Archive of Our Own

The washed out darkless ceiling blurs in and out of your vision. Your eye falls shut. You pry it back open. You want to sleep. But you cannot. Will not. You're holding up your family, holding up Bonnie, stars. You're not atoning for any of the horrible things you did. They were nice enough to forgive you, but that's bound to fade if you keep being a burden like this.

You need to get better. You need to recover from this self-inflicted Craft sickness before they realize it's not worth it to keep you.

Your eye falls shut. 

You whine. You want to sleep. But you can't lose any more hours. 

You shift your position to lie on your side. Moving your limbs hurts, but that wakes you up, so it's worth it. You open your eye.

The broken doll is still sitting on the bedside table. 

“Change, remind me to throw that thing away later!”

You flinch. Your nurse is here–you’d forgotten.

“I used to keep it here for the kids to hold when they were scared,” continues the nurse, looking at it, “and part of me is sad to see it go, but it's broken! Keeps slipping my mind to get rid of it.”

…How could she throw it away? All this time it's helped kids and been held and she's just getting rid of it? Just because it's ugly now? After it finally escaped?

The nurse leaves the room, humming. The doll’s pristine side is turned to you. You muster your strength, lift up your arm, and push the doll till it's facing you. 

It's a grim sight, really. Half of its face is just empty void. Any one of the ones who held it would turn away in fear or disgust now.

You pick up the doll and hide it under the covers with you, and wrap your arms around it. 

This doll might seem unlovable, but you won't let it get chucked out like it was never worth anything. Maybe you can even get it fixed.

. . .

“Pale copies.” That’s what Loop called your party.

There's only one Universe. Somewhere deep in your bones, you know this. Just like you know that matter cannot be created or destroyed, but can change form.

Not always voluntarily. 

When you faced Loop at the Favor Tree, their light flickered, and you got a glimpse of your own face. Completely identical, but contorted in more grief and pain and envious rage than you care to imagine feeling. 

“Pale copies.”

…“Actors.”

They wished for help. And it created you. 

…Maybe that's why you barely remember any of the journey before now. Maybe that's why you lashed out in a way they never did. Maybe that's why you let–why Bonnie got–

You dig your fingernails into your palms hard enough they bleed, making a mental note to blame it on nightmares when asked. 

You stole the real Siffrin’s family. Loop called them copies because, like your ‘actors,’ they couldn't bear to see the people they'd loved unable to see them. 

You're not Siffrin. Not really. You're the doppelganger, the imposter. The understudy that sabotaged opening night. The parasite that took Siffrin’s family and drank. 

…And you can't tell them. You know you can't. They forgive you, love you because of the journey you went on together. If they find out it wasn't with you, it was with them, then they'll leave you as sure as the moon rises. No more reason to keep you around, knowing you aren't who they thought.

You didn't lose your eye for Bonnie. You just got them killed. You dig your finger into your eye socket. You didn't earn this scar. Liar. Liar. Doppleganger. Actor. 

“Frin!” The door opens and Bonnie's cheery voice rings through. You withdraw your finger quickly and pray the eye patch didn't crease. Last thing you need is Bonnie getting sad over a sacrifice you didn't make.

The smell hits you. It can be hard to smell things through the phantom scent of burnt sugar, but this is unmistakable.

Fritters. NEW fritters.

“I put peppers in them like you told me!” Bonnie bounces in place proudly. You try to scramble into a sitting position, but are too weak. Curse your mortal flesh. Isabeau, who you were too distracted by the fritters to notice was also present because you're a disgusting glutton, puts both hands on your shoulders.

“Don't hurt yourself, buddy!”

You let him carefully ease you up, impatience thrumming through you as the smell of fritters carves a hole deeper and deeper into your stomach. When you’re finally upright, you stuff two fritters in your mouth whole. 

“Woa, woa, Sif!” Isabeau says like he’s trying to soothe a horse, holding up his hands.

“YEEEES!!!” Bonnie jumps in place and flails their arms around happily. “MY COOKING IS GOOD AGAIN!!”

You whine through your closed mouth. Bonnie's food was always good. It's not their fault you were stuck eating the same snacks for dozens and dozens of loops. (It's yours.)

You scarf your fritters. Mirabelle and Odile enter. Mirabelle casually puts a hand on your jaw as she admonishes you to slow down. Odile laughs.

The next few hours go by in a pleasant blur of laughter, dramatic book readalouds, and chatter as your friends care for you and keep you company. You fall asleep, at some point. Everyone is still there, talking and laughing quietly, happy to be there. Happy to be with you.

You feel like you're inside the glow of a sunbeam as you gently lose consciousness.

When you wake up, the room is dark and cold. Your friends aren't there–have gone to their own rooms if you have to guess. 

Funnily enough, you feel completely better. Guess this one last sleep was what you needed? Your eye seems to have regrown, too. 

…Your…eye? Your eye is back?

No. No, no, that–that doesn't make sense. You weren't–happy you lost your eye. You didn't want to lose it. Genuinely, for once, you didn't want this bad thing to happen to you. But once it happened it was a badge of honor. Proof that you cared, that you loved them. A mark of the best thing you've ever done with your life, protecting Bonnie. Why is it gone? It can't be gone. 

