Chapter Text
PART ONE: CATCH
Do you remember the sun? How it poured down into lightless sands, glimmering and warm to no end? Or the stars at night, the light streaming through pinpricks in the veil? Do you remember the names and the stories that followed? How each one changed as the storyteller passed the torch?
Do you remember?
d o y o u r e m e m b e r-
“-Siffrin?”
A quietly calculated voice breaks you from your headache. You hum and smack your lips, blinking blearily. You tilt your head up, leaving the safety of your tall collar and smile at your family friend. “Yes?”
Odile squints, “...Are you with me?”
You nod, your poofy hair rustling along. Feels naked without your hat. Less places to hide. That nakedness is exacerbated by the open field where you all set up camp. Dark trees lined the perimeter of the clearing and light grass brushes against your heeled boots. You and Odile walk softly away from the others.
“Then, can you answer my question?” She asks sharply, with a hint of concern only you could recognize. You doubt she’d be able to pick up on it herself. You’ve literally spent more time with her than she has with you over the course of your journey.
But… What was her question? You look at her quizzically. Whatever she asked gave you a headache.
Odile pinches the bridge of her nose. “I asked if you got any sleep last night. You seem tired.”
You hum with a smile, as though that would ever throw her off the scent of your constant lies. You rub your fingernails together under your cloak. Closest thing to physical contact you get these days. Can't just ask anyone for it. This isn't the right loop.
Disgusting.
“Answer the question, Siffrin. Did you sleep at all?” Odile walks with you as you scout the edge of the clearing. You pick up the pace. You can outrun her if you wanted to. Vanish, let them go before they abandon you. Don't fight it. Your breath shakes. Run. Don't let her catch up. Run.
You slow down. You breathe in, and out. Blinking the fear away you turn to her and stick out your tongue. “Give it a rest, Odile!”
She chuckles but loses her grin as quickly as it came. “Very amusing. But I'm not letting this go.”
You promised Loop to let your friends in. Shut them out and you risk breaking the universe. Again. Flashes of shades skirt across your memory. Do you remember the color of night? Buried in your mind are glimpses of mirrors, shattered and sharp. A tangled web of all your mistakes and loves. Stowed away by a wish gone wrong.
Or a wish gone right.
Your steps slow to a crawl. You rub your eye and your blood chills. Tilt your head down and hide in your cloak, that's always in the script. A stage direction that never falters.
Honesty crawls up your throat like a slug. In a dim voice, you admit, “I haven't slept in days.”
Odile hums. “I thought not. My nights aren’t very restful, either. When I wake before the sun comes up, I check on you. Hoping you didn’t notice.”
That does not sit well. She shouldn't do that. Why should you get special treatment? Because you held on to them all too tightly and let the world slip through your grasp, burning the skies as it fell to the empty ground below?
You wish you could hide in your hat. You could still run. Stars, if only you hadn't made that promise.
“Siffrin, you're exhausted. I know a few herbal teas from Ka Bue, they can help you fall asleep.” She almost laughs, “They don’t do much for me, but I know people who swear by it.”
You quickly shake your head, nearly hurting your neck in the process. “Can't sleep.” You mutter beneath your collar.
“Can't? Or won't?” Odile knows the answer but asks anyway. Always deductive. Always pushing you toward the truth.
You finally stop walking. Your eye darts around, looking for the rest of your family friends. Bonnie is setting up their camp-stove and Isabeu is pestering them, asking all sorts of questions. Your gaze settles on Mirabelle-
Siffrin!
…Siffrin?
Good morning! Well, more like, good afternoon. I guess…
Your knees buckle but you manage to stay upright. Mirabelle's dark face flashes across your mind, hovering above you like a crashing comet. You clench your fists as your stomach burbles. The putrid scent of banana flushes your senses.
…Keep it together.
Mirabelle has her nose buried in a book. Her face imperceptively morphs with each page turned. You know the motions well. The curl of her lips, her plumped cheeks, widened eyes. Your sister friend would be difficult to read, had you not seen it over a hundred times in repeated patterns.
Small benefits of the loops. The trap you made for yourself. Forcing them to come along on a doomed strand of time. Telling her she'd be alone forever-
Y O U A R E A L L Y O U R M I S T A K E S
“Come back to me, Siffrin.”
Odile has her hand on your shoulder and you gasp for air. Precious lungfuls you'd been unconsciously denying yourself. Caught in the mind's snare.
