Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“—frin!”

This is a dream, you think. The leaves rustle gently in the breeze, blowing your hair into your face. Her shadow isn’t hanging over you quite yet, but you know it will be in just a few moments. You’ll see her bow first, and then the rest of her.

“Siffrin!”

Ahhhh, if only this were real! You wished once to be free of it all, but all you want now is to have it all back. You’re selfish, disgustingly so—contrarian, hypocritical, there’s any number of words you could keep using—an immature, petulant child who couldn’t be forced to face the consequences for their actions and greed. 

Only one more left. You listen to her voice, calling out to a name that isn’t yours, so light and airy and ignorant. But you know her name now even if she doesn’t know yours, and you’ll never forget it again. You just need to have the courage to say it.

“...Siffrin?”

Mirabelle’s bow enters your field of vision, just like you remember. Darkless, backlit by the sun’s rays. Her lightless hair follows, coily and springy, and then—

She’s as young as she was the day you met her. Her crow’s feet that you got so accustomed to are gone, as are her laugh lines. Her eyes are gentle and her cheeks are round.

A smile comes to your face naturally. You thought it’d be more difficult, but you can feel the muscles in your cheeks pull taut before you even think to try. 

You find your courage and break the script.

“Mira.”

Mira smiles back at you, eyes softening. She breaks the script too, crouching down by your head and giggling. “Siffrin! Good morning! Or… more like good afternoon, I guess. You were taking a nap, right? Did you have a nice dream? You look like you did.”

No, you want to say. No, it was horrible. You dreamed you lost all of them. That you were trapped in a hideous, misshapen body, unrecognizable. You dreamed you forgot every single one of them, and they forgot you in turn. 

But it wasn’t so horrible, either. You lost them, but you found something else. You found something else, even if they were never the same. You broke down and wished for a savior, and it was your own hand that reached back.

“...Siffrin?” Mira whispers, and you finally come back to yourself. Her smile’s gone and her lips are pursed. “You’re crying…”

You are?

You touch your cheek, and your gloves drag on wet skin.

You are!

Wait, no, nono, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen! This isn't in the script. You only just started the scene! Her brows are drawn up, worried, and she’s reaching out to wipe the tears off your face with the pad of her thumb— but she hesitates. She doesn’t want you to be scared. You can’t tell her that you always are.

You laugh wetly, and it comes out as a sob. “I’m fine. I’m fine, Mira.”

“A-Are you sure?” She asks, hand still hovering by your head anxiously. “You- You’re crying, Siffrin. Was I wrong?? Did you have a nightmare??”

You take her hand. It was so close, and you’re so selfish— you had to take it. You couldn’t help yourself. And this is a dream, right? This is a dream, so it doesn’t matter. Her skin is warm against the thin leather of your gloves, and you squeeze it. She squeaks, eyes widening, but squeezes back.

“Maybe,” you croak, lower lip trembling. “I don’t know.”

Her voice is small and thin, shaking in that way it does when she’s anxious. “Do… you not remember it, maybe?”

You remember every second of it, clear as day. You sob again, clutching her hand like a lifeline.

“I didn’t mean to,” you manage. You’re sorry that you ever did. You’re sorry, you’re sorry, you’re sorry! You never meant to! “I never wanted to. I won’t- I won’t forget again, I promise.”

“Oh, Siffrin…”

She smiles at you. It’s taut, concerned, but it’s genuine. It’s always been genuine. She sits down by you properly, tucking her legs under herself and reaffirming her grip on your hand. You look into her eyes, and you can’t tear your gaze away. 

“...Come here?”

It’s all the invitation you need. She lets you cry, she lets you apologize, she lets you flip over and crawl over to her like the pathetic, sniveling monster that you are, and she lets you wail into her lap and fist your hands up in the skirt of her dress until your throat is hoarse and you can barely breathe out of your nose. 

She took your hat off at some point to run her fingers through your hair. Your body shudders every time she touches you, and you can’t get yourself to stop whimpering and quivering like an abused dog.

You’re sorry to her, for being relegated to this job in your dreams. You’re sorry to everyone, for abandoning them. You’re sorry to the Siffrin you used to be, who will never be allowed this mercy. You’re sorry that this is a dream, and you’ll wake up someday.