No, no, no. Without it, your family will hate you! They'll realize you're an imposter, realize you were never anything except the thing that trapped them in time and erased it from their memory and tried to destroy the world!!

You need to get it back!

You reach under your coverlet, take the broken doll, and smash what's left of it against the bedside table. Jagged pieces of porcelain fly everywhere. You grab the sharpest you can find and dig it into your eye.

…STARS!!! It's not working! The Universe won't let it happen! Won't let you keep a scar you didn't earn!

You suddenly realize   you broke the doll. 

No! NO!!! You wanted to fix it! You wanted it to heal! You wanted it to get its happy ending, too!

You look at the pieces in horror. And then you blink, and it's not just the doll you've destroyed. 

Smart, perceptive Odile. Sweet, caring Mira. Kind, little Bonnie. Amazing, wonderful Isabeau. 

All cut to ribbons, scattered around the table. 

No, no, no. You killed them, you can't stay with them, the loop will reset–

Ha! HAHAHAHAHA!!! You just murdered them and all you can think about is your own selfish fears!!! 

STARS!!!!!!!

YOU DESERVE TO BE DEAD! YOU DESERVE TO BE SHATTERED! NOT THE DOLL, AND NOT THEM!!!

Then you wake up for the second time.

Dream! It was just a dream! They're not dead! You didn't destroy them! The only member of this family you destroyed is Siffrin!!! Vanished into thin air at the Favour Tree so you can keep the leading role!!!!

You pinch yourself, then dig your nails in to break through the skin. Awake. Awake. See, pain? You only feel pain when awake. Or do you? You feel like some of your nightmares are painful. Maybe they're real. Maybe this is the hallucination. Who's to blinding say???

…The doll!!! You can't feel it. You root around in the covers for it and pull it out. Still here. Not in pieces. Can still be fixed. Seeing it helps you make yourself breathe. Then the agony of existence and movement catches up with you and you fall backward onto your pillow. Guess being healed was a dream only thing. 

…You reach up your finger and slip it under your eye patch to feel the scarred tissue there. Reassuring, ripped, human. Technically you shouldn't be sleeping with your eye patch on, but who has time for that? Your family forgets to remind you and you can't be bothered, so you won't do it. 

You cuddle the doll and fall back into sleep. You dream, but you have no memory of its contents in the morning. 

. . . 

About a week later, after a rough visit with Mirabelle's parents and a frankly excessive amount of newspaper interviews, you're finally on the road to Bambouche. Traveling again is nice; being able to focus on the burn of extended walking. It's a good distraction from your thoughts. Makes your head clearer. 

(Walking for hours on end was easy before the loops. But oh well. There are worse ways the Universe could have chosen to punish you. Besides, no one has to know how tired you are. Your acting skills have improved.)

“Break time,” Mirabelle announces once everyone's too out of breath to play verbal games or sing songs to pass the time. Odile collapses against a tree. Bonnie hovers nearby offering her snacks. Mirabelle and Isabeau share some water and then begin talking about a romance novel they're both reading. 

You sit “criss-cross applesauce”, as Bonnie calls it, on the ground, reaching into your cloak to play with your souvenirs. Even when your hands are screaming for rest, you never seem able to keep them still. 

“Fidgetfrin,” Bonnie says, looking over at you. You laugh, rolling Loop’s coin between your fingers. 

Loop…

…You want to think about something else. 

You sift through random items in your cloak. Eventually, you feel the doll’s half-face, and pull it out. Its dress is wrinkled from being in your cloak, so you smooth it out. It deserves to be tidy. Its one eye looks up at you gratefully. 

“How's the journey so far, doll?” you whisper to it. 

“Cramped. I want to scream! But stars was I glad to get out of that stuffy infirmary,” you whisper back. 

“FRIN ARE YOU PLAYING WITH A DOLL?”

You flinch as Bonnie talks directly in your ear. They're pointing curiously at your doll. 

“It's all broken,” they frown. “Are you gonna buy a better one next town over?”

“No,” you say, controlling your tone to avoid snapping, because for some reason the innocuous question sets you off. 

(The real Siffrin would never have almost snapped at Bonnie over something so random, you think.)

The others are looking at you curiously, so you hold up Doll for them to see. Mirabelle squints. “That looks familiar. Did you get it at Dormont?”

You nod. “It was gonna get thrown out.”

Mirabelle giggles. “Aww! All hail Siffrin, Savior of Dollkind!”

“And, less importantly, of Vaugarde!” Isabeau adds.

(That was Mira. All you did was trap it in time for your own selfish gain. Without you, you bet the wish wouldn't have broken and Vaugarde would have been fine the first try.)

“It’s kind of scary,” Isabeau comments, fake-shivering. 

“Why?” Bonnie folds their arms superiorly. “It's just a dumb hunk of porkelain.”

“Porcelain,” Odile corrects. 

You put Doll on your lap. Don't listen to them, it's just Bonnie being Bonnie, you think to it. 

Do they want to throw me away?

No. They're just acting tough. 

Oh, okay. Does Isabeau really think I'm scary?

He was acting. Even if he does, he probably likes it. He thinks I'm like a cooking knife and that it's cute.

Oh, okay. 

