, never truly be able to comprehend.

“-Whatever you need!~” You say instead, a cheerful note to your voice that isn’t quite real. Will never quite be real.

You watch as the Devotee stands there, shoulders stiff and fists loosely clenched, a frown plastered across her round face. She looks like how the Kid would look all grown up, you think. Still mad at you. Always mad at you.

She takes a careful step towards you.

“You said you know where Bon is,” she says.

You smile and you smile and you smile. Your smile isn’t real. Why would it be? You are a being made of fake smiles and fake friends, patience long worn thin and barely rebuilt on a crumble foundation. You are a building about to tip over. You don’t even have a mouth to smile with.

“You should take a seat!” You say, instead of answering the unspoken question, instead of saying any of the thoughts bubbling in your head. “Trust me, it’s far more comfortable than just standing there!~”

She takes a step forward, and then another, and then perches herself on the far corner of the root opposite of yours.

…The familiarity is uncanny.

…

…You do not react.

“So!” You say, because you are great at not thinking about things that bother you. “You’re looking for the Kid, your little sibling!”

She stares at you, face blank.

In the chasm of the silence between you two, you run your mouth, words pouring out without thought, unearthing memory upon memory you’d long since forgotten you held.

“Your last memory of them was before you were consumed by the King’s curse, pushing them out of the way so you would get frozen instead. You told them to run, and you think they did.”

“I know they did,” the Devotee says, fist gripping tightly around the wish tablet. You swear you can hear wood creak beneath her grip. You do not let that affect you. “I watched them run.”

“And now the curse is broken!” You continue, cheerily, like she hadn’t said anything at all. “Everyone has come unfrozen, and so have you. But the Kid is nowhere to be found.”

She huffs, giving you a wary once over. “You can stop telling me things I already know any moment now.”

You smile and smile and smile. It doesn’t matter that no one can see your mouth - it’s all in the eyes anyway. “Oh, don’t be so impatient, De-vo-tee~” You let the syllables roll over your metaphorical tongue, the syllables of the epithet you’ve granted the dear Kid’s sister. Look at you! So kind! So generous! “I’ll tell you everything in due time.”

You laugh, even as you see her face harden, even as you watch her fists clench and unclench. Like a cat, almost.

“Don’t call me that,” the Devotee says, sharp at all the edges. “My name’s Petronille.”

“I know!” You lie. There is no part of you that isn’t falsehood built upon falsehood. What’s one more? You commit her name to heart anyway.

You think the Devotee might have snarled at you if she could. She’s a better person than you - you know you would have, regardless.

So, you smile, and give her the answer she so desperately wants. Mostly because you think she might snap and start yelling at you if you dragged this on any longer than it already has. “They’re with the Saviours.”

“The Saviours?” She echoes, brows furrowed.

“The Saviours!” You agree, in spite of the disbelieving defensiveness woven into her tone. You answer the unspoken question with a tilt of your head and a smile. “They’re safe! Safe and sound in Dormont and recuperating from their battle to decide the fate of Vaugarde!” You giggle.

It’s funny, really. They ran until they found the one group with the least chance of being frozen in time, but in the greatest line of danger outside of that one saving grace. It’s funny, you promise!

The Devotee does not find that nearly as amusing as you do, even if you don’t say it out loud. She makes a noise, a strangled sound from the back of her throat.

“Bon’s in a fight?”

“Barely!” you say. You hope it comes out in some sort of placating manner. You don’t think it did. “They’ve got nary a scratch on them!” Your laughter bubbles at the back of your throat and gets stuck there. If you had a mouth, you would smile. If you could smile, it would be an ugly, bitter thing. Maybe it’s for the best that you don’t have one. “Everyone in the Saviour’s little party took special care to make sure of that.”

The Devotee is blind to your ugly, fragile heart. Any trace of bitterness that made it past your phantom lips has dissipated into the wind - only your words have reached her ears, and not the emotions behind them.

“Bon was involved in the fight,” the Devotee repeats. “...But they’re safe?”

You nod in confirmation.

“They’re safe,” she says. “And they’re coming back?”