“I… I don’t know who you’re apologizing to, Siffrin,” she says quietly, when your breathing’s evened out. “But if you’re apologizing to me—to all of us—then I think we’d forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t,” you mumble, driving nail after nail in your own coffin. “You wouldn’t, if- if you knew.”

“If I knew? What don’t I know, Siffrin?”

That Siffrin isn’t your name, and that it hasn’t been in a decade. That you watched them all die hundreds of times, that you killed them with your own hands, that you puppeteered them across a stage for your own sick desires until they stopped being people to you. That you left them behind because you were a coward. That you didn’t love them well enough. That you let someone else do it for you.

Mirabelle frowns when you don’t respond and goes quiet for a moment.

“...Well,” she starts again. “In that case! I reserve the right to get mad at you later, when you tell me. If-if it really is something I would be upset about! Which it might not be!! But I’ll reserve it anyway!!”

You laugh and nod, wiping your soggy face in your cloak. She always did love saying that, didn’t she? You want to tell her that she should tell you when she gets upset, but there’s a lump in your throat you can’t manage to squeeze your voice around. 

“...Okay.”

Finally, you sit up a little straighter and out of the embarrassing fetal position you ended up hunkering into. Her skirt’s stained dark with your tears, and you recede into your cloak, shameful. She smooths her dress out and clasps her hands together, watching you carefully.

“...Are… you feeling better?”

You are, you think. Maybe. It’s confusing. You were never good at understanding yourself, and you’ve only gotten worse. You nod anyway.

“...S-Sorry. About… that.”

“You don’t need to apologize for having a nightmare, Siffrin,” Mirabelle says gently. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it? I’ve… never seen you like this before.”

You made a joke here once. Something about food, you think. Something that made her shout, exasperated, but never entirely convinced her you were alright. It was a one off line that you ad-libbed, you think, but you can’t even remember if it was really you who said it.

“I was running from something.”

Her fingers tense.

“...Running from what?”

It’s such a realistic dream. You can feel every blade of grass dig against your legs, smell the sickening fragrance of cane sugar in the air, the sun warming you up from overhead. You pick your hat back up again, firmly returning it to its place.

You smile at her.

“Potato samosas. I was the only survivor, Mira. I’m sorry for leaving you all to die.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment. And then—

“SIFFRIN!!!!” she shouts, just like you knew she would. You laugh. “SIFFRIN, YOU CRAB!!!!”

I can’t believe I was worried! is what she says next. You remember that line.

“...But…”

No? Did… you misremember? You open your eyes— No, no. You only have the one now. You open it to look at her.

She looks sad. “I’m sure Dream Ghost Me would have been happy you got away. Those potato samosas must have been dangerous!!”

You want to cry again. You’d managed a smile just a few seconds ago, but it falters again almost immediately. You look down.

“...I could have done better,” You mumble. “I could have tried harder.”

“Maybe? But I don’t think Dream Siffrin would have run away unless they’d done everything they could.”

You would have. You did. Clearly, there was more you could have done. If there wasn’t, stardust wouldn’t have escaped. If there wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here. The misconception she has of you makes bile climb up your throat, a nervous sweat breaking out on your forehead.

You imagine killing yourself in front of her. That soothes you, for some reason. Probably because there’s something wrong with you.

When you don’t respond, Mira frowns. She stands up, offering you her hand to pull you up with her. You take it. 

“…Even if he hadn’t done everything, I think we would have forgiven him,” she says quietly.

You force a smile.

“Have you thought about having a sleepover tonight, Mira?”

You never manage to convince her you’re okay, even after that. She follows you to Dormont instead of leaving you to look around by yourself, trailing behind you like a lost little duck.

You pause a short distance away from the Change God’s statue, smile straining.

“...You don’t have to follow me, you know. I’m the one who brought up the sleepover in the first place— it’s not like I’ll forget to invite everybody. We’re all meeting up there anyways, aren’t we?”

Mira squeaks, grabbing at the skirt of her dress like a lifeline. “Th-that’s not— that’s not why I’m following you, Siffrin!!”

This dream has gone on for longer than you thought it would. You’re not exasperated by her—you couldn’t possibly be, after so long—but you know better than anyone that it’ll all end soon. You almost hope it ends now, before you worry her anymore. Before you say something you can never take back.

“Do you know where everybody is?” she asks, buzzing around you anxiously. Her hands are clasped at her chest again, bumping into her ornaments and dinging.