“I think it looks goth! Pretty! It's part of the charm!” Mirabelle claps her hands, eyes sparkling. You nod vigorously. Finally, someone gets it!!!

“I wasn't aware you played with dolls, Siffrin,” Odile says, smirking at you teasingly. “Shall we look out for a toy train at the next general store? Or maybe a teddy bear?”

…

You put the doll back in

your cloak. “Ready to go when you all are,” you smile. 

. . . 

You're three days out from Bambouche when you have the nightmare. The big one. The one you wake up screaming bloody murder from, the one that sends you careening out of your tent into the night, brain still convinced of danger. 

It–It–Bonnie. Stars, Bonnie. The King’s gargantuan fist. The horrible screams of your friends. 

“Help me…!!!!!! I'm scared…!!!!!!!”

“JUST LET THEM GO, PLEASE!!!!!”

“BONNIE!!! AAAAAAH!!!!!!!!”

Loop back loop back loop back loop back loop back please loop back Universe please–

“CURSE YOU, KING!!!! CURSE YOU AND EVERYTHING YOU STAND FOR!!!!! CURSE YOU AND YOUR WHOLE COUNTRY!!! CURSE YOU, SIFFRIN!!!!”

No, no, NO! SHE DIDN'T SAY THAT! SHe…she…

You drop to your knees on the forest floor, too beat down to keep going. She was right. You deserved to be cursed. You couldn't have killed Bonnie more directly if you'd slit their throat. 

You’re crying. When Bonnie died, you couldn't cry. But now, now, confronted with your own corruption, with the consequences of your own blinding actions, here you are slobbering like it can buy you pity. 

All the Stars are watching you with disgust.

You look up at them. You can imagine them, muttering to each other, deciding what punishment to lead you to next. 

What if they lead you away from your family?

…

You can’t believe you thought something so selfish. No, worse, you can. You are an ignorant, insignificant, abominable, despicable, disgusting–

“SIFFRIN!”

–disgusting–

“SIFFRIN?”

–DISGUSTING–

“SIF!!! BUDDY!!!”

You deserve anything that hurts you!!!

“FRIN!!!”

Bonnie's voice rams into your chest and you topple to the ground, your tearsoaked face slamming against the cold, dewey grass.

Mirabelle wraps her hand around one of yours, Isabeau the other. You flinch, rock like a child’s toy horse, but they don't let go. 

“The King is gone. The loops have been over for two and a half weeks. Everyone is safe. You were having a bad dream,” Isabeau murmurs, rapidly but clearly.

You know. But they didn't used to be. And time has proven itself far too fluid to trust. 

“Siffrin.” Mirabelle’s gentle alto draws you to look up at her. Her eyes are dark and shiny with unshed tears, but she's not mad. You want her to hit you again. Instead, she says, “Breathe with me?”

You breathe. The two of you keep going for a long time. And then you croak out, “Bonnie.”

“Bonnie?” Mirabelle's eyebrows furrow with confusion. She glances over, and you follow her gaze. Pajamaed, tired, and sick with worry, there stands Bonnie in the moonlight.

“Bonnie, can you come here?” you say pleadingly.

Mirabelle hms as if worried. She's right to be worried. You're a monster, you could hurt them. But you're selfish. They tread over cautiously, and you wrap them up in a hug, feeling for a pulse, listening to their heartbeat thumping and feeling their warmth, their minute movements. 

“Frin…” Bonnie says tearfully. 

You just hold on, and keep holding on as your friends lead you back to camp. Odile's thoughtful eye pierces you as surely as a dagger through the neck.

. . .

Bambouche is quite possibly the most charming place you’ve ever been. It kind of hurts. 

(Technically, you’ve only been to Dormont, here, and a couple towns along the way. Since you didn't exist before the loops.)

Ah, but it's so nice, seeing where Bonnie came from. Stray cats are everywhere, attracted to the fish. On the beach, Bonnie shows everyone rocks that turn a variety of pretty shades when dipped in the water. There's a community garden where Nille tries to give Mirabelle some pointers.

And yet…there, on the horizon, is your home. 

It's so close. In another life, you could hop on a boat, take your whole family with you. Show Bonnie your hometown. The places you frequented, the hobbies you learned. 

Why did the Universe lead you away from this? Did you deserve it that much? Was your whole home eviscerated because you were so awful it was the only fitting punishment for you, for your existence?

(But you didn't exist before the loops. Did you? Nothing makes sense. You're losing it.)

You tell this to Doll, sitting it on your knee in the bathroom. You’ve avoided taking Doll out in front of your friends. Its feelings are hurt, because it's rude to act like you're ashamed of it. But as you run your fingers through Doll's hair, bare your soul to it in a way you just can't with humans, you know your family would never understand this part of you. Tender, bleeding. A grown adult pretending a doll is a real person with feelings and halfway believing it themself. 

You wonder if you managed to perform Mind Craft on yourself, back at the House. When you hallucinated your family members’ voices and images in terrifying detail and clarity. Hopefully it was just a consequence of the wish breaking.

Or maybe you were going insane. 

It's  not as improbable as you'd like to think. 

Is your brain still broken? Can you trust your senses, your emotions?

“I'm scared, Doll,” you whisper. 

