Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Social drinking was never your forte, even though drinking wine in Vanguard is a tradition. For every type of meal, every taste and dessert, there is someone in a Vangaurdian village who is a sommelier. In most restaurants, there will be recommendations to pair your food with a good winey counterpart, from the darkest shades of fermented grapes to the more refreshing dark bubbles to the smoothness of nut wine. In the world of drink and merry, Vanguard is known widely for its many different types of wines and bubbly beverages. Sweet liquor and beers have been added to the ever-popular growing list in the last ten years, but that does not change hundreds of years of traditional wine-making embedded into the country's culture. 

It is expected to hold the delicate stem of a wine glass in your hand, swishing the contents around your glass and tastefully looking over its rim. It is what the nobles like to do, or so you have heard. At least, it is a familiar gesture in the romance novels you have read.  

However, Vanguard is also known for changing traditions, repeatedly breaking them, and never staying the same. One could be a wine lover one day, and a beer enjoyer the next, with a distaste for the former, and nobody would bat an eye. 

Yet, despite your dislike for social drinking, you find yourself in a loud tavern overlooking the crowd with a tiny smile. It is a little nostalgic. It reminds you of the group hangouts with your defender buddies after a hard work day. Pubs and taverns were always crowded in Jouventte; you would be hard-pressed to find a quiet one. But quiet is not what you and your companions wanted. You slogged drink after drink, one after another, wanting to fit in and take the edge off as your colleagues encouraged you to keep going.

You look down at your beer mug, cold against your hands, the condensation wetting your palms. The foam has already receded, half empty as it is. It is still you first, but you have no desire to get another one tonight. You are satisfied to let it grow warm and unappetising. Then, the taste might not remind you of your stupid eighteen-year-old self.

"Are Vangaurdian taverns always this… active, or are they celebrating something I am unaware of?" Odile asks, pausing to find a better word to correctly describe the energy of the patrons around you. She gives up, though, her tone uncaring. At least, you would assume she only asks to be in the know-how, but her eyes are filled with askance.

"Ah, I wouldn't know M'dame! This is my first time in a tavern of any kind!" Mirabelle says, fiddling with the sugar glass straw of her lemonade. Her lips are pulled in a frown, fidgeting uneasily in her seat. Even without her words, it is as clear as day that a place like this is not her scene. 

You bob your head comically, smiling much broader than you mean to.  You clearly are not in Jouventte anymore; nevertheless, you cannot help but feel on edge. 

"This is a typical scene in Jouventte! Most places I visited during my time were much rowdier than this. Ah, it takes me back." You sip your beer as if it demonstrates your early adulthood and wipe away a fake tear.

Odile gives you an unamused look.

"You say that as if your youthful days are already behind you." 

You open your mouth to joke that you are ancient at twenty-two until you remember Odile is much older than you. You do not know how much; it would be rude to ask. So you swallow the not-so-fun joke on your tongue.

"I suppose so! It just feels like so long ago."

"Hmm." Odile hums, copying you by drinking from her own glass of ale. You expected her to be more of a wine person with the diamond charms dangling from her glasses and put-together appearance; she looks classy. Like a well-travelled connoisseur sitting alone at a restaurant table, writing her memoir while peering outside through the window, eyes unseeing as she reminiscences. 

Instead, she ordered the same beer you had. You had easily let it go, as it never occurred to you that it might be strange. You only hope she does not accidentally spike her blood sugar for someone her age.

Still, you have only known the madame for a short while. More than likely, you are simply overworrying. Perhaps a Ka Buan's handles alcohol much better than a Vanguardian can.

Odile squints, and you avert your gaze away. Ah, you probably stared for too long. You inch on yourself, feeling too big in your body. You usually love how big and tall you are, but when you make a social faux pass like this, you wish you were shorter.

If Siffrin was here, you would feel a dull pang of jealousy. It is so easy to hide under a big hat and cloak. However, that ugly feeling of envy would ebb away as soon as it appeared. Siffrin is too cool to stay mad long for, staring off morosely in the distance, brooding. So witty, so mysterious and reserved.

You sigh and wonder what goes on in that hatted brain of theirs. You know they love puns and taking naps, but your new comrade has not revealed much about himself except for a cheeky grin as he cracked multiple puns after one another at your first meeting. You can still reverently remember how Siffrin appeared in the middle of a fight against a towering sadness as fast as a flash of lightning, striking with their sickle-like knife. They had landed gracefully on their feet and looked behind themself, winking at your party as their pointed, blindingly darkless hat cast shadows their piercing eyes.

Knife to meet you. It would be impossible to forget the catchphrase as it is also the name of Siffrin's trademark craft attack. But you can still hear the tilting way it was said back then, almost whisper soft yet theatrically enough that it carried over the valley of the fight.

Then and there, you had mentally decided to convince Mirabelle to get him on your team. A speedy, fast-hitting and acrobatic fighter on your side is exactly what your time had been missing. You had ignored the sadness hitting Siffrin so hard that they flew against a tree, destroying the incredible moment into a million pieces. You found it much more admirable that he got up so quickly, swaying on his feet but swiftly drawing his blade again, doubling his speed with a craft spell and jumping into the fray again.  

Odile had called you too easily impressed, and Mirabelle had been too focused on the sadness to quip during battle. Lucky you, though, because afterwards, Mirabelle was eager to take your suggestion of inviting Siffrin to join your team. Although, more than likely, that was her plan from the start. Volunteers for this suicide mission, as your former Defender friends so aptly named it, are hard to come by. It was surprising that an aloof sort of character like Siffrin ever agreed to travel with you, much less come along to save Vanguard without the promise of an award. 

It is highly admirable that someone passing by without a connection to Vanguard would selfishly help. For you and Mirabelle, it is different. This is your home, your life, your country. You cannot give it up. You refuse to bake down without trying your best to protect all you hold dear.