“Ding ding,” you respond in lieu of an actual answer.

“Ding ding! W-wait, you didn’t answer! Do you remember??”

The actual answer is both yes and no. If you close your eye, you’re certain you could rely on your muscle memory to guide you to all of your friends. But… verbalizing it is a little different. It takes the same unconscious thought that it requires for you to think of home.

“Odile’s…” you start, already losing confidence. “At the library?”

Her expression pinches. Wrong answer.

“The- the store.”

She nods slowly.

“Bonnie’s at the field, and Isa’s…”

You know this one. You know it, and you’d never forget. But you can’t say it. You don’t want to think about your grave.

Mira answers for you. “…He’s at the Favor Tree, Siffrin.”

You know. You duck your head down into your cloak. This is the part where she gives you that note, and you can use that to guide yourself to all of your other friends. Mira will sit on the bench and smile wordlessly when you sit next to her.

“I can go with you, Siffrin! We can ask them together,” Mira says instead, ruining the script you want nothing more than to hear in its entirety again. “Not- not that I don’t trust you’d be able to find them all yourself. Dormont is really small.”

“Don’t you have a note?” you blurt out, staring at her incredulously.

Mira seems taken aback. “A- note?? I do, but- how did you know?”

She gives it to you on every loop you lose track of your dialogue. Of course you know it.

“I saw it in your pocket,” you respond, lying. 

“Oh,” she says. “That makes sense…”

You were outright sobbing on her lap. It’s believable enough. She fishes it out of her pocket, hastily unfolding it to hand to you. Your hands are trembling as you take it, and if her reluctance to pass the note over to you is any indication, she’s noticed.

“I just wrote down where everybody is! In- just in case you… forgot. Did you want it?”

Yes.

You nod.

“Oh! Okay. You can have it, Siffrin.”

She hands you the note and you take it between your fingers, creasing the darkless material. You snatch it up desperately, like a starving mongrel, and drink in the words. Familiar, familiar, familiar– her handwriting curls and trails like you remember it did, and your lower lip trembles.

Mirabelle looks at you strangely. 

“...Siffrin, are you sure that–”

“What’s the line you drew on the bottom?”

“...The line? It’s a flowing ribbon, silly! Like the one in my hair, see?”

You do see. You can see clearly now. You nod at her and turn away from the statue of the Change God, choosing instead to path towards the store you know Odile is waiting at. 

Mirabelle mumbles something under her breath that sounds a little like she said my question… but she follows you anyways, hurriedly picking up the skirt of her dress so she doesn’t trip over it in her attempt to keep up with you. She catches up when you pause at the door, twisting the handle to pull it open and step inside.

You shouldn’t speak to the person at the counter. You don’t remember their name, but you remember they said something about Change, about blessings. They brighten up and sit a little straighter when they catch sight of Vaugarde’s savior, and Mira seemingly shrinks behind you.  You wave at them and tip your hat down in greeting, positioning yourself so you take up as much space as you can. It’s not very helpful.

“...Siffrin. Mirabelle.”

“Madame Odile!” Mirabelle exclaims, hands clasped at her chest again. Her Change ornaments jingle as she trots up to your taller companion, eyes glittering. “Have you found everything we need for tonight?”

“Just about. Did you and Siffrin come here to purchase something for yourselves?”

Odile surveys you with her shrewd gaze. Her eyes evaluate the grass stains on your cloak, traveling up your figure until they stop at your face. Her brows furrow, and you immediately pull your hat down so she won’t stare at you any more.

“Oh, um. No! I don’t think we needed to… Did you want to buy something, Siffrin?”

You shake your head. You thumb the coin in your pocket and think about stardust, and all of his stupid, nervous laughter. You think about how badly you wanted to crush his throat between your fingers. You think about how much you wanted to tell him that you were proud.

Mirabelle continues. “We just wanted to, um… Invite you to a sleepover! At the Clocktower. Later tonight? O-Only if you don’t mind, of course!”

Odile, still staring at you, responds slowly. “...A sleepover? Urgh. You guys really are kids.”

Mira withers. “Y-You don’t need to join! I just, um, I- I just thought it might… it might be a nice change of pace, and–”

You should have said something. You knew Odile responded like this- Mirabelle asked you to help her in the first place. You settled back into your silent, listening role so easily, but you’re not supposed to do that yet. 