You make a ‘so-so’ motion with your hand. “It might be a while,” you admit. Stardust was running on fumes and Wishcraft. You think their party might want to wait for them to recuperate before they get going. …You don’t think. You know. You don’t think about how you know. “Some of the others need to heal up before hopping back on the road. But they’ll be back eventually!”

She stares at you. Stares and stares and stares and stares. And then, she asks the most important question of all. “...And how can I trust you on any of this?”

You smile. You have no mouth, but you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. You have no cheeks.

You do not let your smile falter.

“I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it!~”

You are you, and so you’re self-sabotaging and self-destructive and actively putting yourself in positions that make your star-speckled skin crawl, make you want to rip skin from flesh and flesh from bone.

You go to the beach, as you always do, and stare out at the empty horizon.

If you squint - if you tilt your head and stare - you think you can just about make out the hazy silhouette of an island that isn’t there.

Your throat tightens. Or, it would if you had one. Instead, you just feel like you’re being strangled, slowly but surely.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine!

It doesn’t matter that the weight of all that you’ve lost has coiled itself around your sad pathetic throat, it doesn’t matter that you’ve lost everyone and everything you’ve ever loved, it doesn’t blinding matter!!!

Your fingers are in your hair. Your spikes. Your incorporeal form of being- Who blinding cares anymore? Not you, that’s for sure!!!

The laughter that spills out of you is high and manic. Your throat is rubbed raw by itself, another little piece of self-destruction. You want to cry, but you’re pretty sure you have no tear ducts, haha~!

You’re going to explode! You’re going to blow yourself into smithereens!! You’re going to break into a million little shards of light and pieces of all the people you used to be!!! Why are you still here!!!

You hear footsteps, the crunching of leaves and debris under a foot, under someone who doesn’t care for masking their approach and whereabouts.

You breathe sharply, a forceful in and out, and watch your glow stop flickering unsteadily.

“...Loop, right?”

You know that voice. It’s the Devotee. Nille, like the river of denial. Petronille. You know this now, will etch it into your heart and hope that your mind doesn’t forget.

You plaster a smile onto your face as you turn to face her. “Yes, my darling De-vo-tee~” You talk over her snapping at you, repeating her name, insisting you use it. You can’t hear it. You won’t. There’s something deep and clawing within you that won’t let you use it, wraps itself around your tongue and keeps it trapped in your useless mouth if you try. You don’t tell her that, because you don’t have a mouth or a tongue. “How can I help you on this wonderful n- Night?”

You wi-

…

You hope she didn’t catch you stumbling over your own words.

Even if she did, she grants you the infinite mercy of not bringing it up.

There’s something weighted in her gaze, a pressure that weighs on you like she’s trying her best to crush you with her eyes. You don’t let that bother you. You don’t.

An eternity passes.

“Sending out a water lantern,” she says, eventually, lifting said item where it’s cradled in her hands.

You think you’ve heard of this.

“For safe voyages?”

She stares at you and, after another long moment, nods. “Safe travels, in looser terms.” She looks back down at the paper lantern, not yet lit. “…To make sure Bon gets home safe.”

There’s some part of you that wants to say something about the Kid not needing such a thing, that they’ll be sure to return back to their sister safe and sound.

There’s another part of you, a long-repressed part of you, buried by the sands of time and the weight of a boulder, who sees this and just knows it’s not just a ritual for safe journeys, but also a ritual like the Favour Tree. That part of you screams and kicks and yells, wants to get away and burn that stupid blinding lantern to ashes, wants to make sure the Devotee knows exactly what she’s getting into, wants and wants and wants.

You take that part of you and try your best to kill it.

“…I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” you say, instead of anything else, because this is what is expected of you. This is who you have to be.

She stares at you - through you, like you’re made of glass and air, like she can see right through the airs you put up and into the dying core of your sorry heart. “…Do you want to help?”

She lifts her lantern, offering, and you want to laugh. You could die laughing.

You don’t because it would be rude. Airs or not, this isn’t your stardust. You don’t want to subject her to you, you in all your sorry fragile glory. That’s a view not even stardust saw.

“Sure!” You say, instead of anything else. There is a cheer in your voice that you don’t mean, a bitter bite that you try your very best to bury. “I’d love to.”

“What if they’ve changed?” The Devotee asks, one day.