You hold your heart, pressing your fingers against the soft fabric of your muscle shirt. For most of your life, you strove to become a Defender, someone dependable and able to protect people. You still cannot believe your fellow Defenders would send Mirabelle away, the House maiden blessed by the Change god, your god, their god as well. 

It makes you wonder, though, sometimes. What if you don't win? The curse is slow but not slow enough for a complete country evacuation. Not that most of the country is planning to leave. Your people are scared, hoping this nightmare is a ruse or a challenge sent by the changing god to remain ever-changing even in the literal danger of becoming frozen in eternity. Or maybe they grew complacent once they heard someone like Mirabelle existed, the only one able to withstand the dreadful curse of never-ending sleep.

That is why you admire Odile and Siffrin so much. They have nothing to lose from leaving; no family or vestments left behind. You could not wish for more compassionate team members. 

"Sorry, is this seat taken?" Your party turns to look at the new voice. The  newcomer rubs their neck, already having hooked their arms under the backrest of the mentioned chair, "There aren't enough seats, you see, and I saw the free chair and-"

"No, this seat is taken." Odile snippily interrupts, quickly interjecting as the chair thief would have been across the room by now if they waited for them to finish their sentence.

"Oh," They put it down, bushy moustache drooping as their lips form an o underneath it, "well, I just thought because nobody is sitting here-"

"You thought wrong." Odile lifts her gaze, glaring at the other person who so rudely took before finishing their question, assuming they would be met with a yes rather than a no. 

Her gaze is fierce. You shiver. You have not invoked the madame's ire yet in the time you have known each other, but you sure hope you never accidentally get on her bad side. She is a force to be reckoned with for someone past her prime.

The person lingers, stammering inaudible excuses. As you have heard foreigners say, Vaugardians are friendly to a fault. You do not necessarily think that is a bad thing. You love how welcoming and open your culture is. However, just because something is widespread does not mean everyone follows those rules. 

Drunk idiots are a dime a dozen, and you have had your fair share of escorting them out of pubs when things got too rowdy. Rarely did you have to get physical.

But that does not mean it did not happen. 

You see the guy weigh over their options. Alcohol lowers one's inhibitions to a sometimes dangerous degree. You recognise the foolhardy bravery surging through right at the cusp of action. 

If you do not act, they will make a mistake that will be hard to shake off. Knowing Odile, it is a mistake they can never rectify. The madame is anything but forgiving. The stranger is playing with a fire they cannot even see.

Odile barely crazes her fingertips against the chair, almost gnashing her teeth, "You will leave if you know what is good for you." Her eyes flash, "I am too old to play games." 

The stranger eeps, letting go very quickly and stammering apologies as they abscond, disappearing amongst the partying and drinking bodies. 

You are at a loss for words. You fall back into your seat, unaware you have even gotten up. You already knew that Madame Odile could be very scary; she had not been hiding behind a sweet facade or anything when you first met. But people tend to underestimate the elderly more than they do youngsters, and she has made her stance on it very clear when you tried to help her cross a river stream. You have never had such a harsh scolding in your life or such a creative insult as hers. 

But to see it in action, still so very in control despite being two pints in, is eye-opening.

"Oh, M'dame, that was amazing! So assertive!" Mirabelle fawns, her eyes twinkling. You nod, just as impressed as she is. You swallow thickly, though, hiding the action with another swig of your drink. 

You will be extra careful now to not accidentally insult her - again. 

Odile gives you two a cool look as if it were not a big deal. She clacks her nails against the rims of her glasses.

"I was telling you the truth; I am too old to be polite over something like this. If someone cannot take a no the first time, they are hardly worthy of politeness." She takes a big sip, almost knocking back her entire drink. 

You and Mirabelle, ooh and ahh. That's so cool—your group of travellers really are a bunch of cool people.

However, now that you peer closer, the madame's cheeks are flushed, and her posture is less straight than usual. You suppose the alcohol is starting to get to her. You would not be surprised if she somehow subtly used craft while touching the nearly whisked-away chair. It would explain why the almost chair thief was so startled. 

"I wish I was as assertive as you, M'dame." Mirabelle sighs, cradling her lemonade glass like one would hold a hot chocolate to warm up. 

You pat her shoulder, but you are unsure what to say. You have offered advice before, like how working out can boost one's confidence. It did wonders for you! But Mirabelle's problems are different, and after the tenth time of being given a sad smile, you have stopped offering empty platitudes. 

Still, Mirabelle pats your fingers, appreciating the gesture nonetheless. You suppose words are not always needed.

"It will come with time and experience. It will come." Odile mumbles, looking away. Mirabelle doesn't hear it over the noise, but you do. 

You laugh anyway. It may seem like nothing, but Odile used to be so secretive that she only talked to you if it was about Vangaurdian culture or practical things. For her to offer encouragement, even if it is quiet and unheard, is leaps and bounds compared to the standoffish person she used to be.

Sometimes, you ponder on how different everything outside Vanguard is to create such suspicion of others. But you stray your mind from it. That would be assuming, and assumptions make an ass out of you. 

Odile's eyes pointedly land on the nearly empty snatched-away chair. She clicks her tongue.

"And where is the rogue's whose chair I defended anyway? It cannot take that long to go the bathroom." The last part is whispered under her breath, a little inquisitive despite the more accusatory nature of her inquiry.

Mirabelle jumps, realising that the seat across from her has been empty for a while now. 

"Did he get lost trying to find the bathroom? With so many people around here, it looks tricky to get around." She says, trying to see Siffrin amongst anybody in the tavern. But nobody is wearing such a bright shade of darklessness as Siffrin does. Regardless of her petite stature, she would not have seen Siffrin anyway. Many people who stand around because of the lack of chairs are taller than even the tip of Siffrin's hat can reach.

"Siffrooni? Nah, that guy has the spatial awareness of migratory birds. There is no way he would get lost here." You say with conviction. He is the one who leads the party, and ever since he came on board, he has been doing a fantastic job. He played a key role in finishing the last dungeon for the third orb so quickly and with minimal injury, deactivating all the traps before they could go off. They were born with a sense of this; you know it. It was as if he was born with a compass inside them, always knowing where the North was. 