She's steps in front of you and couches, blocking Mirabelle from your sight. You slouch a little and look away from her. A second eyepatch would be nice. That way you wouldn't have to see her concerned expression. Or anyone else's, for that matter.
No need to hide when you can't see what's coming.
Her breaths are slow but loud, like she's silently asking you to breathe with her. You fall in line because what else can you do-
What else can you screw up-
-and it actually feels nice. Flowers and the nearby shoreline and whatever intense spices Bonnie is preparing.
Odile is so patient. You don't deserve her. After a moment, she finds her words. “You said that Mirabelle would wake you, during the loops?”
You nod, feeling more tired than you have in days.
“And if you fall asleep now,” She squeezes your shoulder ever so slightly, “You might wake up in Dormont again?”
That all-too-familiar shiver shoots up your spine. Your skin is crawling with imaginary spiders. They can bite at any moment but they're also a comfort. If you wake up in the field, you can fix your mistakes. One last loop. Under your cloak, your hand grazes the pommel of your hilted dagger-
“I can understand that. Well,” She shrugged, “I can never fully understand. But I'd like to try. Do you remember what we talked about a few days ago? About re-framing negative thoughts?”
Reluctantly, you nod. Those thoughts are a fitting punishment for the way you treated all of them. And she wants you to change those thought-patterns. You shift a little. Odile's hand is too close to your collar. She'll grab it tight and lift you by it with rage boiling in her eyes-
Stop. Re-frame. How does that work, again?
“Siffrin, you are not in the loops. That part of the battle is over.” She stands back up and takes her hand back. She clenches and unclenches her hand. Probably felt disgusted when she touched you. You're surprised she even did. If she hesitated beforehand, you can't remember. Can't remember much of anything. You'll forget them too, eventually. Just like they'll forget you.
Stop.
Re-frame.
That's your trauma talking. No one is forgetting anyone. Not yet, anyway. Try and enjoy that.
“Now, the real battle begins.” Odile opens her journal and writes something as she speaks. Cataloging you like a filthy caged animal. “The… Healing. That's something we can help with.” She doesn't look up from her book. “Will you allow me to brew you some tea? To help you sleep?”
If you shut her out, you'll break your promise to Loop. You have to try. A weak but honest smile finds its home on your lips. You meet her gaze again and say, “I bet it'll be tea-licious.”
Odile rubs the bridge of her nose again. “You really are a child.”
You pucker your lips and your grin widens. There's a certain beauty to a good pun. Keeps your mind fresh. Makes your friends happy. Odile and Bonnie pretend to hate them, but you know better. You know they love you your puns.
After your perimeter check with Odile (which isn’t really necessary, now that the saddnesses are gone. Just a good habit), you ask her for a little alone time. The nearby river calls, and you haven’t had a chance to try out your new fishing rod.
The people of Dormont wanted to give you and your group everything. Food, gifts, property, art, someone even offered to name their children after each of you. You turned most of it down, but asked for a fishing rod. There was very little from Dormont that you wanted to take with you. That small sliver of peace you found in each loop, that’s all you wanted. You could hold on to that even after your friends leave.
Odile was hesitant to leave you alone, but allows it. You wouldn’t be surprised if she went back to camp and sent someone else to check in on you.
But that hasn’t happened yet. You’re sitting on your cloak with your hands sticking out, holding the fishing rod and watching the lure bob in the calm river. You shift your crossed legs and feel the sandy grass beneath, your cloak protecting you from getting sand in your boots. That beautiful cloak, weaved of craft and lost memory, can protect you from a lot of things. But it can’t protect you from your thoughts.
On your current journey to Bambouche, you often worry about slipping. Attempting to continue a conversation that never happened. You already shoved all of Isabeau's insecurities in his face. The traits that make him beautiful, and you twisted them like a-
Stop.
Re-frame.
You were under a great deal of stress. He forgives you. They all forgive you. Doesn't make it right, but they're still here. Of course, when you make it to Bambouche, Bonbon will stay home with Pétronille. Then Odile will return home. Isa will return home. Mira will go back to Dormont-
S T O P
R E - F R A M E
You breathe in, and out. Every thought opens up a dangerous path. You can't help but follow. Remind yourself of the few positives, cling to them like a lifeline. They're all still here. They're all willing to forgive you. They understand. You didn't force them to. If anything, this loop proved the ultimate test of their friendship.
They're still here.
…But they won't be for long.
You groan and throw your head back. Fishing is supposed to be relaxing. Cease and desist, stupid brain! You'll simply stop the negative thoughts before they sink into your skin. Re-framing is for the stars. No more thoughts, none at all.