“It's okay,” you whisper back, hugging Doll tight. “My head is split, too, and I manage. We can be broken brain buddies!”

It will be okay. You rock back and forth, hugging your doll tight. It will be okay. 

. . . 

It's swimming time!!! It's an unusually hot day for autumn, and since you and your group, now officially including Petronille, haven't left Bambouche yet, you decided to make the most of it!

It turns out you're remarkably good at going underwater and staying there. At Bonnie's suggestion, you've all invented a game; you randomly swim up to your friends and grab them by the ankle and pull them underwater. Odile is on the beach, and Mirabelle declines to participate, but as for you and everyone else you're having a grand old time. It's a good way for Petronille to warm up, too, because of the trust involved.

And yet the whole time you're being a menace, playing with your friends, having fun…your eye keeps drifting off to the distance.

Your home. 

It's right there. 

You try to tell yourself to look away. Don't be a monster like the King you already are, you need to let go of the past! Your home is here, happy with your friends! After all, home isn't a place, it's a feeling!

Ha. 

HAHAHA. 

Whoever dreamt up that quaint little adage had definitely never been forced out of their home. 

You cut through the water underneath the surf and dunk Bonnie. Their delighted yelp is music to your ears before they shut their mouth and submerge. You let them go and they pop up for air.

“THIS IS SO COOOOL!!” Bonnie splashes furiously to illustrate their point. Mirabelle grimaces slightly as she gets water in her mouth. Hehe. 

…It's right there. Just…over there, in plain, crystal clear sight. 

…What would happen, you wonder, if you swam to it? Would you forget your friends, your life, and your whole journey? Would you remember your old life, the people who gave you your cloak? Would you disappear? Simply be erased from existence and destroyed like everyone you loved and knew?

Would your friends forget you?

Or maybe. Maybe it's like breaking the loops. Maybe all you have to do is say it, seize it, take that scary first step forward. 

What if you swim to it, and you remember everything, and everyone remembers everything? You could really stick it to the King like that. All his years of suffering and patience and look, stupid. You just have to go there. You can see your old friends. Hug your parents. Show your found family around your hometown. Look for four-leafed clovers with Bonbon. 

You’re swimming. You don't remember when you started swimming. You should stop. You could hurt yourself. 

But your island, your home, the thing that's missing that if you can just get it back you'll be whole, is right there right there right there.

So you keep swimming. 

You can hear your friends realizing something's wrong behind you. Calling your name. You don't respond, you can't, you have to go home. It's right there. You just have to swim there. 

Your friends' voices have reached a crescendo. You've passed the boundary markers. Is the island so far away? Why? It doesn't seem to be getting closer. Whatever. Just keep swimming. 

Just keep swimming and you can get it all back. Your ouma your mama your ama your culture your innocence your health your home your childhood memories your language your lightless beaches your constellations your faith your self. 

You just need

To keep swimming.

Keep swimming keep swimming KEEP SWIMMING!!!!!!!!

You feel strong, muscled arms wrap around you, tug you away. No no no NO NO NO THEY'RE TRYING TO KEEP YOU AWAY FROM HOME

You jerk your head backward, slamming it as hard as you can against your captor’s face. “CRAB!” Petronille grunts. A distant part of you starts freaking out over hurting Bonnie's sister. Another feels deep satisfaction. People were always trying to take your home away from you. Not anymore. 

Breaking free, you continue your relentless marathon back to your home. It isn't getting any closer why isn't it getting any closer what are you doing wrong–

Petronille pounces on you again, grabbing you by the armpit like you're a little kid. You struggle and thrash but you can't get a good angle to hurt her you can't break free–

Petronille begins kicking her legs, swimming away, taking you back. Your heart shatters and gets its shards stuck in your insides as you see your island get farther away. 

You scream. You scream, you scream. You scream for the Universe to let you go there, to lead you there. You scream for Petronille to release you and let you go home. Your cries are joined by pleading, wrenchingly painful sobs and a trickle of blood falls to your chin as you beg for your ouma. 

You and Petronille flop to the stupid, horrible, unnaturally darkless shore like suffocating fish. You keep crying, self-consciousness flooding you as you realize your family members are here, looking at you, seeing how broken you are. How animally desperate you are, for such a fundamental part of being human. Someone drapes a towel across your shoulders like a blanket.

You were so close!!! If you had just swam a little farther!!! 

BLINDING SUPERNOVAS!!! YOU'LL NEVER BE WHOLE!!! YOU'LL NEVER BE HUMAN!!!!!!!

Your eyes are blurring, strange shapes appearing in them, shades fluxing in a way that tells you you're barely conscious. You remember your throat gushing blood as your vision did insane dances and Isabeau, distressed beyond measure but just as handsome as ever, tried to hold it all in. HahahaHAHAHA!! Peel an orange open, instant regret!

Your vision solidifies long enough for you to see Bonnie standing in front of you. Their eyes are shut, their fists balled. They’re sobbing. “Frin, please, please don't go, please listen to me…”

…What have you done. 

AAAAAAAAHHH WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!? HAVEN'T YOU HURT THEM ENOUGH??? MAKING A MOCKERY OF THEIR DESIRE TO PROTECT YOU IN DORMONT??? GIVING THEM UP TO THE KING AS TRIBUTE TO TRY TO GET A BETTER ENDING???

