Work Text:
Dormont. Act 1, Scene 1. You open your eyes to a sky you’ve grown far too familiar with, the smell of burnt sugar thick enough to choke on. You can’t remember what you were doing last loop.
Well. Then it must not matter, right?
Mirabelle will be here soon.
You don’t remember making the conscious decision to sit up, but you’re on your feet. It’s… weird. Was the ground always so…?
You blink, and you’re in the village proper, Mirabelle’s warm gaze dancing just out of reach. She’s looking at you strange. You feel strange, but then, you reason distantly, that’s also pretty normal by now.
Still, you shouldn’t make her worry. No point in wasting her energy on you. (You don’t deserve it, anyway.)
You force yourself to smile. You can’t hear a word she’s saying, but that’s alright. You’ve been here—stars, you’ve lost count. 100 times? 120? 200? It doesn’t matter. You recite your lines smoothly over the buzzing in your ears.
(You do not think about the time you forgot her name. Mirabelle, Mirabelle, Mirabelle. See? It’s so easy. It’s so. Blinding. Easy. And you still can’t even manage this much, sometimes. Pathetic.)
Your mouth is moving with words you can’t even hear. You pause at the right time, fit your words to the correct cadence, recite your lines with ease.
A blink. Mira’s gone. Conversation must be over, then. You stare at the Change God’s statue a few meters away, head filled with wordless buzzing.
Everything feels so distant. Burnt sugar crowds your senses, and your thoughts run slow like molasses. You really, really, really can’t remember what you were supposed to be doing, which should worry you, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.
Loop will probably remember, though. Helpful Loop.
You don’t quite make up your mind so much as your feet start carrying you toward the Favor Tree on their own. Just as well. The whole world feels so… syrupy. But it’s kind of pleasant, in its own way. You feel almost like you could float away, or perhaps drown in this sticky tar, or maybe even both.
(Both would be nice. Any rest would be a relief at this point.)
You glide across the grass, steps barely registering in your foggy mind. You don’t feel quite real. You think about the ghosts haunting the hallways of the House. You wonder, distantly, if you’ve already joined them.
Being dead, as it turns out, is shockingly easy.
Midafternoon, the Favor Tree. The setting: a lush little clearing, cut clean through by a worn path that wobbles its way towards the favor tree. You know this scene by heart, too.
Enter stage right: the Fighter, standing before a large boulder, lost deep in thought. He does not notice your approach.
You come to a stop in front of him, as you are meant to do, and for a moment the silence in your mind drowns out everything else, and you…
The static clears. Beneath the spotlight, and the Fighter is waiting for your cue. What do you usually say to get his attention? The word is on the tip of your tongue.
Stars, it doesn’t matter. He notices your presence regardless, opens his eyes, and startles. His mouth opens; he says something, words that echo and buzz and bounce around in a way that makes no sense whatsoever.
You blink slowly. Maybe ghosts can’t speak Vaugardian. That, or you’re forgetting the only language you have left, which would be really—
He lifts his hand.
(You want.)
He—
(hold your breath don’t move don’t move don’t move)
—pauses. Stops himself short. Laughs it off, and lets his hand fall back to his side.
You…
Don’t know what you expected, really. You wish you could sink into the syrup and sleep forever. You’re tired of this play. You’re tired of forgetting things.
You’re tired of everything, really.
Your head aches and buzzes. This must be some kind of divine punishment, being forced to balance on the edge between life and death. If only he would take that step, touch you, bring you back into reality—
—but you know he’ll never do it. Not that he should have to. Not that you’ll ever ask, either; you don’t even know the words for it. You’ll just have to stay this way, hollow and achy and miserable, forever and ever and ever.
…that’s a depressing thought.
(You want to go home.)
But there’s nowhere left for you to go, nowhere you could possibly run.
You run your hand absentmindedly along the edge of your dagger. Maybe…
…you’re not sure what you’re hoping for. Everything feels very odd and cottony and round on the edges. You let the thought go, blink, and then blink again.
Oops. You zoned out.
The Fighter is waiting for your response, an expression you can’t quite place on his face.
(He doesn’t normally look at you like that, does he?)
Maybe he’s finally seeing the real you.
(Not now. Follow the script. Say the line.)
…you’re not sure which line you’re supposed to be on, though.
You make a huge effort to decipher what he says next. You catch it in bits: cheerful, upbeat. “Soooo. What’re you playing with under that big, mysterious cloak of yours?”