You know who she’s talking about. You’re also not sure why she’s asking you this. Why you, when all you’ve been is bitter and sullen and infuriating and anything but comforting?

“What if I can’t keep up with who they’ve become?” She continues. There is a fragility in her tone, a brittle sort of undertone, a minefield just a step away from blowing her and anyone else in her vicinity to smithereens. “What if they hate me for not trying harder to protect them?”

…You know you introduced yourself as a helper. You wonder if emotional support counts under a helper’s responsibilities.

You’ve helped stardust, sure, but that was different. That’s stardust.

This…

“And they’ve probably gone through so much since we’ve split up, what if I can’t recognise them anymore? What if they-”

…isn’t him.

You don’t know what to say. Her fears are so very contrary to your own feelings about the party, so very foreign. You don’t understand her, it feels like anything you could possibly have to say would just be the wrong answer.

You try anyway.

You owe it to the Kid to try.

“What-ifs aren’t going to help you,” you interject, voice as even as you can manage, despite yourself, despite the hypocrite that you are. You force cheer into your voice. “There’s only one reality for you to live in, after all! That’s the only one you need to worry your little head about~”

“But-”

You hush her, louder, more insistent than her protests. “No buts!”

She falls silent.

“You know I’m right,” you continue. “The Kid will love you all the same.”

“You think I’m overreacting.”

Your hands clench into fists on your lap as you think about how to continue. You force them open, keep them loosely curled, doing your best to paint a picture of relaxed certainty.

“I think you’re worried,” you correct. “The Kid is so precious to you that you don’t want to mess things up and I won’t fault you for that. But stressing about it won’t get you anywhere.”

“...” The Devotee looks away. “What if they don’t recognise me?”

…

You have no good response to that.

Her fear is your reality and all you have done is run away from it, press the escape button and disappear into the greater folds of the Universe.

“...Then you’ll learn,” you say, eventually, because what kind of helper would you be if you didn’t give her the advice she seeks? “And you’ll manage.”

The Devotee shows up at the Favour Tree.

She’s been doing that a lot lately, coming to your tree. Sometimes, she sits on the root opposite yours in silence, sometimes she talks about the Kid, sometimes she talks about how she’s feeling, sometimes she drags you out to the beach. Once, she brought you a small box full of familiar cookies, said something about making extras. It took a lot in you to express a normal amount of emotion about it.

You let her. It’s not like you have anything else to do. Besides, what kind of helper would you be, if you can’t even entertain her impulses and listen to her worries and her sorrows?

This time is different, though.

There is a frenzy to her edges, her hair messier than usual and face dark with emotion. She looks like she’s been crying. Her steps as she bursts into the clearing are unsteady, and you watch her sit down on the ground instead of the root, using it instead as something to lie back against.

You watch her breathe, each breath unsteady and shaking, you listen to it rattle.

And then, she pushes herself up to perch on the tree root, and speaks.

“I’m leaving Bambouche.”

There is a roughness to her voice, like something has been ripped from it over and over again, like her throat has been torn to bits and pieces.

It even sounds like she’s been crying.

And then, you actually process her words, the meaning of them finally dawning upon you.

“Wait, what,” you say. “Why?”

She laughs, something high and panicked. “I need- I need to find Bon. It’s been far too long, they’ve been away too long, what if something’s happened to them? What if they’re hurt and I’m just sitting at home and twiddling my thumbs? I can’t just stay here and do nothing but wait, I need to- to-”

“You,” you cut in. “Need to calm down.”

“I can’t,” she snaps, voice sharp in a way that’s almost familiar. Painfully familiar. “I can’t just- Just calm down because you told me to!”

…You can see where the Kid got their anger from.

You tut at her, click your tongue in theatrical disapproval. “Don’t be like that,” you chide. “Just follow my lead, take a deep breath in….” You take a breath in to demonstrate, letting your chest inflate full of air that you no longer need to live. “...and out.”

You repeat the process a few more times - until she stops shaking, looks more settled in her own skin, seems less like she’s one wrong word away from falling into pieces - until you deem it enough.

“...There we go!” You smile. “Now, let’s think about it a little more carefully, okay? Moving out of town is a big decision, so why don’t you explain your thought process to me?”