Stop the thoughts. All of them.
In three,
Two,
One.
.
.
.
.
.
“Sif!”
…Isa.
“Isa!”
“Sif!” He puts on a low voice as he plops himself in the sandy riverbank next to you. You wonder if he came of his own volition, or if Odile sent him along. Could be either. He likes you. You don’t know why.
You love your classic nickname-interchange but you don't want to repeat it. You’ve heard it all before. “I'm fishing!” You hold up your rod with a prideful grin.
He chuckles, “Yes! I can see that.”
You push the rod toward him, “Wanna try?”
Holding up both his big, strong hands (you shudder), Isabeau declines. “Oh, I couldn't take that from you! This is your thing. Plus,” a dark shade creeps over his face, “I like watching… you. Um. Fish.”
Adorable. You can't resist the urge to toy with him. “Did you just call me a fish?”
He blinks. You've confused him now. It'll pay off once you strike.
“Uh, no? I meant like, fish, as a verb-”
“Don't worry, Isa,” You push your cheeks up, “I'm just squidding with you.”
He barks out a laugh and slaps his knee. You stick out your tongue and turn back to the water. Mission accomplished. An echo of Bonbon’s groan fills your ears, either from memory or they somehow heard you back at camp.
Isa wasn't joking, he's content to watch you try and reel them in. Not that it matters. You never catch anything.
“What's the tastiest fish you've caught so far?” Isa asks with a glint in his eye.
You frown but hide it beneath your collar. “Haven't caught anything.”
“Really? I figured you've been doing this forever! You always look so comfortable when you’re fishing.”
Your grip tightens on your rod. You have been doing this forever. Technically, you only picked it up a few days ago. Maybe a week. Time has lost meaning after the loops. Your eye blinks away from him. Rather, it looks anywhere but at him.
Smarter than he lets on, Isa sits up straight. “Ah. You… started fishing during the loops?”
You nod mournfully. “I'm not very good at it.” Or most other things, except for killing saddnesses-
And almost killing the world.
And terrifying your friends.
You shiver.
Isa reaches his hand toward your back, but hesitates and retracts.
Every time.
Lift the arm.
Pause.
Retract.
Loop back.
You shiver again. You can't ask him to touch you. That would be gross. You don't deserve it and he'd be weirded out. He might love you, he said as much. But he still maintains distance. You want him to touch you. You're disgusting.
Instead, he reassures you, “Well, if you were fishing in the loops, then the fish were swimming the same paths every time. Right?”
You don't answer.
“That means they'd never get caught, unless you made some radical changes. And, uh, I’m guessing you didn't.”
He's right, of course. You found the fishing one at the shore, where you could almost see the field through the trees. Staring into the water was like standing in the eye of the storm. Trickling drips and flows could drown out the world. Almost stopped time, too.
You can’t help but smirk at that particular analogy.
He tilts his head, his earrings gently going ding ding. “I know you’re gonna catch something soon! Then Bonnie can cook it and we can eat it and we can sleep with our bellies full!”
You sink a little into your cloak. Sleep sounds nice, but you really can’t risk it. Maybe you can convince him to stay up with you. You can watch the stars like you were meant to. Listen to the crackling campfire as the lights in the lightless sky pierce into you. Reassure him that you’re not ashamed to know him. Everyone else will rush the field and interrupt you to hang out, and they’ll all thank you for helping them by overflowing your plate with food-
“Sif?”
You jolt up and breathe. Those memories are just ghosts. You can’t force them to love you.
He scoots closer, inches away but not touching. Never touching. “M’dame said you haven’t been sleeping. Is that true?”
Yes, but you only started feeling tired today. Maybe because Odile finally said something. Maybe you’ve been tired all along but needed a reality check. You don’t answer.
“Hmm,” He puts on his thinking face, beautiful and intelligent and kissable, “I got an idea. B-but,” He rubs the back of his neck, his arm nearly brushing your cloak, “Feel free to say no. It’s dumb.”
Your interest is piqued. You turn toward him a little and blink, patiently waiting for him to find his words.
“Um, w-well,” He swallows, a little bead of sweat drips down his brow. “M’dame said you’re afraid you’ll wake up in the loops again?”
They’re talking about you.
Behind your back.
b e c a u s e t h e y h a t e y o u
You turn back to the river and close your eye for a moment.
Re-frame. They’re talking because they’re concerned. Concerned you’ll shatter everything you all swore to protect with a pathetic wish-
Stop.