Odile interrupts her before Mira has a chance to lose herself in her anxieties. “I didn’t say no. We already said we’d meet up at the Clocktower, didn’t we?”

“W-Well, yes, but… I just wanted to extend the invitation anyways,” Mira says. “We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, and I… wanted to lift everybody’s spirits. It’s more fun if we call it a sleepover, isn’t it?”

You try not to think about all the times you broke your promise to her and failed to invite everyone properly. You’re just not that good of a friend.

Odile hums. “...I suppose so. Poor Boniface probably needs a change of pace. Maybe we all do.”

Mira brightens. “So, then…!!”

Odile smiles in that wry way she does, a hand on her hip. “I’ll be there. That room only has three beds, right? I better get a whole bed to myself.”

She always does. 

“Bonnie and I will share,” Mira volunteers. “And Siffrin and Isabeau can, as well! That way, you can sleep comfortably, Madame.”

“Siffrin and Isabeau, hm? Fascinating. I’ll be looking forward to that.”

You recede into your cloak. If Odile notices, the only indication of it is a light sigh, and the quiet sound of the gems dangling from her glasses shifting as she returns to perusing the store’s wares. Mirabelle tilts her head to the side, confused.

“Anyways,” she says briskly, curt as ever. “Was that all you wanted to ask me? If so, I’ll return to what I was doing.”

“That’s all, Madame!” Mira says brightly. “Thank you for your time!”

You step back so she can pass by you to leave the store, pressing against the wall so you don’t brush against her in the tight confines of the storeroom. Her dress nearly scrapes you when you move to follow her.

Odile’s voice stops you dead in your tracks before you can. “...And I assume you had nothing else to say either, Siffrin?”

You stiffen. Your muscles tense, and you think for a moment that you might be better off killing yourself now.

But you’re used to her suspicion. You’re used to it, after being on the receiving end of it for years. You’re used to her somber, resigned quiet when she realizes you’re not the idiot you used to be. 

You turn back. You hear Mira’s footfalls pause. You look at Odile, at her high cheekbones and her straight posture. She’ll be using a cane in a little over a decade, and her back will have hunched from her years spent bent over books. Her hair will be wispy and dark instead of the lightless shock it is now, and she will never ever let go of her kindness and consideration.

You wish you could tell her everything. You wish you were less of a coward.

“Not right now. But I might later.”

Odile levels you with an even, inquisitive stare. 

“...Is that so?”

It really is. 

You hurry out of the building before she can say anything else.

Bonnie’s your next stop. 

Mira’s back to trailing behind you, jogging every so often to catch up with you as you hurry across town. The little artist is just where you left them decades ago, scribbling on a piece of paper and kicking their little legs. You want to ask them for that drawing again. 

You don’t. You walk by them, by the kids at the rock, by the blind one sitting outside their house, straight to the fields.

“S-Siffrin,” Mirabelle calls, speeding up to catch up to you again. “We have plenty of time, Siffrin! You don’t need to be in such a hurry–!!”

You do. You do, you need to hurry, you need to move as fast as possible before this dream ends. You can’t risk it ending before you’ve seen them all. You need to say your lines, you need to hear their voices, you need to see their smiling faces as they read a script you’ll never let go of.

Bonnie hears Mira’s voice and turns around, big eyes widening as they spot her. They’re so small, and you almost misjudge exactly where to put your gaze. They got so much taller than you.

…And then their face falls as they see you. You and your disgusting face, your hideous body, your mangled spirit and your monstrous heart. They avert their eyes and shift against the fence post, shoving their hands in their pockets.

“...heyfrin. And Belle.”

Their voice is smaller than they are. They resolutely stare at anything but the eyepatch wound tight around your empty skull, shuffling nervously. You always assumed they were just antsy, desperate to get away from you. Maybe that’s what it actually is. You wouldn’t want to be around you, either.

You wait for Mirabelle to speak for you. She doesn’t, smiling pleasantly at Bonnie and offering a small wave. It’s your turn, is what she’s trying to say. Especially since you haven’t spoken a word since you left Odile.

There’s a pit in your stomach. You don’t remember what you said to them anymore. Was it hello? Was it just hi? Did you say their name?

Maybe your memory of the script isn’t as infallible as it used to be. It’s been years, after all. You’re not sure whether you want to feel comforted by that or not.

“Hi, Bonnie,” you say, smiling.