Oh. Hm. That’s… not in the script. He’s deviating. That can’t be right. What’s going…
Oh. Ooooh. You get it now. The Fighter is deviating from his script, and the world is still nice and cottony, and everything is pleasant in a way that being awake is usually not, so: you must be dreaming right now!
You must be trapped in a tear, having a wonderful, wonderful dream about new things and people you love and a world that doesn’t hurt to exist in. How nice.
“Sif?” the Fighter says. “Everything okay there, bud?”
Oh. That’s right. That’s your name, isn’t it. It’s kind of nice being asked for, directly! You never realized until now. You should do the same for him, you think; plus, didn’t you two have a little thing with names going on? You think you remember…
…remember…
—it hits you like a falling rock. (Ha!)
The… Fighter.
The. The Fighter. He—he likes jokes, he likes helping others, (he likes having an excuse to cover up his own cowardice, except the real coward is you, isn’t it, all along you’ve always been the problem. It’s always you.) He must be worried about you right now if he’s doing all this, and you know you’re supposed to laugh, but you can’t form a smile because his name, what was his name—
The panic cuts through the fog in your brain, and you realize he’s calling your name, eyes wide, body shaking. Lips moving. Saying something else.
You can’t tell what it is on account of something creeping up your chest, burning in your throat, and oh, it’s not him, that’s you, you’re shaking but how can you not; his name his name his name, he—
—he’s reaching for you, face pale. You take a step back on instinct.
You’re not supposed to let him touch you. You’re too disgusting to touch, you remember that at least, you think, but—your chest hurts so much, you can’t breathe, you can’t—the world is darkening around the corners, in and out, in and out, his name, his name, his name, oh stars you just did this with Mira, too, you can’t seriously have already forgotten… you’re so blinding stupid, stars, he—breathe, breathe, breathe—
“Isa!” you gasp out on your next breath, and that startles him almost as much as your sudden panic. Your vision swims with something dangerously close to tears, but you’re filled with such sudden relief that you start laughing instead. “Isa…”
A chortle, a gasp, full-on laughter.
You’re laughing so hard it hurts, but you can’t stop. “Isabeau!”
“Y-yeessss?” he draws out uncertainly, hands hovering above your shoulders anxiously, but never able to land. “Sif, are you okay?”
You nod furiously, still laughing. You’ve never been better! You feel so light that you think you might just float away, to wherever the rest of your Universe-forsaken head has gone! Stars, to think you’d forgotten his name for a moment. But now you’ve remembered, and you’re feeling wonderful! Perfect, even!
Something wet drips down your face. You realize distantly that you’re still shaking.
“Sorry about that,” you say, ignoring the tears nonchalantly. You are an experienced actor by now. Your voice doesn’t even shake. “Just had a…” (You think of Bonnie’s face, shrouded in darkness, and your stomach twists.) “…nightmare. Earlier. And—” (Okay there’s really no good excuse for this, stop digging yourself in deeper, Siffrin.) “—and yeah. Yup. That’s it.”
(Smooth! You’re a blinding idiot.)
“…right,” Isa says, sounding extremely convinced.
“Right,” you repeat, and then you try to think of something else to say to change the topic, except after opening and closing your mouth for a solid minute you’re forced to give up because words are hard and you still can’t seem to make sense of any of the noises in your brain.
And. Well. Maybe it doesn’t matter? It’ll all be gone next loop anyway. And—and maybe you’re talking to a figment of your imagination, because the family you knew and wanted are long gone. Maybe you’re still in your dream. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it never did. You are just… tired, of the buzzing in your brain. It’s.
It’s whatever. Everything’s whatever.
Thinking is hard. You don’t want to think anymore.
You reach for your dagger. You remember, vaguely, earlier, thinking that maybe this will set you right.
(Or maybe this time, you’ll finally get to rest. You would like that too.)
You—
Isabeau lunges.
Your dagger clatters to the ground. You blink at it slowly, uncomprehendingly, then glance up into Isabeau’s face. He’s twitchy and pale, breathing ragged.
Oops. You’d forgotten he was there.
“What,” he says quietly, “were you just about to do, Siffrin?”
His grip is nearly painful around your wrist. You look down at his fingers, just barely brushing your skin where your glove ends.
Huh. After all this time, he’s finally touching you. It’s… warm. Your head is silent. You…
—try to jerk away, bile climbing up your throat, but Isa won’t let you go, but you, you forced him to touch you because you just threatened to kill yourself, STARS, you manipulative piece of shit, this is SO impressive, you really just keep managing to find new lows!