WAS ALL THAT NOT ENOUGH?! DO YOU WANT TO TRAUMATIZE THEM, SIFFRIN?!?! LEAVE A SCAR ON THEIR PSYCHE SO PERMANENT THEY'LL NEVER FORGET YOU!?!?!?

You're  disgusting. 

Your head lolls backward and you faintly register arms holding you up before you pass out. 

. . . 

Warmth cocoons you on all sides, like you're wrapped in many blankets. When you blink your single eye open, you discover that's because you are. You are dry. You are still in your swim clothes, but you somehow got a hold of Doll and cuddle it close to your chest in your sleep. Your throat is sore, your eye aches, and you're overall exhausted. 

You're in Petronille and Bonnie's guest room. It's completely silent; not even a rustle. But you can tell you're not alone. 

You roll over onto your back. Odile is sitting beside your bed on a chair dragged in from the kitchen, reading a book. When she sees your movement she hastily stuffs her bookmark in place and closes her book. “Siffrin, it's a relief to see you awake.”

“W’at happened?” Your voice is surprisingly weak and raspy.

Odile grimaces. “Do you…not remember, then?”

You shake your head. Last thing you remember is swimming with your friends. You're disturbed but not surprised at the sudden memory gap. 

“I suppose that makes sense.” Odile sighs. “I don't fully understand it myself, but…you saw your home country on the horizon and tried to swim there. You didn't seem able to hear us. Petronille had to drag you back to shore.”

Oh.

…

“Why…voice? And aches?” You wince between words at how talking hurts. 

“You were…screaming quite a bit. I saw some blood excrete from your mouth as well. I think you were saying something in your language.” She pulls a sour tonic out of her jacket. “Drink this, it should fix your throat, at least.”

Oh. That's…life-endingly embarrassing. You were probably crying, too, weren't you? Stupid. And everyone saw. 

You take the tonic. Odile watches you drink it.

…Stars. You really messed up. You dig your fingernails into your palm until it bruises. You can only hope this isn't the end of your new journey. 

“Are you feeling up to eating?”

It'd be concerning if you weren't, so you nod. 

“Okay. I'll fetch Bonnie. But first, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Not like you really have a choice here, but you nod. 

Odile’s eyes dart to the bedframe, avoiding eye contact. She looks almost…guilty? “You startled awake for a moment, when we brought you here. I assume you don't remember? No? Right. Well, you…got very upset, and starting hugging yourself, asking repeatedly for your doll.”

Oh. Oh Stars. Oh blinding supernovas. You want to sink into the quilts and disappear. Shame burns at your already sore body. 

“When we gave it to you, you started mumbling to it. I didn't catch much of it, I wasn't trying to listen, but it seems like you were talking to it and having it talk back. Comforting it, and promising you'd fix it.”

You haven't felt this embarrassed since your family saved you from destroying the world. Nausea churns inside your shaken stomach. 

“Is this doll…important to you, somehow?” Odile looks you in the eye, serious.

“Of course not!” You smile as convincingly as you can. “It's just a kid's toy. And it's broken! Who would care about it?”

Odile’s eyes narrow at you. “...One thing I noticed was that some of the things you said to the doll seemed like things you'd want to hear yourself. Like ‘You’ll go home some day.’ Or ‘They won't leave you.’”

…You grip the blanket. Doll sits snug against your heart. Tell her the truth, you mouth to yourself. 

“I found it in the House. It was going to get thrown away for being broken. But…it escaped with me.” You huff. “Fine. You got me. The doll is important to me, and I’m stupid and childish and play with toys even though I'm a grown adult. Just like you said before.” And now she knows how broken and deranged and desperate you are. Anger flares within you. Just because she can actually remember what she's missing out on she thinks she's so much better than you. “CONGRATULATIONS!!!” You twist the blanket so hard it rips. 

Her shoulders tense. “Siffrin–”

“You win, Odile! You're smart and I'm stupid! You're calm and composed and perfect and I'm blinding nuts!”

“Siffrin–”

“So for what it's worth, I hope you had fun, uncovering what a desperate creep I am. Just so you would feel bet–”

Odile grabs your blanket and shakes it to make a gust of wind, startling you and cutting you off. “I do not take pleasure in things that are causing you pain! Really, Siffrin!”

Your previous rage abandons you, leaving you hollow. You fall down to the pillow and wait for her to leave you.

“Siffrin…” Her voice is the clank of a coin being flipped, the scritch-scratch of a pencil solving a problem, the fluxing, considering sound of gears turning. Then she says, “I…am sorry for making fun of your doll before, Siffrin. When we were on the road. It was never my intention to make you feel self-conscious. I assumed the doll was just an odd curiosity you'd picked up, and that if I was bothering you, you would tell me.”

…Wait, what? Your confusion shows on your face, and Odile looks a bit distressed. “You went through something terrible, Siffrin. I'm glad you have a healthy coping mechanism, even if it's childish, as you put it.”

“But it's weird,” you stutter, caught off guard by Odile's understanding and defensiveness against the position you thought she'd take. 

Odile shrugs. “It harms no one and helps you. It doesn't matter much if it's weird or not.” She smirks. “All of us are weird, and we saved a country.” 