Instead of an answer, you watch her continue your little breathing exercise, taking a deep breath in… …and out. And again. And again. And again.

You are patient.

You wait.

“I,” she says eventually, shoulders hunched defensively. “Just need to.”

“But why?” You press, because you know there’s more to this. There’s something deep within you telling you that there’s more to this. “Have you thought through this or is it just on impulse?”

“Of course I’ve thought this through,” she snaps. “I’ve done nothing but think about it for- for the past few weeks!”

You forget, sometimes, that the Devotee is not like your stardust, that the persona of helpful Loop! doesn’t actually help her as much as you’d like. You don’t know what would.

(The Kid, maybe, but it’s an impossibility for you - you’re not them.)

“Sure doesn’t seem like it!” You point out, voice cheery because you are capable of expressing maybe five emotions these days, and this false cheer has quickly become your default. “In fact, it seems a lot like you’re just rushing into things, Devotee!”

Her protest is quick, and sharp. “I’m not! I just-” She falters. “I just need to get out of Bambouche. I can’t just- Just stay here, not when…”

You wait.

“...Not when Bon needs me. I should try to get to them as soon as possible.”

You want to tell her that the Kid doesn’t. That they would like to have her, but they don’t need her. You wonder if her words aren’t just a reflection of her own feelings towards the Kid. You want to ask if the Kid really needs her, or if she is the one who needs the Kid.

You don’t say any of what goes on inside your head, swallow your words and bury your thoughts with an avalanche of anything else. You straighten them out, make them nice and palatable:

“The Kid is in good hands,” you say. They aren’t the ones you actually know - they aren’t yours - but the party is still made of the same people. They aren’t your party, but you still trust them. You know you can. “In fact, you leaving will just make things difficult!”

“I-“

You cut her off, dropping your teasing tone for something a bit more serious. “Listen to me, Devotee. There’s so many different routes that can be taken from Dormont to Bambouche, you’re more likely to miss each other on the path than meet each other along it. Do you want the Kid to come back to Bambouche and find out that you’re gone? Do you want to prolong the time to your reunion?”

“If they’re on their way back,” she protests. “Surely they’d have sent a letter ahead. Something must’ve gone wrong, so I have to-”

“And the postal system has been frozen for the past forever,” you interject. “They’ll have so many letters in backlog that it might just be taking a while to get through them.”

She remains conspicuously quiet.

“You’re not an idiot,” you say. “I know you’ve thought about it. I know you know all of this.”

“But I have to try-”

“Devotee,” you snap, voice sharp as your old dagger and violent as your stardust against the tutorial Sadness. “You’re not listening to what I’m saying-”

“I am listening!” She yells. “You’re not letting me talk!”

You take a deep breath in, a desperate effort to remain calm because your anger is not what she needs. “You came to me for advice, Petronille. I’m giving you the advice you came here for, take it or leave it but you know I’m right.”

“I-” She pauses, falters, her words coming to a still as she stares at you with wide eyes. Her stare burns a hole into you, scorching hot where it meets your visage.

You want to scream. You do not.

Instead, you pinch where your nose would be. “The best thing for you to do is to stay here. That’s how you find a lost child after all - one person stays put as the other person searches. It’s your turn to-“

Your skin crawls at the intense feeling of being observed, being dissected, being known. You can’t help yourself, you cut yourself off just so you can get it off of you.. “Stop looking at me like that!”

She blinks, and looks away. “...S’ry,” she says, voice reluctant. Her gaze flickers back up to you, less intense this time. Her gaze - it’s almost questioning. It’s almost expectant. “... …You called me Petronille.”

You freeze, except you can’t afford to, so you don’t. “Yes,” you say instead, narrowing your eyes. And, just to be a bit of a brat- “It is your name after all, Pe-tro-nille~”

She rolls her eyes at your antics. “You know what I mean,” she says. “You don’t call me by my name. That’s like, your thing.”

“My thing,” you counter. “Is trying to help you. Don’t leave Bambouche.”

“Okay.”

“It’ll make things wor-” You pause, the agreement finally processing. Huh??? That easily? Where did all the protests and the worry go? “What?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. Congrats, you convinced me. I won’t leave.” She leans forwards, the weight of her gaze heavy on your neck and heady in the air. “You should come stay with me though.”