You hear a strange, broken whine, realize distantly it’s something awful horrible gross strangling itself in your throat, have to claw it out of your neck dig it out destroy it but your gloves prevent you from breaking skin, and Isa—Isa, Isa, Isa, his eyes wide, face bloodless. Panicky. You wish he would stop looking at you like that. Your chest hurts, your head burns, you—
Your hands are both jerked away from you.
“Imsorryimsorryimsorry,” Isabeau stammers out like a mantra, eyes squeezed shut, “but Sif, please, please stop, you’re—hurting yourself.”
He appears to steal himself, then cracks one eye open.
You’re too busy shaking to care. Stars, this is so disgusting, you’re so disgusting, you’re soaking up all this kindness and attention and warmth like you’re Mirabelle’s blinding dead little plant and you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve any of it, you—
“Sif. Can you hear me? Can you breathe for me, please? The way you always do. In—”
You cannot, no, you are shaking too hard and the air and all the awful things that make up who you are are stuck tight in your throat, and you cannot think cannot breathe cannotcantcant—
He kneels down slightly, forcing himself directly into your line of sight without ever letting go of your wrists. Concerned eyes peer into yours.
“Is—is there anything I can do?” Isabeau says hesitantly. “To make things better?” He tugs carefully on the edge of your cloak, wraps it gently around your wrist so he doesn’t make direct contact with your skin, and keeps his hands encircled on your wrists, loosely. Ready to grab you again at a moment’s notice. “Because I… I want to help you, Siffrin, but I’m not sure how.”
You miss his warmth already. You know what you want but you can’t say it, you can’t ever say, and he can’t ever give it, and all that’s left is embarrassing, strangled sob that ekes its way out of your throat.
Stars! You want to curl up and die.
(You wish he would let you.)
“You’re shivering,” he says, unbearably soft, unbearably gentle. “Are you cold? Can I get you something? A blanket, maybe? Something to drink? One of the others?”
Oh stars, no, no, nonononono, not the others, definitely not the others, you can’t—
Hands tight enough to bruise again, jerking you back from—your hair, your throat, maybe, whatever it was you were reaching for, you don’t even know, but Isabeau’s gone pale again.
You did this. You, you, you, you. So, so, so disgusting. So pathetic. So awful. You’re a waste of space. You can’t do anything right. But—
Get back on the stage. (Say the lines.)
You can do this much at least, can’t you?
“I’m fine,” you force out. You even do a little smile. This part’s easy. (You ignore the fact that you’re still shaking. You hope he does too.)
Isabeau looks pained. “Sif, I…”
“Look, I’m fine now, promise!” you say. “You can let go of me now.”
He glances uncertainly at something to your left, then back at you, and his eyes take on a determined set. “I… I don’t know if I can. You just—you tried to—”
…oh. Right. Your dagger.
“It was just a joke,” you try to tell him as earnestly as possible. It’s almost true, if you squint. You’ve played a similar one on Loop a couple times by now, you’re sure. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You didn’t—!! I—”
Isa looks utterly lost for words. Then the anger sets in, steely glint in his eye and a clench in his jaw, and you feel at once vindicated and twice as awful. He hates you now, doesn’t he. Good! Haha, you feel burnt sugar—
“Sif, I—” he says, Takes a deep breath. Starts again. “I know—I know you don’t like being touched. So, I’m sorry.”
—slide back down your throat.
Huh? This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
“And we don’t have to talk about this right now, if you don’t want to,” he continues. “But. I’m—I’m really, really worried about what you’ll do, if I let go of you right now.”
You blink, uncomprehending. “But you should—I… don’t you hate touching me? You guys never”—(group hugs, there’s something wrong with you; shoulder pats, there’s something wrong with you; that kiss, that kiss, that blinding kiss, there’s something wrong with)—
You still. You didn’t mean to say any of that out loud, and—stars above, that last part at least, you kept your mouth shut for that part, didn’t you?
You think you did. No, you’re sure you did. But then why does Isabeau look so…
He looks like the ground is crumbling away beneath him, and he’s shaking now too, little tremors that beat in time with your own, and he whispers, “Is… is that what you thought of us? Of yourself?”
You shake your head vigorously. He’s still looking at you like he’s utterly heartbroken. “Sif…”
You tremble. Oh. Oh. That’s pity. You don’t want his pity, you’re pathetic enough as is, you—
He releases one hand slowly. Loops his arm around your back. Frees the other. Wraps it around you tight and pulls you—
“Sif?” Isa says uncertainly. “Are you—please breathe, Siffrin.”