…You hold Doll. “Thanks,” you mutter. “I’m sorry for snapping.” Your insides twist. You screamed at Odile, again. You broke down in front of your family, and then yelled at Odile. Don't you think they might leave you for that? 

(You're too tired to convince yourself of those lies right now.)

“Of course, Siffrin. Anytime. And I accept your apology. Communication is something I need to work on as well.” After that she's back to business. “Now, shall I send our chef up to see you?”

You give your consent, and soon Bonnie has you swallowing spoonfuls of honey to soothe your throat and feeding you toast and soup, keeping their eyes on you like they're afraid you'll crumble apart if they look away. 

. . . 

When you saw Petronille again, she had a nearly lightless mark on her chin snaking up to her mouth. You apologized, immediately realizing it must have been your doing as you thrashed and flailed trying to escape. She dismisses it, telling you you're not the first person she's had to draw back from the island–a coworker went wild one time. Knowing what you know about what Petronille and Bonnie's parents might have been like, you feel guilty anyway. 

It's on your mind quite a bit the next few days and as you set out on your victory journey with Petronille. What Petronille might have been through. What Bonnie might have been through, before Petronille saved them. What kind of scars they both carry. 

One evening you're all making s’mores around the campfire. Thanks to The Amazing Power of Communication as Mirabelle says, you actually have Doll out right now, just for fun, and you only feel partially self-conscious about it. (Never mind how much the part in ‘partially’ is.) Odile is eating graham crackers, Mirabelle is carefully roasting a marshmallow to perfection, Isabeau is burning them on purpose to rile up Bonnie, and Bonnie themself is sitting in Petronille's lap, devouring s’mores as quickly as they're made. Bonnie's head is tucked under Petronille's chin. It's a cozy and fun night, and you feel happy. 

And then you look at Petronille's still healing bruise and think, Bonnie should have a bruise on their face, too, so it's coordinated. 

You drop your half-eaten marshmallow on your lap. 

“Oops!! Yikes, that's gonna be sticky…” Isabeau hands you a napkin. 

You silently accept the napkin and mop up the goo, heart beating fast as you remind yourself it's just intrusive thoughts. During the loops, around when you first started using your dagger, they became a horrifically common occurrence. 

(But you're out of the loops, now. You have no excuse for having such a terrible thought now, when you're safe and fine and not going insane.)

The next several days, they keep popping up–worst of all, centered on Bonnie specifically. 

They're carrying drinks, and you think, Trip them. 

They glare at you, and you think, Smack that look off their face. 

They're taking a nap, and you think things that make you too nauseous to repeat. 

And worst of all, if you can just choose one, is when they're hugging you, and you think, Crush them. Break their bones. Make their blood run and their eyes pop out of their skull, and then put them on a necklace string as a keepsake. 

You push them away. Bonnie frowns. You think of a hand, squeezing. “Frin, what's wrong?”

You take a step back. 

“Frin, you were hugging me and fine just a second ago. What's wrong?”

Rip out their neck so they can never ask annoying questions again.

You turn heel and run, their plaintive cries following you like circling crows. 

As you run, the hallway of the house blurs in and out of your vision. You're probably going insane. 

Then you can't be held accountable when you kill your kid. 

You run until your legs hurt. You discover an abandoned fox burrow and twist and contort yourself until you're well hidden within it. You think about the ground, collapsing above you, burying you. Suffocation isn't a death you've experienced. This could be your burial. Somewhere to stay. You can't have a home, but you can have a grave. Isn't that fitting?

Stars. You don't want to hurt them. And you can't tell yourself you'd never hurt them, because that would be a lie. On the House roof, you tried to strike your friends. If it weren't for Isa…

“Sif?”

As if summoned by your thoughts, you hear him, voice haunted with worry. But he won't find you.

Or so you think until you're level with his large, dark eyes, peering into the burrow and lighting up with relief when he sees you. “Sif! There you are, buddy! …How did you even fit in there?”

“... Determination.” You don't have a good answer.

Isabeau chuckles. “Okay. Can you, um. Get out?”

“...”

“Oh boy.”

A few minutes later you're both covered in dirt and have a couple more bruises. You stand up a little too fast once you're finally free, and Isabeau puts a hand on your shoulder to steady you. Your heart sings. He didn't even hesitate. 

Obscene, terrible images flash into your brain–things about Isabeau, things you'd never, ever want to do to him. You stop breathing. Stars, you're so disgusting. You're so horrible. As if kissing him, assaulting him during the loops wasn't enough. 

“Why did you run away, Sif?”

“I can't talk about it.”

Isabeau is always the most accepting of that answer. He nods, brows furrowing. He slings his day pack off the side of his shoulder, and roots around. What's he going to pull out? Food? Water? A warrant for your arrest? What is it? You're almost amusing yourself guessing. 

Instead, you find yourself face-to-face with Doll’s broken, jagged, ugly face.

“You asked me to carry it,” Isabeau says, absently making Doll do a little dance in the air. 

You reach out a hand to take it, hold it, fix its dress. But loathing suddenly overcomes you. 

You swallow and say carefully, “It's broken.”

“I know. But don't you still like it?”