“What???”

You honestly feel a bit like a broken record.

“You should come stay with me,” she repeats. “Please, I’ve seen where you hide out for the night. That mini-cavern won’t do much of anything when storm season properly hits.” The Devotee pauses, gathers her thoughts. When she continues again, there is a glint in her eye and a smirk toying on the corners of her lips. “Besides, you can get a front row seat to ensure I don’t make any sudden stupid decisions.”

There is a maelstrom in your head, in your heart.

“...No.”

“Just for a bit,” she hedges. “Just until Bon gets back. You wouldn’t leave a lady wanting, would you?”

You cull the sorry spark of something where it stands in your heart.

“...No.”

“Please,” she says in return. There’s genuine emotion scribbled across her face - raw and unfiltered emotion. You don’t like what you think it means and so you pretend you never saw such a thing. “...Loop?”

You’re on your feet. You hadn’t realised.

You take one step back, and another, and another, and-

You flee into the forest before she can even think of taking chase.

There is a version of you for your stardust, your fangs carefully hidden behind a thin facade or a smile, your worst impulses just barely held back. You and your sorry self, just barely bundled into a passable shell of a person.

There is a version of you for the Devotee now, a mask of a friendly helper who knows just a little bit too much. It is a facet of yourself - you with your stardust - sanded down to be palatable, to fit nicely into polite company.

And then there is you, the real you.

You, raw and unpolished and razor sharp at every edge. You, teeth bared and ready to bite the hand that feeds. You, in all your horrendously hazardous glory.

Your face ripples in the puddles you walk past. You think you see a glimpse of darkless hair in your reflection, but it’s just a trick of the light.

The Devotee…

You’ve been avoiding her.

The version of you - the mask you don when in her presence - is cracked at the edges, barely clinging to life. Her offer hangs over you, sharp against your neck like a guillotine. You cannot be the person you try to be around her, not now.

If you take her up on the offer, you will slip. It is inevitable. The mask will break, will shatter, will fall to the ground in a million jagged pieces. She will see every sharp edge you’ve tried to hide from her, will see all the ways you’re unworthy of being anyone to her.

She will kick you out.

You don’t doubt it, that you’ll mess up, one way or another, and do something, anything, that will end up driving her away. You’ll crash and you’ll burn and she will realise that you’re not who she thought you were.

To agree to her offer is to give in to the idea of hope.

You don’t think there’s very much of it left within you. You don’t think you have the capacity to take that risk, to gamble all that’s left in one last bet on a place to make yourself comfortable in. You don’t think you can give in.

No.

No, it’s better this way - you with your tree and her in her home - where you cannot ruin any good things for her or anyone else. It’s better this way, without your ugly heart to taint the walls of her home with your jealous streak, your longing, your homesickness, your ability to ruin every good thing that you touch.

You, alone.

That is how it should be.

A storm hits.

You are wet, drenched. You didn’t think you could still feel any sort of temperature until your little hollow beneath the roots of your tree got flooded. You don’t think you’ve stopped shaking since then, the cold seeped straight through your skin and making its home in the marrow of your bones.

The canopy of the Favour Tree is not enough. Not now, not anymore.

You

You are so very cold.

You need

help

…

There is one place you can go.

You stand at her doorstep.

Hesitate.

Consider.

The chill wracks your frame.

It makes your decision for you.

You knock on her door.

Wait a moment.

One.

Two.

She opens the door.

Takes in the sorry sight that you are-

-in all your soggy, shivering glory.

…

No words need to be spoken.

…

She lets you in.

Time passes.

You continue to stay with Petronille, for the most part.

She sets up a bed for you - even if you can’t sleep - and a curtain around the little corner of her house you’ve taken up. You don’t have very many belongings of your own, but some find their way into that area; a shiny stone you found as one of your offerings, a dagger you bought on your one foray into the town in the day, a couple of flowers left to dry.

But you are still you.