You have seen Siffrin looking at the night sky, a lost look in their eyes. Still, he knew somehow that the way you came had to be from the south, simply from knowing where the sun came up and came down again. 

Even if he could not explain his ways, it is still very impressive! 

"You sound so confident in him," Odile remarks with narrowed eyes. The hard-pressed quality of her remark implies what goes unsaid.

You sigh. Odile has been suspicious of your new team member for a while. Although she usually keeps these things to herself. When she does, she ussualy ends up arguing with Mirabelle about it.

You glance at Mirabelle, and sure enough, she is pouting. She got the message well enough, a rare annoyance coming over her gentle features. 

Despite the alcohol coursing through her veins, Odile tactfully shrugs

"Regardless, his gin tonic is getting warmer by the minute." She taps the wide-brimmed glass that holds Siffrin's drink, which is half full. It kind of looks like his hat if turned upside down and see-through.

You look over the crowd like Mireabele did. Odile is right; it has been a long while since he disappeared to relieve himself. 

Your grip around your beer glass tightens. You hope nothing terrible happened.

"I-I will look for him!" Mirabelle pipes up, jerkily jumping upright. Her big poofy skirt nearly knocks over her glass of lemonade, and she catches it before it tumbles to the floor. She smiles awkwardly, lopsided with more teeth than necessary, "I need to go anyway."

"Sure, make sure he did not fall into the toilet." Odile comments. Mirabelle huffs, but the sagging of her shoulders reveals her amusement. 

"I will have to fish him out then~!"

"Ohh, Sif the fish." You murmur aloud, musing. You snap your fingers, "Sole-frin!"

"Ha! They're more like a sardine." Odile laughs dryly. Mirabelle does not hear her, though, as she is already pushing her way to the bathroom through the throng of people. They politely go out of her way once she speaks up, although if it was because of politeness or the anxious energy she exudes, you do not know. 

You feel for her; you really do. More than once, you wonder if celebrating in a tavern with more drunk patrons than sober ones was such a good idea. But Mirabelle insisted on trying it out, saying that she had to try as a Housmaiden of Change. You do not necessarily think one needs to try something like this, but when Mirabelle gets an idea in her head, she will do nothing but do a perfect job to achieve it.

You are not surprised Siffrin has not returned yet, either. You know how to read between the lines. Going to the bathroom was not because he needed the loo. You remembered the anxious look he sent your group as he walked off. He needed some time alone, one that could not be admitted without questions.

Regardless, you focus back on Odile. You do not often get to talk with just the two of you. 

You take the opportunity for what it is worth.

"M'dame, I excuse my language, but that's a little salty for you."

"Hmm, I suppose," Odile responds, her faraway look suggesting that she is figuring out if it was an insult or not. Vaugrdian is not an easy language to learn, and you do not fault her for not understanding some wordplay. She shrugs again, seemingly not caring. The alcohol is doing wonders, sanding them her sharp edges, but you remind yourself to not go overboard. 

"You're right, though; sardines are group fish. Siffrin is anything but a team person." She grumbles, "I was only being factual."

You force a smile on your face. Usually, being proven right should feel nice. You feel anything but pleasant, the buzz of alcohol leaving you entirely. 

"M'dame, is it alright if I ask you a question? Or multiple?" 

"Certainly, knock yourself out." Odile takes another swig, growing looser the longer the conversation goes on. Usually, when you approach her like this, she is guarded, putting up her walls as high as possible. You are unsure if this is the right moment to ask, but she does not appear to be completely inebriated yet. You would know if she was wasted. 

You take a deep breath.

"I feel like you have been rather… how do I say this, hostile to Siffrin." 

Odile freezes. She stares at you, processing what you asked for. She looks like when you ask about her own home country once. The only difference is that her facade cracks much easier. 

She composes herself, setting down her bottle with a click.

"Pray tell you, what gave you that idea?" She asks, her voice betraying nothing. It is all in the eyes. Regardless of her flushed cheeks from the alcohol, they are still as sharp as ever. Her brows are heavy, fraying from not narrowing like they want to.

For a moment, you wonder if the tipsy Odile from a second ago was a mask or not. You shrug. It does not matter.

"Well, ha ha, you see! I know you don't like him, but after today's showdown, I feel you have been avoiding him completely." You gesture at nothing, unsure of what to do with your hands. 

"And with all your comments tonight, I wondered if… something happened?"

"Nothing happened." Odile answers after a very long pause. She looks off to the side, cradling her chin in her palm as if bored, "Nothing conclusive anyway."

"Oh, then why-"

"I think you're forgetting something vital, Isabeau-" Odile interrupts you, staring deep into your eyes. You freeze. You are right; her focus is intense. It feels like you are gasping for air. 

"-we cannot trust him."

You swallow dryly, tempted to drink. But that will not help the dryness of your throat.

"...why?" you ask after composing yourself. You are not sure if you will like the answer, but you will also not know why if you do not ask. Odile has no ill intent; if she had, you would have noticed it by now. It feels terrible to suspect a friend after how much you went through together, which is also why you feel horrible that she feels this way about Siffrin. 

"It is all too convenient, Siffrin saved us in the nick of time when we first met. It is the perfect way to win our trust, especially as we need all the fighting hands we can get for our quest. For a skilled craft user to appear who all too gladly would follow us to doom, it is too suspicious."

"But you and I did the same thing."

"You are too good-hearted to turn away the country's only hope of remaining unfrozen, and I… have research to complete. I have all the reason to help out Vanguard." Odile defends herself. You do not pry, sensing that it is a sore spot. 

"Siffrin, however, gave us no reason," She continues, "They are not from here and have no reason to stay here and risk being frozen. So why are they helping us?"

"Out of the goodness of their heart?" You say hopefully. You cringe a little. Even to your ears, you sound naive. 