Re-Frame.
Let Isa continue, don’t shiver, don’t be afraid.
“You always woke up in that field, alone. W-what if… You weren’t alone? When you wake up?”
A hot flush falls over your body from head to toe. You know what he’s asking, don’t you? He’s not just asking. He’s offering.
“I mean, you know me. I barely move an inch in my sleep. B-but that means if you s-sleep next to me, you can wake up next to me too. S-so you won’t be alone.”
Air escapes you and you almost deflate. You try to look away from him but that’s a lost cause. “W-we already share a tent, Isa.” You have to be sure.
He nods. “Mhm, mhm. Yes. That’s true.” He bites his lip, “But… If I had my arm around you, or held your hand…” He took a breath and made craft motions with his hands, as though that would give him confidence. As though this was a battle. “I want to help you. I’m not trying to push a romantic relationship. I-I mean, I wouldn’t- I do want that, too. But! This is something I can do to help you. It can be platonic. One hundred percent. Just sleeping buddies.”
You blink. You don’t know what to say.
“A-and I know you’re not big on touch. Maybe we can try something else!” He places his arms behind him and lays them in the sandy grass. His weight shifts so he’s leaning backwards, still so close to you. “I won’t rest until my best buddy gets to rest!”
You can’t ask him to do that. Contact isn’t difficult, you’re just not used to it. You don’t remember what it was like. You ran away from home. Whoever you ran from probably never touched you either. That, or you don’t remember it. Hard to tell which is worse.
…You can’t ask him to do that.
…You can’t tell him how desperate you are.
…But maybe you can show him.
Just like the nursery. That narrow passage between the desk and the wall. Your filthy experiments. Touching them. Brushing up against them. It was nice. The ends didn’t justify the means but it was something to look forward to.
You breathe in, and out.
You lean to your side and into the crook between his strong arm and ribs. Your skin shrieks, snapping in the static. You’re not used to this, but you like it.
Isa similarly jumps a little. He doesn’t know what to do with this new event. You’ve improvised, broken away from the script. Any director would shout at you. Read your lines as written. This isn’t a democracy, you can’t choose the right path. The script dictates all. Get off the stage, Siffrin.
Gently, like he’s trying not to startle a trapped animal, he moves his arm up to your opposite shoulder. He’s barely touching you, he feels like wind. But he’s there. His hand is resting on your bony shoulder, softened by your cloak. He’s shaking, imperceptibly twitching. His chest is heaving with each breath. He’s warm. Your face is way too close to his pectoral. That familiar flush paints your darkless skin. This isn’t something you deserve.
But you re-frame. You remind yourself that he offered. If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have offered. He’d simply leave.
You both don’t say anything for a while. Silence is something you didn’t think you’d miss. There were too many moments of it in the field, or at night, or even in the House. But this is the good kind of silence! The one where you don’t know what’s gonna happen next. Nothing about the future is quite like you expected.
Heh. Quiet like you expected.
“W-what’s so funny?” Isabeau smiles.
You open your mouth to explain but you stop. Your fishing rod jerks. Your grip tightens instinctively. Thoughts of ancient conversations pass through your mind. What did that fisher in Dormont say? You freeze up as their words escape you.
The line goes taut. Isabeau bounces in place, “I think you caught something!”
This new loop keeps breaking the script. You’re not supposed to catch anything. You never catch anything. Your fingers are tense. “W-what do I do?”
“You’re asking me?!” Isa stands and you follow him (you’d follow him anywhere). The reel starts to spin and the line extends, lengthening into the river. He points to the rod, “Grab the handle!”
You do. It resists your grip but you’re much stronger than some silly fish. Sensations and memory return, ever so slight. You pull the handle backward, then in a circular motion. The line spools inside the rod and you feel like you can easily pull this fish in with little effort.
Then, Isabeau cheers. “Go, Sif, go!” He’s pumping his fists in the air, always the cheerleader. You could do worse than having him support you for a little while longer.
Time to put on a show.
You let your line slip a little and lean forward, then dig your heels in with a grunt and pull back.
Isa shouts, “I believe in you!”
Your heart warms.
“WHY IS ZA YELLING?!” You hear Bonnie’s loud voice excitedly climbing the slight hill at your back. “Did Frin finally hook a fish?” You can practically see their grin push their cheeks up, even though you’re not looking at them. The air moves around you and you know they’re on your left side, even if you can’t see them in your peripheral vision. You’re actually surprised they chose that side to stand on, given how-
“Don’t lose it, Sif!”