You remember to take a startled breath. Wow. If you weren’t convinced before, you’re convinced now: you really are dreaming. Because Isabeau would never—
“Hey, slowly, okay? With me.” One hand migrates up to your back, pressing you into his chest so you can feel his every exaggerated breath. “Breath innnnn. And ouuut. Yeah, you got this buddy, just like that. Innn… and ouuuut.”
You. You’re pressed against Isa, can feel the warmth of his body, the gentle curve of his muscles, the—oh stars, you—
“Hey, hey, deep breaths, don’t start hyperventilating on me again… Is—is this okay with you? I’m sorry, I probably should have asked permission, but you—you just seemed—”
You nod, hesitantly, into his collarbone.
He shuts up immediately.
You feel some of the tension bleed out of him. There is absolutely no way that any of this is real, but—figment of your desperate imagination or not, stars, does it even matter? You needed this so bad. This is so nice—Change God, Universe, blinding King, whoever, it doesn’t matter, thank you, thank you, thank you.
This. This is. You don’t even have words for it. This is just so—
Small circles. On your back. A gentle. Gentle—
You feel like your brain is melting out your ears.
You must make a weird noise, because Isabeau tenses up and then laughs all soft, and you. You don’t know. How to process. Everything is so. Warm. And wonderful. And not painful and horrible and terrible and you—
You take a deep breath, in and out, and try not to ruin the moment with your awfulness.
You… can’t bring yourself to let go of this, so for once, you don’t force yourself to. But you shouldn’t get used to this. Dream or not, loop or not, you know you’re hungry and hollow in the way black holes are. If you’re not careful, you’ll just keep devouring and devouring and devouring until there’s nothing left.
So—you’ll allow yourself this weakness. Just this once. Never again, though. This—loop, or dream, or whatever, this is only happening once. You can’t be trusted with more.
And… Isabeau deserves better than this.
But, for just this moment…
Your consciousness all but floats away until a long, long time later Isabeau calls you back down to earth and sighs into your ear all soft and quiet and says, “We’re gonna have to talk about this later, by the way.”
You make a noise that he must interpret as dissent.
“Yeah, I know, I know,” Isa says. “I know you’re fine, but you’re also, like. Clearly. Y’know. Not. I don’t know what happened, but… I hope you can open up to us about it. We all—we all care about you a lot, you know? And… you really scared me today, Sif. If I… if you…”
He doesn’t finish that sentence.
You do not think about how horrible and disgusting and manipulative you are, to have forced Isabeau to do something like this for someone who barely even qualifies as a person anymore.
Alright! Break’s over. Time to act normal again.
You force yourself to get up, get off him, and, oh stars, when did you just collapse on top of him like that, how are you this gross, pathetic, disgu—
“Are you feeling a bit better now?” Isa ventures uncertainly.
You nod, adjusting your hat carefully so that you can avoid eye contact with him, reaching down for—
“Oh, nuh-uh, nope.” He hastily kicks your dagger out of your reach. “Don’t even think about that.”
(You let him do it, honestly. You’re so much faster than him now. You could’ve stopped him, if you really wanted to.
You should have stopped him.)
It spins to a stop somewhere off to your right. You could still beat him to it, end this now, start anew.
But you don’t. You’re selfish like that.
Isabeau picks the dagger up off the ground for you and tucks it away. “I’m gonna… sorry, but I’m going to hold on to that for tonight, if you don’t… mind.”
Well, you do. Or—you don’t? You don’t know, anymore. You should mind, though.
“…are you going to tell the others?” you ask.
Isabeau looks pained. “Sif…”
Okay, that tone of voice tells you everything you need to know. You look away.
“I’m sorry. But this… this is serious. It’s not the kind of thing I can just keep to myself. Maybe not Bonbon, but the others… they should know.”
Right. Yeah, that’s fine. That’s reasonable, except you think you might actually just throw yourself out the window if you have to see that pity in their face, feel the shame curdling in your stomach, have to face them with the full knowledge that you’re even more broken than they thought. You don’t think—you can’t—you won’t be able to. Handle it.
Luckily, there is always the plantain peel in the center of town. You could…
“…hope that you can at least talk to one of the others,” Isa is saying. “If not me. I don’t… I want to be able to take away some of your pain, you know?”
You know. You smile, a real one this time, because this line, you remember:
“It’s okay, Isa,” you say, the words you never could voice before you died to the King. “Taking pain away isn’t your job anymore.”
That’s what you’re here for, after all!
It’s all that you’re good for, after all.