Odile gives you a look, more than likely thinking the same thing.

"Hmm, from what I gathered, our new rogue does not possess the bleeding heart you have. They seemed rather bored when we explained our clause or what would happen to Vanguard if the King were to win."

Well, that's not fair! You think. Many people in the world are not so emotive and feel many things. You used to be like that, hollowing out your insides to fill out all the big emotions you could not express. You built something more significant to house them all in. It is still not perfect. More often than not, you still keep your emotions to yourself, fearing that your big emotions will bother those around you.

Siffrin, being the reserved and quiet person they are, is more likely the same. 

"He could just be guarded. We were strangers when we met; you cannot expect him to open up the first time." You say pointedly. Odile raises her brows, surprised to see you being firm. 

She nods.

"You are right; I was hardly emotionally available initially, either." Yet, she is not finished, "However, there are more reasons why I don't trust him."

"Remember what Mirabelle said the night after our first meeting with them when he went to get firewood?"

"Uh, no? Geeze, M'dame that feels like so long ago! What was that, a month. My memory is not as good as yours." You rub your neck. You pride yourself on your emotional intelligence. While many see a dumb, lovable oaf, you keep tabs on essential information that seems odd or interesting. Recalling every conversation, though, is not your skill. You suppose that is why Odile is the researcher, not you. 

"It has nothing to do with memory," Odile dismisses. She leans in closer. You copy her, wondering what is so important that the rest of the tavern cannot hear it. With the loud volume all around you, you doubt anyone would hear the two of you. But you do not see a reason to point this out to Odile. 

"She said his accent sounded familiar. Like the…" She trails off, looking meaningfully at you. 

You know immediately what she means.

"The king's…" You finish for her, remembering what she was talking about. It had slipped out of Mirabelle as she seemed surprised when she spoke aloud.

You swallow heavily. You understand the caution, but at the same time, that is not fair to Siffrin. 

"Mira also said that she might be imagining it. It is not like she had the time to process everything that happened when she fled Dormont's House. If I were in her shoes, I would not be able to remember what the King sounded or looked like." And with all the added trauma, you would repress the memory to the confines of your mind. But Mirabelle is not you, and you are not her. She is so brave and much stronger than she gives herself credit for. You wish she would not doubt herself so. 

"Mirabelle doubts herself too much for such a capable young woman. I doubt there isn't a connection if she even suspects Siffrin is similar to the King for a moment." 

You agree with the first part of Odile's sentence but not the second. Accents are too flimsy to rely on. 

"I would not doubt that such a powerful man as that one would send an assassin to the only person in the whole wide world able to resist his powers." Odile insists, swinging her arm in a half motion, like a knife strike. It looks similar to how Siffrin would wield their knife.

You feel sick to your marrow, imagining Siffrin betraying you and everyone else. 

"That's-"

"Not everyone is so nice like Vangaurdians are. Assassinations are child's play everywhere else. Gems, Ka Buan, is full of foul play amongst the nobles. There is a lot of inheritance to sabotage and land to be won." Odile sighs.

"Do I feel ever so lucky I was not born with any important social standing. Blistering nobles." Odile curses, her stance on the aristocracy clear. You perk up, curious about Ka Buan, like always, when she mentions something from her home country.

Leaving aside your fascination with Odile's life before she came here, are society's upper and lower brackets really different over there? Are they different over here? You never paid attention to this. You lived well off enough that your family could not buy everything you and your siblings wanted, but you all indulged in it occasionally. However, over the years, that lessened. You had chalked it up to maturing into adulthood and not receiving as many treats as when you were an adorable kid.

You do not know and do not want to linger on that train of thought.

Vanguard is not always lovely. You wish you had the guts to say. There are still a lot of people who do unsavoury things. You saw enough during your time as a Defender, and sure, you never saw the worst of it all. But much more happens in the dark than the everyday person would like to ignore. 

"They could just be countrymen."

"You have a point. But that does not change how suspicious Siffrin is."

"I do not believe Siffrin would do such a thing." You say more firmly.

Odile gives a pitying look. If you were a lesser man, you would feel yourself bristle. But you have withstood the patronising of many people who doubted your resolve to see the good in everyone. You know she means nothing with it. 

Yet that does not change the fact that it stings. 

"Isabeau, you do not know that. We've only known him for a month; that is not long enough to get to know him." Odile sighs, her hardened features softening. 

"Some assassins play the part for years before they act. They are the perfect actors, waiting for one slip-up to make sure it looks like an accident." 

Odile clenches her fist.

"We cannot risk letting our emotions get in the way of the fate of an entire country."

"I…" You're drunk, you want to say to her, you are drunk and are not thinking straight. But you refrain. Despite everything, Odile is perfectly coherent as she speaks. The only thing the alcohol accomplished was making her lips looser. The suspicion had always been there, and antagonising her would achieve nothing but make things sour between you two. It is the opposite of what you want.

"I don't know what to say to you, M'dame, to see the good in Siffrin. It just does not feel right to judge them when they have done nothing wrong-."

"Yet." She interrupts you again. She huffs with amusement as she sees your pout. It is instinctive to act a little immature, but you wish sometimes your reactions were a little more serious. 

You really hate it when people underestimate you, especially your intelligence. But it is your fault, so you never blame them for believing in the stereotype of rock crafters being so idealistic.

"I would normally agree with you," She slots her fingers together, gazing at you from on top of them. Her gaze is searing, "But this is about the future of an entire country. I cannot take my chances and let-"

"We cannot take our chances. As you say, it may be all in my head, and I am happy to be proven wrong. But I will keep my eyes out and be assured that I will ensure nothing bad happens." You take the stage, pointing to your eyes. Your expression is jolly, or at least you hope you still wear your practised smile, but your words are resolute. There is no doubt in your body and mind. You will not be so easily swayed. 