Right, the show must go on. You have to remember what you’re doing, and why you’re doing it. They’re both excitedly cheering you on, and that’s good. They deserve a little fun. Now they get to enjoy the show, rather than being mindless puppets on your stage.
“You’re gonna lose the crabbin’ fish, Frin!” Bonbon hollers.
You stick your tongue out and to the side, waving the rod around as you reel it in. It tugs back but it cannot hold back the slow march of destiny. The closer it gets to the shoreline, the more it flaps and pulls back. The long and silvery fish breaks the surface of the water then falls back down. Isa and Bonbon are chanting and cheering, and you pull with all your might. You whip the rod backward as your quarry launches into the sky.
The fish floats high in the air and you all look up, astounded. For a moment, it looks like it’s flying. Shades of light and dark pattern the slippery fellow and its body blocks the sun like a harbinger of doom.
At the apex of its arc, it falls back down to the ground. Isa yells, “I got it!” and it lands right into his arms. His grip slips but he manages to wrangle it. “What do I do now?!” His hands are slipping and he could lose it at any moment as it struggles.
You yell, “I don’t know!” The show is over and you honestly didn’t expect to get this far. “I’ve never caught anything before!” It’s the loudest you’ve been all day and you feel your scratchy voice almost give out. Being quiet and surrounded by people you like is nice, but sometimes yelling with your friends is nice, too!
“Oh, I know, I know!” Bonbon raises their hand and approaches a struggling Isabeau, “You gotta, uh… trau-ma-tize it!” They sound out the word as if it's a foreign language.
You’re pretty good at being traumatized, but now’s not the time for incredibly accurate and self-referential jokes. “How do we do that?” You ask.
From their pack, Bonnie draws their frying pan like a sacred sword. They scream, “BASH ITS HEAD IN!”
“Change!” Isabeau cries, “That’s so mean!”
“Nuh uh!” They argue, “It’s hu-man!”
You gently correct them, “Humane.”
“That too! We’re gonna eat it anyway, but this is faster than uh… whatever is happening now!” Bonnie points to the wriggling fish, practically gasping for air. Rather, for water. How do fish breathe? You feel like you used to know.
With a mournful pout, Isa places the floppy fish down on the ground and steps back. “I-I can do it, Bonnie.”
“Nope! Imma whack it!” Bonbon lifts the pain above their head with a grin, but stops before making the blow. You see a flash in their expression. Something has stopped them in their tracks.
“Bonnie?” Isa asks.
They don’t move.
But they were right, the fish is suffering. You pull the pan from Bonnie’s hands and bring it down on the fish’s head. You find just the right amount of strength: You don’t splatter its brains everywhere but you render it instantly unconscious. It flaps one last time with a wet squelch before going still.
You’ve killed enough sadness to take them out swiftly. And you know what that kind of suffering feels like, the kind right before the end. No one should have to go through that.
Suffering… Siffrin… There’s a pun in there somewhere, you just have to find it. If you ever open up about the knife you held to your throat, maybe Isa can help you make a new pun. Those thoughts ground you. You can’t ignore them, might as well turn them into a joke.
Isabeau peeks out from behind his hands. “Is it dead?”
Finally, Bonnie speaks. “N-no. You gotta…” They swallow, “Bleed it.”
That’s where you draw the line. As seriously as you can muster, you say, “Isa, take them back to camp.”
He nods, “Right. Come on, Bonnie!”
To your surprise, they don’t put up much of a fight. Isabeau takes them by the hand and leads them back down the hill. You are now alone with the fish.
You've done this before. Many times. Squirrels, rabbits, whatever you could catch in the woods on your first journey together. That was your job. You checked for traps, and you tapped the woodland creatures. Anything to keep your group's strength up. This was no different.
Almost running on auto-pilot, you swiftly un-sheath your dagger, bring it to the fish's throat, and slice. The dark liquid warmly pours onto the ground below. You want to take your gloves off. Press the hot dark into your darkless fingertips. Feel its warmth seep into your skin. That would be familiar. The stage could be set again.
Your skin tightens and your hands start to cramp. You let the blood spill out into the sand until there’s nothing left to drain. You remember the blissful sleep that would come in tandem with your death. Your limbs would go numb and you’d start to choke on your own blood. If only you had earplugs, something to deafen the horrified screams of your companions.
…That’s all in the past. Let it go, stardust. Right now, you are alone with the fish.
Dinner acquired.