Sometimes, when the longing in you is suffocating, when you feel the urge to blow up your life, you take a walk. Sometimes, you return back to your tree hollow and stay there for a night or two. Sometimes, you take a stroll along the coast, walking and watching that familiar landmass in the distance until the sun comes up or until your heart calms with no fear of exhaustion. Sometimes you go into the forest next to Bambouche and stare at the stars until the sun comes up.

Petronille doesn’t say anything about it when you return from your periods of absence, merely continues with whatever she’s doing and welcomes you back.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

You don’t know whether you want her to worry about your sudden bouts of absences, don’t know whether you want her to be relieved that you’re gone, don’t know whether you want her to get mad at your poor communication.

You don’t know.

Still, time after time, you come back to her anyway - throw away the memory of home for a place where you can almost pretend.

You wonder what that says about you.

The quiet peace does not last.

Petronille gets a letter.

Her joy is etched on her face as she waves it at you, reads parts of it aloud. There is static in your head and a noose around your heart. You hear her read it through the roaring in your ears, listen to her words in bits and pieces.

She says, “Bon will be home by the end of this month!” And there’s cheer in her voice and light in her eyes but all you can think about is the steady countdown of your personalised doomsday clock, the way it thuds and rings heavy in your ears.

She says, “I think some part of me just couldn’t shake off the thought that Bon died where I couldn’t find them.” And her voice is softer, gentler than it normally is, but all you can feel are fangs where your own teeth would be.

She says, “Thank you for being there for me.” And there is a sense of genuinity, a sense of finality, a sense of a journey ending and you almost feel yourself hoping, wishing-

But you don’t, you don’t, you don’t, because you know better, really, you do!

Petronile smiles at you but you-

All you can think about is how your time left is limited.

You stare at the corner of the house that you’ve claimed for yourself, count the things that you’d consider as yours - truly yours.

A part of you doesn’t want to leave, but the rest of you hears the steady ticking of a clock counting down hours to your doom.

You want and you want and you want- But when has wanting ever gotten you anywhere?

And it’s not just you and your desires that you have to consider - there is also Petronille!

Petronille.

Petronille is nice.

She’s too nice, even. Too nice for her own good.

She’s kind and she cares and it stings at the black hole that has replaced your heart because you know she only wants you around because The Kid isn’t.

And it’s not just that. She’s nice, but every stolen moment with her reminds you of a family you’ve loved and loved and loved but lost anyway, lost to a version of yourself who doesn’t even know how lucky they are.

You want to stay - here, with Petronille, in a house that isn’t yet a home, because your home is unreachable across the ocean, your home has been stolen from you by your own thoughtless actions, but Petronille could be something. This might never be truly home to you, but if the alternative is wandering across lands that will never quite call to you, so entirely removed from the people your heart loves so very much- If that’s the alternative, you want to stay. You want to stay so very badly. You want to stay!

You truly, thoroughly, want to stay, but-!

But you know stardust and their party will be here soon. You don’t know if stardust knows who you really are - you’re pretty sure he suspects. You don’t know if it’s better if they do know or if they don’t. You want to rip his chest apart, want to swallow them whole, you want so very badly to make sure he knows what he has, to make sure they show some sort - any sort - of blinding appreciation for all that they have.

HA!

You need to tear them apart with your bare hands~!

…

And for that reason, if nothing else, you can’t stay.

You can’t stay, because if you do, you’ll be you.

And you’ll be here to mess everything up.

So, you grab the wooden statuette of a tree that Petronille gave you just last week, because that’s the only thing that means something and is truly yours. It’s a gift - not borrowed from anyone, not on loan to you at the behest of someone’s kindness. It means something - not a trinket you picked up at the markets or an offering to you, laid to rest by the Favour Tree.

It is your selfish heart that begs for something to keep as a memory of Petronille, so you won’t forget her, not in the way your sieve of a brain works. You’ll always have something physically present to remind you of her. It’s selfish, it’s selfish, it’s selfish, you know, but you can’t help it. Selfishness is in your nature, stealing broken pieces of a life you want to live.

You don’t need anything else.

This is all you need - this is the only physical thing you will permanently take from her - and so you’re ready. You’re ready to leave and close this chapter of your life and you draw the curtains around your corner open and-

Petronille is there.

She sits on the couch, casual as anything, even if her eyes are sharp in a way that almost reminds you of the Researcher’s gaze.