Odile stares at you hard, willing you to reconsider and see things her way. You understand her, you really do. But suspicion is not suitable for any group. Now, if Siffrin had actually done something suspicious, you would be inclined to follow her lead, but nothing of that he had done over the weeks of travelling together points in a dubious direction. 

Siffrin can be scatterbrained, and his fascination with the sky is unlike anything you have seen in other people. But he also sleeps and eats much more than what seems normal for someone with such a small stature. If you thought of everything that made someone else different as suspicious, you would live your life in constant doubt of the people around you. You do not want to waste your time being suspicious of others.

After a very long moment, Odile concedes. She sighs heavily, holding her head in her head. The alcohol might be making itself known already if she has a headache. 

You take another swig, finding your own beer glass nearly empty. You will not be getting a second mug after this. But you probably should order some water for the whole group to help with the dehydration that alcohol causes. 

"If he even looks at Mirabelle's jugular, I will smash his head against the concrete," Odile promises in the same tone one would use to mention that they were going to the library tomorrow. It makes the threat no less ominous or dangerous, and you are sure Odile will act on it if pushed that far.

"Uhh, okay!" you say very awkwardly, unsure how to reply. Once more, you count yourself lucky that Odile is not your enemy. 

"Changing the subject, are you a sommelier?" 

"...what?" 

"A wine taster? No, uh, is your research about all the alcohol across the world?"

"Hha haaa haaaahaa!" Odile laughs loudly and openly, nearly falling over from the laughter. You laugh along with her, unable to resist something so contiguous. 

"Ahh, Isabeau, no. Keep on guessing." Odile holds the table like a lifeline, wiping away tears. Her dark eyes dance with mirth. 

"Drat."

"Since we are on the subject, I heard Vanguard was known for its fine winery. Any thoughts?" She playfully queries, one leg hooked on top of the other. You love seeing your friends so relaxed, and you feel even better being the cause of it. 

"Hmm, I suppose? But Potoria also has some excellent wines, as far as I have heard. I am not a wine drinker, so I wouldn't be able to say anything.

"Makes sense. What about beer?"

"Ah, well, I don't really drink that much. A mug of beer is fine occasionally, but to me, it doesn't taste that different from one another. There are some nice cherry beers east of Vanguard, but I only drank that once, so I can't accurately recall the taste."

"Hmm."

"Is that why you chose the same beer as me?" You ask, pointing to her glass of beer. You had not seen her grimace as once, but then again, Madam Odile has a fantastic poker face.

She peers inside of the mug as if searching for a reflection. But the beer must be too see-through to find it, for she sighs. 

"I'ven't tasted any alcohol from Vanguard before now, so yes, Isabuea, I copied you."

"Oh, m'dame, curbing on my style! I can't believe it." You feign the outrage, chuckling. 

"Yes, I am a complete copycat." Odile nods in mock agreement, chuckling, too. 

"What kind of alcohol have they back in Ku Buan?"

"Hmm, our agriculture is very rice-based, so sake is quite common. It's literally rice wine, so nothing to write home about." Odile shrugs. 

"Really? It sounds interesting."

"It's pretty weak, considering all the other alcohol I have tasted during my travels. We also have some beers. I'm not that much of an alcohol drinker, so like you, I cannot give my opinion on them."

You snort. Looks like the two of you are both social drinkers. What a coincidence. 

You raise your nearly empty glass in the air.

"Ah, well, here's a toast to obligatory alcohol drinkers!" 

"Ha haa! I will toast to that." Odile smirks, meeting you halfway and clinking your glasses together in an ancient tradition you do not know the origin of. 

You both down your glasses, finally getting rid of a social obligation. 

"Not a word to Mirabelle or Siffrin of this. Our reputation will be ruined." Odile says jokingly. 

"I will take it to the grave." You promise with a hand over your heart. Odile regards you with warm eyes. 

"See to it that you do."

In the happy buzz of easing Odile's thoughts, you will probably worry about how she acts around Siffrin later. You faintly hear the crowd quieting. You ignore it, figuring that some guests have left and taken some of the loudness with them.

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes."

A soft voice peters in. You should not have noticed it, but something about it catches your attention. You look up to see where it came from.

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes." It becomes louder, and you pinpoint its location. Your eyes go wide when you do. 

It's Siffrin, your mind helpfully supplies, shocked to see the quietest of your party on the podium. You could deny it; you would not be at fault to find it so hard to believe that such an introverted person like Siffrin would go out of their way to sing before an audience. A very loud, drunken audience.

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes." Siffrin lifts their head, courageously singing louder every time they repeat the words. Even if you were to want to deny it, you cannot when those almond eyes reveal themselves. They are intense, staring straight through the crowd, expression unreadable. However, that could be because you are seated so far away from the stage. 

You squint your eyes. Okay, the table is not that far away. You may need to go to an optometrist again after everything is said and done. 

Odile looks up, too, finally having noticed where you were looking. She stands to her full height, grumbling a bit about aching joints and old bones.

"Who is the idiot starting a musical number in a tavern?" she asks rhetorically, her voice filled with disbelief and exhaustion. You give her a quick, worried glance, wondering if the alcohol is affecting her badly.

Although, then again, maybe Madame Odile is far-sighted. You cannot blame her for not recognising him if Siffrin is just a white blob to her on stage. Those glasses are likely not for show. 

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes!" You hear it in Siffrin's voice; he is slowly getting ready to sing at the top of his lungs. You can taste the anticipation broiling inside of your gut. 

"Isabuea, m'dame, I cannot find Siffrin anywhere!" Mirabelle panickedly chimes in your ear, having returned from her search. You, however, do not look her way, too enthralled with what is about to happen.

"I think something might have happened to him-!" Mirabelle stops mid-sentence, realising who is on the stage as well.

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes!"

"Sif-Siffrin!!!!!" Mirabelle shouts at full volume.

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes!"

Siffrin, in a move that surprises your whole table, pulls off their cloak and hat in one fell swoop, tossing it on the wayward chair they sat upon. The crowd goes wild, mesmerised by Siffrin's sudden boldness.