Bonnie squints at you, mouth held slightly agape. They turn to Mira instead of responding to you. “...Are they okay? They look very very very VERY tired. I thought they took a nap?”

Mira smiles awkwardly. “I think they just had a strange dream, Bonnie.”

You’re right here, you know…

Bonnie wheels their gaze over to you. “A strange dream? Like a nightmare? What was it about?”

You don’t want to talk about it again, but Mira looks at you expectantly. This is a silent test, you realize. You nearly forgot how shrewd she is, in her own way.

You clutch your arm under your cloak. The audience laughs through you, corny and staged. “I was running from–,” 

And then you remember.

You’re eating potato samosas tonight.

Wow. Look at that! You’re so stupid! You’re soooo stupid~!!! You couldn’t have picked any other food!? Nothing else?? Nothing else came to mind?? Just the main course of your meal tonight? How much of a blinding idiot could you possibly be?

You don’t know what to say, and the seconds of silence as you think are starting to drag on. You grip your arm tighter, tighter, trying to keep yourself tied to reality. Quick, you need to find an answer, quick–

Bonnie frowns. “...You don’t have to say it, if it, um. If it’s too scary. Belle just says it’s better to talk about nightmares so they’re out there and not in your brain.”

Mira’s eyes are fixed on you, sinking her lightless gaze into your chest. You want to shrink away and hide.

“...I,” you start, suddenly convinced you’re drowning in the vacuum of space, “had a dream about samosas.”

Bonnie’s eyes get really wide. “...Really?”

That’s… not the reaction you were expecting. You were hoping they’d get miffed at your answer. They look over at Mirabelle frightfully, hands balling up into fists, and then look back to you.

“Are you telling the truth? Was it actually about samosas?”

You nod, guilt crunching up like a wad of paper in your chest, hard, stiff edges jamming into your organs. You can’t look at them. Bonnie stares.

“... Wow,” They breathe. “Those samosas must’ve been bad. Um- we- I, y’know, it’s kinda crazy you had a dream about samosas, ‘cause I was gonna make ‘em tonight. D’you want me to make something else, Frin?”

You kind of want to throw up. Bonnie continues, almost desperately.

“‘Cause, ‘cause I totally can! I’m good at cooking, you know!! If you don’t wanna look at samosas, I can make something that isn’t samosas at all.” 

You want to eat those samosas again so badly that your hand is reaching out of your throat. You shake your head, vehemently. Bonnie withers.

“Are- Are you… sure? ‘Cause you really…”

They’re concerned for you. It’s etched in their face, creasing their brow. Their eyes keep darting over to Mira like they’re searching for help. 

“...You really don’t look good, Frin.”

There are stars writhing in your skin, trying to burst out. You rub your arms over and over and over and over again. You miss the script. You miss the script. This is wrong, this is wrong, this is all wrong, and you miss the script.

You open your mouth and rasp. “...I just don’t like potatoes.”

Bonnie doesn’t look away from you. Their eyes bore a hole into your chest until your galactic blood drips onto the grass beneath you.

“You don’t??? No wonder you didn’t eat the dauphine I made last week!”

…They did? You don’t remember anymore. It was so long ago.

Bonnie crosses their arms, tilting their chin up like a chiding parent. “You shoulda told me sooner, stupid Frin! I don’t wanna make stuff that people don’t like eating. That’s not what master cookers do!”

“Chef,” you say before your brain can catch up with you. “Chef cooker.”

“That’s not what chef cookers do!”

They’re right. It’s not. A chef cooker is supposed to follow the script, like a good little kid. A chef cooker is supposed to fry up potato samosas that taste like sawdust and acid, and hand you tonics in a pinch. A chef cooker is supposed to die tomorrow.

Bonnie is going to die tomorrow.

“Okay, well, I’m not gonna make potato samosas, then. Because you’re acting really weird, and I don’t wanna make you weirder than you already are.”

“Bonnie!”

“What? I didn’t say anything wrong!”

“Siffrin isn’t weird. He’s just- he’s just not feeling well right now. Right, Siffrin?”

“...Is he even listening? Frin? C’mon, Frin.”

“...Siffrin?” Mira asks, and she just barely brushes her knuckles against your cloak. You flinch out of your stupor, and she pulls her hand back to herself like she’s been burnt. “Sorry! Sorry- I’m sorry! It’s- it’s just that you weren’t responding, and, I think, you… should sit down? Maybe?”