“Hey,” she says. “Going somewhere, Loop?”

Your fist clenches around the statue. You force it to relax. Her watchful gaze darts to it, and then back to your glowing face.

“...Just out for a walk.”

She makes a wordless noise of agreement, though her gaze does not falter. You feel ripped open, like she sees more of you than you put on display. This is not an uncommon feeling for you to get with her - increasing in frequency as of late, you think.

“Sure,” Petronille hums, unwavering in her steady eye contact. “Nothing to do with Bon coming home?” You don’t flinch, don’t look away.

Lights, camera, action.

Time to put on a show.

“Of course not!” You smile. It does not reach your eyes. “I’m just going for a little walk by the coast. You know I get restless sometimes~”

“Restless,” she echoes. There’s something indescribable pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Ha. You guess the Kid must have gotten their inopportune perceptiveness from somewhere.

“Was it ever called anything else?”

Petronille doesn’t even blink at your counter, weak as it is. Instead: “You know, it’s polite to tell your host when you’re leaving.” Her voice is as sharp as her eyes as she continues, all but pinning you to your spot with just her gaze alone. “Were you ever going to say goodbye?”

“I’m not leaving,” you say - you lie.

She tilts her head towards the statue. Your sentimentality will be the death of you. “Right. What’s that then?”

“I didn’t know I had to run it by you if I took my pet tree out on a walk.”

She stares at you, unamused. You stare back and try not to kick yourself for the stupid excuse that tumbled out of your mouth. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything.

In turn, you don’t edge towards the front door, because the hesitation is as much of a giveaway as anything could be. You walk towards it instead, strides sharp and confident.

Your hand is on the door when Petronille finally speaks up again. “You can’t keep running from whatever it is you’re trying to run from.”

“I’m not running from anything.”

“Sure you’re not,” she agrees, sarcasm woven heavily into her voice. “Just like how Bon has absolutely nothing to do with anything.”

“Exactly!” You agree. “I’m so glad we’re on the same page, De-vo-tee~”

You wait for it, wait for the snap and the call for you to use her name instead of the title you’ve so kindly bestowed upon her.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, you hear the rustling of her fabric on fabric, the movement of her body on the couch. Her voice is clearer the next time she speaks.

“Don’t push me away, Loop.” Her tone is serious, her voice heavy, and you cave, just a little.

“...Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be,” you mutter. “It’s better this way.”

She scoffs. “Yes, my friend-” You feel a shiver run down your spine at that word. Stars, you’re so pathetic. “-was just about to up and leave me without a word or a note. This is definitely the better way- Don’t kid yourself.”

You’ve done this before, you want to say, but those were different circumstances. You were ripped from Dormont without a choice, forced to leave stardust and their party behind without a second glance back. You wonder if you would have done the same anyway, if given a choice.

…You may have. You’re not sure.

You’re not sure you want to know.

She continues, when you don’t move or say a word or react at all. “Talk to me, Loop,” she all but begs. “Whatever your issue is with Bon, I’m sure we can work through.”

Her words are like the ocean tide, and you are a pier, and the waves are battering you relentlessly but-

But.

…Petronille called you her friend.

You know, you know, you know, that word means more - so much more - to you than it does to her. You know you’re attaching imaginary weight to something that might not hold any, you know you might be being stupid, but-

But!

She called you her friend.

And you are nothing but a weak, weak star.

So, you give in, let the waves pull you under, and let your shoulders sag and your hand drop from the door. You don’t turn around, but the words tumble out of your mouth anyway.

“It’s not… the Kid,” you say, reluctant. “There’s someone they’re traveling with.” You pause. In the corner of your vision, you see Petronille watching you from the couch, attentive as she listens. It’s scary, just a little, to be watched with such intensity, to be given one’s full attention to such a degree. “...We didn’t leave off on the best of terms.”

It’s not much. It really really isn’t much. The words are hard, and all you’ve done is describe an entire understatement of your complicated relationship with your stardust. But you’ve given some ground and Petronille hums in acknowledgement anyway. “You’re worried about that someone’s reaction?”

Finding the words is a little like ripping out your chest, like swallowing a star whole, burning a hole in your throat.

“...Not as much as my reaction to them.”