"She'll be driving six white horses when she comes!"

You have never seen your traveller without their hat and cloak - not even once! Not when they went to bed or when Siffrin washed up by the river during your travels, opting, as you have accidentally observed, to just take everything off from under the cloak and then float like driftwood in the water. Uncaring if their precious poncho became wet.

"She'll be coming driving six white horses when she comes!" 

You wisely should not pause to consider the images those thoughts give you. 

You had been itching to know what kind of fashion sense Siffrin had for a long time. Would it be mysterious like themself or cool and hip? They never told you where they were from, so unlike Odile, whose tastes are clear, you are entirely clueless about Siffrin's fashion tastes.

You were not expecting a tunic. If one word comes to mind when you think of Siffrin, it is comfort. Siffrin will not go out of his way to do something if it makes them uncomfortable, so seeing an outfit more elaborate than a long-sleeved shirt and trousers takes you for a loop.

"She'll be coming driving six white horses when she comes!"

While you analyse, Siffrin keeps dancing on the podium, going from swinging their shoulders and swaying their hips to dropping down to their feet and continuously reaching back to half height and back into a sit. It is a rhythmic sort of dance that you have never seen, as they kick out their feet and hold their arms on their chest to stabilise their form. It cannot be described as any less than artful. 

"She'll be coming driving six white horses when she comes!" 

The outer garment of lightless fabric is thick, and a bit faded compared to the darker, long-sleeved undershirt. Its cut is interesting, unlike the boxy appearances of the rare tunics you see from Potaria plays. The top garment is cinched by a belt, holding the scabbard of their knife and many other baubles, shaking with their rhythmic movements. The ends under the belt are cut sharply, making a shape you do not recognise. The closest you can think of is a lozenge.

The tassels on end are mesmerising to watch as Siffrin spins, trailing behind them like a fancy conductor about to conduct an orchestra. 

Really, Siffrin without the cloak looks like one of those actors with feathers in their caps and collared ruffles as they recite poem after poem. Except, also not??? You are very confused because despite the outfit's elaborate stitching and shapes, it still looks comfortable to move in and, as Siffrin shows, to dance in. 

You salivate at the chance of studying it up close. Your heart races at the mere thought of it.

Odile blinks in surprise, mouth wide agape. She closes it with a click, head held in her hands.

"Oh, gems, it's our idiot."

You stand up, wanting a closer look. You do not have to do that because Siffrin suddenly leaps from the podium to the nearest table. They tap their heels on the table surface, expertly avoiding food and drink. The crowd grows louder with encouragement, toasting and clapping to the beat of Siffrin's singing. In the interlude, as the funky piano music fills the room, you finally rip your gaze away from your suddenly dazzling rogue towards the rest of your team.

To say they are stunned is an understatement. 

"That fella has completely lost it," Odile remarks, her brows raised. Is she amused? You really are not sure. Your usually person skills are burned away by the sudden shock of drunk Siffrin seizing an entire tavern with their dancing and singing. 

"Is this…" Mirabelle glances at the gin tonic on your table, aghast, "- what does alcohol do to you?" 

"Only if you are foolish enough to get utterly and irrecoverably wasted." Odile points towards Siffrin, belting out earlier the earlier chorus, "He is going to regret it in the morning." A smirk tugs on her lips. 

"We need to do something! He's going to hurt himself in this state." Mirabelle shouts, panicking, clenching her fists and unclenching. Caught between inaction and action in an unfamiliar situation.  

"Or we can see it play out, see how many show tunes our boy wonder can belt out. What do you say, Isabeua?" Odile asks you. You hear her, but it does not register. It takes herculean effort to finally look her way and for her to repeat her question four more times when it finally makes sense to you. 

"Huh, what? Sorry, I was uhh." You stammer. If you were not already flushed from the alcohol, your face would be as dark as the night sky. 

Odile raises an eyebrow, an expression you have seen on her before, when she finds something very interesting crossing her face. You are too embarrassed to think too hard about it. 

"Hmmm. Let the boy finish his song, and then we can interject, " she says finally.

"Okay…" Mirabelle concedes, wringing her palms. 

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes! " Jumping from table to table, Siffrin sings into the pommel of his dagger. You are not sure what the point of it is, but when they point it towards the crowd, they understand the message and sing their parts.

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes!"

"When she comes!" The drunken sing. 

Siffrin laughs, airly and heartily. 

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes!"

"When she comes!"

Siffrin spins and spins around, so passionate and carefree, you would think they were a forest sprite with how elegant and unrestricted they move. 

You want to stand beside them and observe the wild and enchanting movements up close. But the crowd, just as enamoured as you are, won't let you through. 

Enamoured. Your face impossibly grows hotter. You are not… 

You look up, almost feeling as if Siffrin is looking at you when the chorus comes around again.

"She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes!" Siffrin falls on their back on the last table, entirely on purpose, as they continue their performance. It is a much larger table, and they have no problem running their hands through their hair, belting out happily:

"When she comes!"

"Comes, Comes, Comes," Siffrin gutturally sings, switching from lying on their back to twisting their body to spin round and round without losing traction, ending back on their feet and using every last breath to finish,

"comes-CoMES-COMES-COMES!!!"

The crowd goes wild as Siffrin finally collapses in on themself, a bright, wide smile on their lips. It steals the breath out of your lungs.

Siffrin giggles at the attention, acting coy as the people yell for an encore. Now that people are calming back down, you forget to wade through the mass, enraptured by the glow surrounding Siffrin. You have never seen this side of him before; it is incredible.

Seeing other people happy makes you happy. It is an old saying about selfishness and how generosity is always rewarded. You feel that sentiment now, seeing this new side to Siffrin. It may shatter their unbothered persona somewhat, with how they uncoordinatedly get back up, swaying on their feet. But you do not care, for you see something much deeper than imagined aloofness. A person, a bit of a dork who loves theatre, but a person all the same.