“It's sharp. Someone could get hurt. Bonnie could get hurt!” Your voice raises slightly at each sentence. 

“...” Isabeau lowers the doll slightly, his piercing, perceptive eyes honing in on your face. You don't look up to meet them. You just feel them. “Something happened to Bonnie during the loops, didn't it?”

You flinch, taking an involuntary step back. Plaintive cries for help, the King’s iron grip, the reek of steel and copper–“Something WILL happen to Bonnie if I keep on like THIS!” is what flies out of your mouth. 

“Like what?”

Your throat plugs with burnt, raw sugar. Time slows down around you, as it does every time. You clench your hands into fists, and for a second it's all you feel in your body, the almost painful press of muscle. 

–Crunch-splat. 

“I'm going to hurt them,” you say. 

“...What makes you think that?” Isabeau asks. You were expecting anger, protectiveness. Instead he just sounds kind. Concerned. Always carrying that learned tenderness you can't in good conscience accept.

“I'm thinking about hurting them,” you say. It's not exactly what he asked, but it's the best you can do. Like playing a piano with all the sharps and flats broken, leaving a not-right lookalike of the original piece. Like you and Loop. 

“Sif. Buddy. Are you having intrusive thoughts?”

Oh. Oh, he figured it out. He knows you're a person capable of harboring such thoughts. You look up at him finally. His eyes are still calm. Like you aren't a horrifying specimen of depression. 

“Like, are you having thoughts about upsetting stuff, like hurting Bonnie, and it's scaring you? I dealt with that too, when I was younger.”

…He also…?

Relief makes your knees shaky, because you know as surely as you know where all the keys are in Dormont's twisted House that Isabeau would never hurt any one of you. “I'm not…?” A monster? You don't finish it out loud. Too vulnerable. 

“Nope! You're not!” Isabeau thumps you on the back, and then pulls you into a hug. His meaty arms clasp you against him like a brooch, or maybe a stuffed animal in that he's so certain. Like squeezing you comes naturally. No hesitation, no fear, no disgust, just the warm touch touch touch of your every molecule against his. 

“You’re not,” he repeats quietly. “You’re my buddy who I love a lot.”

He practically carries you back to camp, you're so limp with relief and trust. You apologize to Bonnie for scaring them and as soon as possible he fluffs up the sleeping bag in your tent, allowing you to nap without any pressuring eyes of family members desperate for you to recover. 

. . . 

You and Mira are having a feelings talk. 

You've been…doing that a lot lately. And it's…Well. It's good to be in control. Better than bottling it all up until you break down and involuntarily spill it all. And you really like helping Mira, and the feeling of acceptance you get from telling her your awful little feelings and still being loved. 

The actual act of sharing yourself, not so much. 

At least Mirabelle is taking her turn first. She sits, swinging her legs and biting her lip, trying to gather her words. 

You hold out your hand. She notices it and her eyes widen with surprise. You flex your fingers invitingly, and Mirabelle smiles, accepting your invitation. You see her tension drain and her shoulders relax as she takes your hand.

“I think…I think I've Changed for the worse.” Her eyes close, an expression of grief painting her face. Your heart sinks. Oh, Mira…

She continues, “I'm colder. I'm more easily angered. I cry more easily. I'm less attached to Dormont. And I'm so much scareder of failure, and of crowds.” She takes a deep breath. “And…I hate it. I hate that I've Changed! Isn't that awful? I should have Changed for the better on this journey! And even if I couldn't, I should at least celebrate the Change! But this feels like I've been destroyed! Change shouldn't be just destruction!I hate it!” A few tears make their way down her cheeks. She lets go of your hand to wipe her face with her sleeve. “Ngh…I'm sorry. I'm…” She shakes her head. “I'm sorry.”

Hug her. For a moment you're frozen, like Mirabelle is an electric fence that you'll be thrown back from upon contact. You're just not used to this. Your inaction continues, and you see her crying harder. Hug her!!! You launch yourself at her and wrap your arms around her. Deep breath in, deep breath out, wow that's a LOT of contact. 

Mirabelle's sobs quiet slightly. She hugs back and rests her chin on your shoulder. 

You don't know how to fix what she just said, how to make everything okay. Instead, you say, “I love you.”

Mirabelle WAILS, and for a moment you think you've crabbed it all up. But then she sniffles, “Th-thank you. Thank you, thank you,” and you sigh with relief. 

You didn't fix it, but you made her feel better, and that's worth more. 

Change shouldn't be just destruction! That phrase rattles around in your head like a rusty toy wagon for the next few days. It's a good sentiment. Probably. It's not like you have any real knowledge in the House of Change. Except what you gleaned from your torture. 

Siffrin did, though. Siffrin Changed possibly more than anyone in the Universe. Warped from a human into a star, their fake name stolen, their personality discarded and rewritten, severed from their family.

You did that to them. Took their face, their body, their loved ones, their life. Forced them to Change. 

How disgusted would she be with you if she knew that? That you Changed someone against their consent? That you took their place? That you’re not Siffrin, not her friend, nothing but a monster wearing a mask?

“Hey, Mira,” you say one night when everyone's gone to sleep except the two of you, sitting around the campfire. “I have a thought experiment for you.”