“I’ll kick them out if they bother you,” she promises. You scoff, tighten your grip on that carving of a tree, and her voice hardens as she continues. “Don’t do that. I will.”

“Even if I’m in the wrong?” You counter, spinning around to face her properly. She is no less intense in her response, like a storm in a bottle. You like that about her sometimes.

“Even then.”

“Even if they’re important to the Kid, even if they get mad at you for it?”

She narrows her eyes. “We’ll talk it out first,” she says. “I’m sure we’ll come to a compromise.”

You are you, and so you press on. “And if we don’t?”

“We will,” she insists, and you want to laugh at her naivety. You don’t. “How do you think you’ll react to that other traveler?”

…Is there any way to put it that won’t scare Petronille off, once and for all?

Your silence must speak volumes, somehow, because something in her stance softens. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says, and climbs over the couch to get closer to you. Her hands hover just to the side of the skin of your arms, like she wants to touch but isn’t sure if she can. “I just think you’re overestimating your reaction.”

“...What would you know?” Your voice is more bitter than you would have liked.

She gives you a once-over, and your skin burns where she looks. The mortifying ordeal of being known, or something like that. “Enough,” Petronille says. “Enough to know that your first reaction will be to run.”

You want to argue that. She doesn’t let you. Her fingers brush your skin and the static fills your body. “Stay,” she says. There’s something in her eyes, something unreadable through the haze in your head and the part of you screaming about that one patch of skin-on skin. “We’ll work it out when Bon comes back, and-” She hesitates. “And if you still want to leave then, I… I won’t stop you.”

“...Petronille…”

“Just,” she sighs, and looks away. Her hand drops back down to her side, and you miss and thank her for the loss in contact in the same thought. A paradox, a contradiction. That’s all you are. “Just tell me if you do, okay?”

You breathe in, and out, a sharp one-two to get your heart back on track.

“Okay,” you say.

“Promise?”

The ridges of that carving of the tree burns itself into your palm. She said it reminded her of you, and your tree that you stayed under, would have continued staying under had the storm not flooded it.

“...I promise.”

You know stardust and their party are fast approaching.

You stay.

Petronille is excited, eager, even if she tones it down for you.

You stay.

You appreciate it, and you try not to let the anticipation suffocate you.

You stay.

“LOOP?!”

Despite knowing the inevitability of this encounter, some part of you still isn’t ready to see your stardust here, in Bambouche, right in front of you, not ready to hear their voice again.

Their hair is messy as it always is, his hat nowhere to be seen as they pant slightly, staring at you with wide eyes. He must have run to see you.

“...Loop?” He asks, hesitant, like you might be an illusion. Their hand reaches out, then falters, like touching you might cause you to dissipate into thin air.

He looks at you like you’re a ghost.

…

…You’re not sure how you feel about that.

“Stardust,” you say. A weighted pause, as you consider him. All things considered, they look well. These past months or two have been good to them, you think. Better than the desperate shade of themself that you last remember seeing in the loops. “...Siffrin.”

“Loop,” Your stardust says - breathes, really - watching you carefully, like you might bolt if he says one wrong word. “...We have a lot to talk about.”

You watch back, and think it over. There is none of the instinctual anger flaring up in you, none of the urge to fight them right here and now, demanding your life back, demanding they appreciate it, demanding everything that you desperately need from them.

You’re not reacting how you thought you would. …How you feared you would.

Instead, your heart thumps like a rabbit making its escape from a hungry wolf.

Maybe everyone’s not so wrong for thinking you might run, instead of lashing out. You can never tell Petronille this.

(Except you will, because you like to see her happy, and she likes to be right, and you don’t mind being wrong.)

…You wonder if your stardust knows who you are. Who you used to be.

In the distance, you see the rest of his party catching up, calling out to him. They must have run off when they saw you. You’re not hard to spot, after all, and you left so much unsaid between the two of you.

Your heart has fled your chest, is choking up your throat, and the roll of nervousness in your stomach is almost all-consuming and you don’t want to have this conversation with them, you’re not ready, you’ll never be ready, but you-

You.

…

“...Yes,” you say. Your voice comes out even. It comes out calmer than you feel. “We do.”