"So," Siffrin drawls, one leg hooked on top of the other, their lyrical accent pronounced in every syllable, "you guys want another song~?" 

" Yess !" The crowd roars. Siffrin giggles, intoxicated by gin and encouragement.

That is how you know, as Siffrin yells for the pianist to play in g minor, that you need to act. They look much less coordinated now after their big stunt, the sharp side of their dagger too close to their face for comfort.

" Where have all the good men gone, and where are all the gods? Where's the streetwise Krios to fight the risin' odds? " Siffrin plops back on their back, sighing heavily.

" Isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed? Late at night, I toss, and I turn, and I dream of what I need~!"  

The crowd is silent, ohh and aahing as Siffrin gets back up again, their smirk razor sharp. You are almost in front of him, desperate to save him before he falls off and stabs themself. It is a possibility that, unfortunately, is becoming a possible reality. 

"I need a hero!" 

"I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night

He's gotta be strong, and he's gotta be fast,

And he's gotta be fresh from the fight-"

"Siffrin!" You shout, effectively stopping them in their tracks as they prepare to leap to another table. They halt, so surprised they stop and nearly fall flat on their face. 

You step in the nick of time, catching them before a quick demise. They squirm in your arms, dropping the dagger. The cold steel crazes your arm, but as no sweet taste of pain meets your senses, you suppose the blunt side must have hit you. 

"Alright there, buddy! I think you've had enough to drink for tonight." You say, helping Siffrin face upwards and not down at the ground. You do not want them to throw up; that is the last thing Siffrin needs.

Siffrin blinks up at the ceiling, confused. You know they hate to be touched, but you hope in their drunken mind they will forgive you.

"Ah, sorry. I know you do not like being touched, but I don't think I should trust you to walk after all that." You apologise, readjusting your hold again to make sure Siffrin is comfortable in your arms. You walk away, ignoring the complaining people telling you to mind your business and that you ruined their nightly entertainment. 

Siffrin's eyes finally land on you, their gaze blank. You sweat, realising how close Siffrin is, pressed against your body in a princess carry. You had not really considered how intimate the position was until this far. You have carried many people to safety simply because their mobility aids failed, and they needed to move quickly from point A to B. You have carried Mirabelle at least one time like this after your first big battle against a boss's sadness. You regret not thinking twice about this before you acted.

Although why should it matter? Siffrin is your friend, and this should not be any different than with Mirabelle.  

And yet, when Siffrin looks you up and down with a calculating look, you feel like your insides are made of liquid fire. You swallow heavily. You know they are not checking you out; you know that! And yet you feel turned upside down by their heavy gaze. 

You try hard to not think why this is. You do not need this kind of revelation now!

"My hero!" Siffrin suddenly cries out in the most theatric falsetto you have heard. You startle, your heart hammering. Two arms encircle your neck, making you shiver. It is a full-body experience; as if hit by lightning, you jump. Siffrin acts unbothered even though your head nearly touches the ceiling. 

"Guys, I found one!" They giggle, looking far too pleased with themself. The crowd hollers and whoops, shrieking their approval. You feel anything but pleased, melting under all the attention given to you. You feel like a candle with the barest of leftovers of wax. You are a goopy mess from the inside.

"Okay, that's enough. Let us through; there is nothing to see here, folks," Odile suddenly appears in your time of need. She guides you by the arm out of the throng of people, slapping away any arm or hand that wants to stop you. You follow along in a daze, trying not to think about Siffrin's body pressed against yours.

From all the dancing, they are burning hot, their touch searing through your skin and clothes. You feel your nerves unravelling at the millisecond. 

"Wait, aren't those the sav-"

"I recognise that infamous bow!"

"Ohh, this must be the new guy! Very lively, ain't he?"

"At least they have a merry band before they rush after their doom."

"Lucille, manners!"

"What a shame, though; I wish I had someone to catch me with their big, strong arms. That little singer is so lucky."

"They're the lucky one? Ha! The burly one is lucky; what I wouldn't do that to get that canary in-"

You tune out the voices, suddenly feeling sick. You pretend you feel only queasy from the remainder of your quest and how, more than likely, the people partying are those awaiting their doom and not the other suggestions the too-drunk guests make. 

You had wanted a night out without thinking of your current worries: the King and your home country, which is less than a year away from being frozen forever. You have no such luck, though.

You breathe in the night air, finally outside. You glance down, anticipating that pretend flirty look Siffrin gave you inside. But, much to your dismay, they have fallen asleep, their arms loosely holding your neck and falling to their sides with the slightest shuffle.

Wait… dismay? Why are you disappointed? Did you want Siffrin to keep calling you their hero? For them to stare lovingly at you, hold you tenderly as a lover would in their dark gaze?

Is that something you want? From Siffrin, not in general because you already know the answer to that.

Your face burns, stinging against the chilly outside air. You wisely do not pursue those thoughts, not as your companions look at you expectantly. 

And definitely not with the subject of your racing thoughts in your arms. 

You sigh, feeling relieved. You should not be, but you allow yourself to feel at ease for the next hour. You know all too well you will have a freak-out later tonight.

"Well, uh, that was eventful. I got Siffrin's hat and cloak." Mirabelle says, filling the awkward silence. You nod along, feeling too burned out to respond verbally. 

"Well done Mirabelle, I am sure Siffrin will appreciate it when he awakens after his obtuse stunt." Odile answers, luckily taking the spotlight off of you. She walks away, leading you back to the inn where you booked a room for tonight. You walk behind Mirabelle and Odile, cradling Siffrin against your chest like they are somebody to be treasured.

They are; you ensure your mind. You may not have known them for long, but your philosophy is that everyone deserves to be loved. And that includes Siffrin. 

A treacherous thought enters your thought. You dismiss it before it can infect your headspace. 

"I will make sure to fold it! I once took a class about artful folding; it was very informative."

"Like origami?"