“Oh?” Mirabelle's interest is caught immediately. She loves imaginary scenarios. You're a liar and a cheater.

“Let's say, someone is a clone of a dead person,” you begin. “Would it be unethical for the dead persons’ friends to hang out with them?”

Mirabelle blinks. “Ooh!” she claps her hands delightedly. “That's so juicy!”

“What do you think?”

“Hmm,” Mirabelle thinks. “Well, it would be SUPER messed up to just replace your dead friend.”

“Yeah, but imagine being the clone,” you reply. “Not only do you have to come to terms with BEING a clone, but your friends have all left you and your counterpart is dead.”

“Huh. Never thought of it like that. That wouldn't be fun, ha!” Mirabelle says. 

Wouldn't be fun. 

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa–

Once you start laughing, you can't seem to stop. Mirabelle is asking you what's going on, are you okay, what's happening, and you just. keep. laughing. 

isn’t it horrible, you killed siffrin and you're laughing, you're a clone and you're laughing,

you can't let them forget siffrin

every star is staring at you, judging you 

you didn't protect bonnie…

your entire body is moving strangely. oh, you're sobbing. ok

you're screaming too

it doesn't feel like you're doing that though. it feels like you're just watching someone else through their eyes

hehehehehehe. threeeeeeee siffrins

By the time you come back to yourself, they know. They don't leave you. 

Maybe you're a clone, but they accept you. Maybe you're a parasite, but they hold you. Maybe you're not the real Siffrin, but they love you. 

You'll just have to hold out until Loop comes back, and then the whole family can be together again.

. . . 

“Frin, can we talk?”

It's a serene, still evening. The horrors that have ravaged your brain over the past months feel so far away at the moment they're nothing but a blurry dream. You’re sitting under a tree, watching the sunset with quiet satisfaction. 

You heard Bonnie approaching from behind you–of course you did, they're wearing boots the size of mountains–and made sure you were smiling before you told them, “Yeah, of course.”

Bonnie sits down beside you. They follow your eye and look at where you're looking. “The sunset? Why are you looking at that, Frin?”

You think about deflecting. You don't. “I think it might have been something I did at my home,” you make yourself say. 

“Oh.” They look back over at you. You look at the beautiful striations of shades and then in a few seconds turn your head to meet Bonnie's eyes. 

They're brimming with tears. 

“Frin, you have to promise not to get hurt again, okay?” Then they launch themself against your side and bury their face in your shoulder, trembling. They start crying. For a second, your hands fly about, clumsy, unsure, and then you realize you need to hug them back, and you do.

Their body convulses with sobs. “I w-was so scared when you woke up from a dream and started running away and screaming, and–and when we hugged and you ran away from me, and wh-wh-when you woke us all up cause you were freaking out because you thought you weren't yourself, a–an–and,” they quiver, “and when you saw the island and you just started swimming and we tried to call for you and you just kept swimming, and swimming, and–AAAAAAHHH!”

You mutter apologies and I-love-yous into their hair as they wail into your embrace. Part of you wants to break down crying from guilt and grief, but Bonnie needs you right now. You can do that later. 

Stars. You're not the only one who’s been scared about their family member’s safety, huh?

. . . 

Whenever there's a Favour Tree in the town you're staying at, Bonnie goes there hoping Loop will have showed up. They always seem dejected when they're not, and the rest of your family must get their hopes up against their will because they’re visibly disappointed, too. Cinquième, the town you’re exploring with your family today, has a Favour Tree, but that whole ritual has already been completed. You haven't been back to a Favour Tree since your battle with yourself. But, as you roll your counterpart’s coin between your fingers, something tells you that you should go. 

It's a secluded spot. A flagstone part leads to the base, where brightly shaded flowers speckle the ground. There's a small chair, to your exhausted body’s relief, and you sit down quicker than you care to admit. The sun shines through the leaves overheard, dotting your face and bare hair with patches of warmth. You look up. Stars are there, though you can't see them. 

You reach into your cloak and pull out Doll, placing it carefully on your knees to face you. 

“So much has happened since the loops,” you tell it. It's one eye stares at you understandingly. “Things I thought would be the end of the world if I told about…ended up being okay.” You see some dust on its dress and brush it off. “They've taken care of me when I was a burden.” You run a finger along its broken edge. “They've accepted me and protected me when I was scared of myself. And…” You hold it to your eye level. “They don't see me as a monster even if I'm not the original Siffrin.” You hug it. “I'm…trying to rebuild. Fix things. Be reliable again.” You sigh with resignation. “But I know they'll be there to hold me up when I can't do that myself.”

You stand. “There's so much I still have to tell them…” you tuck your doll back into the folds of your cloak. “But we’ll do it when I'm ready.”

And just as your high heel clicks against the first stone of the path to return to the inn with your family, you hear yourself, faraway and starry but no less vulnerable and anxious, saying, “Wait.”

And there you are when you turn your head. One hand clutching an arm, one working eye looking off in the distance like eye contact will trigger an explosion, exposed and glittering, outside of hiding at last. 

So many emotions fill you. Joy and relief, fear and grief, guilt and hope. But you don't tell that to your self. They'll already know. Instead you tell them something they don't.

“They'll be happy to see you.”