"Yes! That was one of the examples we were given. Oh yeah, that practise came from Ku Buan." Mirabelle looks up at Odile expectantly. Odile gives her an indulgent look.

"Did you fold a thousand cranes?"

"No, why?"

"No reason." Odile chuckles. 

The inn is not that far away, and when you arrive, it is a hop and a skip to the rooms you rented. You do not stay in inns often, very quickly in your journey, you realised that in the long term, they were pretty expensive and that with all the parties' energy spent finding the orbs to House Dormont, there is no time or space to find odd jobs to do for money. Although Vangaurd's open door policy allows those struggling a few nights without pay at an inn, you and Mirabelle would not be true Vanguardians if you did not refuse the treatment, citing that there were many more unfortunate than you who could use the service.

Mirabelle was adamant about not accepting handouts and said that, as a Housemaiden, she could not take advantage of other people like that. You, however, know that alms are always given to those on the sacred journey during pilgrimages. Naturally, as Mirabelle is blessed by the Change god themselves, their journey is blessed, is it not? Mirabelle is the prime candidate for alms. 

You wisely never bring it up. You feel more at play than Mirabelle's sense of justice. 

Tonight, though, after a harsh battle and being halfway through the journey, you all agreed to stay inside rather than camp outside of the city. You feel lucky you convinced Mirabelle and Odile to opt for an inn tonight.

Yet, you find yourself at a crossroads as you finally get to your rooms. Odile hands over a key to Mirabelle and throws one at you. You await a second key for Siffrin, but it never comes. 

You stare at Odile, panicking as her expression goes from bored to subtly amused.

Oh no.

"M'dame, Mira, what do I with-"

"You made your bed, so sleep in it," Odile unhelpfully responds.

You freeze, unable to get a word out through the panic.

Taking pity on you, she explains. 

"You said you would keep an eye out on them; there is no better time than now to start."

You gape at her like a fish. Oh, you had not thought those words would come back to bite you. 

"Huh, what, what happened while I was gone?" Mirabelle looks between the two of you, bemused. 

"Don't worry about it, Mirabelle, I will tell you later."

"Okay?" 

You cannot get another word in. Odile disappears into her room, and Mirabelle follows suit, wishing you a good night. You stand there in the hallway, dumbfounded.

You do not let surprise take you for long, reminded of the precious cargo nestled against your chest.

You flush, holding Siffrin with one arm to unlock the door. They are so light that you could hold three of them and still not buckle under their weight. The flutter in your chest feels a lot like heart palpitations. As much as you do not want to think about your feelings right now, you would prefer if it was not a possible cardiovascular problem you have on hand. 

You close the door behind you with a slam, feeling out of breath. You are far from bodily exhausted, though, and quickly try to find a bed to deposit Siffrin in before you die from heat syncope. 

Much to your relief, you find two beds instead of one. It has happened before, where you rented a room for two people, and the inn owner accidentally put you and Mireabble into a couple's suit. This was before you met Odile, so you understand the owner's confusion. 

The horror on Mirabelle's face had stayed with you for a whole week, and you could not look her in the eyes. It had been the worst week you two had.

You imagine the double king-sized bed, rose petals on top of the covers, and a best wishes card intonating its purpose. You quickly erase the images in your head, gently laying Siffrin down. If you continue thinking like this, you are going to have an aneurysm.  

You tuck Siffrin under the covers, ensuring they will not be cold. They have pyjamas, but you will die sooner than change them into their jammies. You can already feel your respiratory system failing at the mere thought of it. Doing so without their consent makes you sick to your stomach. Nothing short of a life-death situation could make you undress Siffrin.

Their hair bellows over the pillow, curling against the soft cotton. Siffrin looks so peaceful asleep, a new face you have not seen yet blossoming before you. They often sleep with their hat on top of their head, and way back when you met, in trees. It had taken over a week to convince them to sleep on the ground inside of a tent, and even then, they curled up into themself and hid themself away from the world. 

But like this, with their chest softly rising and falling in tandem, you cannot help but be mesmerised by their beauty. You had already thought Siffrin was pretty, but in a bad boy sort of way. They were a rogue, after all, one that cracked jokes and looked far into the distance like a brooding anti-hero. 

But in that bed is not the powerful crafter you had put on a pedestal, but a human fella. Flesh and blood, like you, inside a tiny inn bed, snoring the night away. A lover of theatre, as you were shown not an even a half hour ago, and a good friend.

You knew that logically, but it is another thing to realise it and have it presented to you. 

You sit down, thinking about what Odile said. Could Siffrin betray Mirabelle? Could he betray the party? 

Could he betray you?

You tuck away a few curls from Siffrin's face, your fingers nearly touching their cheek. You pull away as if burned, keeping your hands close to your body. 

By Change, have you self-control? You just fell for a pretty fellow, and you are already being a creep staring at them as they sleep and touching them? What are you thinking, Isabeau?! 

You bite your lip until you feel the skin peel off. There you go again, falling harder than Goliath. You chuckle humourlessly, unafraid of waking up Siffrin. He always slept like the dead, and you doubt this time will be different.

You stand up, lingering for just a moment. You note with a hum of fascination at the roots of Siffrin's hair. You thought they were dark-haired, like Odile and Mirabelle. It is not out of place; lightless hair is dominant in Vanguard. But you had no idea Sffrin had darkless hair. The hat hides the roots well, only about four centimetres from the scalp. 

Finally, you tear your gaze away from Siffrin, locking the door. You take a sharp turn towards the bathroom. You roll up your sleeves, noting absentmindedly the scratches and tears in your outfit. You must find some time early in the morning or tomorrow night to repair them. It would do well for your clothes, and you would be conscious if you walked around in tattered clothes.

You take one good look at yourself. You look so constipated yet darkly flushed. You know it is not because of the alcohol.

You splash water in your face, take a deep breath and scream into the palms of your hands. You did it again; you got a crush.

You miserably scream some more, sounds that do not sound like words spilling from your mouth.

You are far too sober for this.