It’s impolite to sit down if there’s only one chair. You smile.

“I’m fine!”

She seems utterly unconvinced. If anything, she seems– upset? Her lips are pursed, and she’s clutching her hands together like she’s trying to crush something to death between her palms.

“...Siffrin, I–,”

“I’m going to go see Isa,” you say, interrupting her. “He said he wanted to tell me something important, so I’m going alone.”

“Frin–,”

You leave.

“...”

“.......”

Isabeau rubs his arm awkwardly. The wind blows, and it smells like your grave.

“Hey, Sif? You, uh… You alright?”

No.

“Yes.”

He smiles at you and he looks like the sun. “Cool! That’s yes as in ‘No, Not At All,’ right? I’m glad we’re on the same page here.”

No! You didn’t mean that at all, actually. You meant yes as in Stop Asking Me~!!! You meant yes like Please Just Shut Up Already~!!! You meant yes as in LET ME JUST READ THE SCRIPT!!!!!!

“Sooooo?” He asks. “What’s wrong? Is it something you can tell your buddy Isa?”

No, you can’t.

You can’t, because you can’t tell him you just want to play pretend with corpses. That you want to sit in your graveyard and pick up his cold hand and dance with it. That you want to dig a hole next to all of your family and lay in it together, so you can be with each other even after your flesh rots. That you want to see him stiff with rigor mortis, not alive and bleeding and well.

“I dreamed about potato samosas that killed all of us,” you say instead. “Except me. I didn’t die to the potato samosas that killed all of us, because I abandoned all of you and left you to die. To the potato samosas. That I dreamed about. In a dream. That I had.”

Isa raises one of his brows, like he’s waiting for you to backpedal and tell him the truth. You smile.

“I dreamed about potato–,”

“Okay, yeah, I got it the first few times. Sif, seriously, what’s the matter? You’re not usually like this.”

It’s always him!! It’s always the Fighter and his perceptive, needling ways!! It’s always him, and you’re starting to understand now why stardust lost control of himself. Of course you’re not usually like this. You’re not usually ANYTHING. You’re a character! You’ve always been a character in a play, acting just as you’re supposed to, just as what’s appealing, just as what makes you forgettable!!

“Just nervous about tomorrow,” you say, lying as easily as you breathe.

“That’s a little better! What’re you nervous about? Anything specific?”

You’re not nervous. You’re calm. You’re rational. You’re in touch with your reality~! Which is why you’re unspeakably excited for tomorrow! You’re looking forward to when you all die together! Like a normal person!! You can’t wait for the climax of this dream!!!!!

And when you reach the end, you’ll wake up, and Isa will be older once again. His hair will be longer and his face will be fuller, and his ears will be decorated with a bonding earring that isn’t yours. He’ll laugh and smile and badger you about trying out a new name, and you will be forever paralyzed by indecision. 

“I dunno,” you say, trying to pretend like you’re not splitting apart at the seams. “What if there’s no bathroom?”

“No- No bathroom? Um. That’d, kind of suck??? But it’s a House, so I’m sure we’ll find one somewhere. Sif, are you sure that’s–,”

“I’m okay now,” you say. “As long as there’s a bathroom. I’ll be fine.”

Isa stares at you, and you’re sure you would find his expression hilarious if you weren’t actually rotting alive. 

You don’t say anything. There’s no dialogue prompt. You don’t know your cue. Isa fills the silence with a sigh.

“...Sif. Siffarooni. Listen to me, okay?”

YOU ALWAYS ARE.

“It’s fine to be nervous! I know I am. Tomorrow’s a big day, y’know? We’re going up against the King. It’s the King! We’ve spent our entire journey building up to this!”

He straightens up, raising a hand in a fist. 

“But we’ll be okay, because we all have each other! We’re all here for each other, and that means we’re here for you, too. We’ve all got your back! Because we’re companions! Comrades in arms! And we want everyone in our little crew to be ready for anything, right?”

YOU HAVE HEARD THIS BEFORE.

“Especially since… No matter what, tomorrow will be–,”

You interrupt him.

“I need to do the Favor Tree thing, Isa. Can you go?”

Isa jerks back like you’ve stabbed him. “W-What? Sif, I–,”

You grit your teeth.

“I need to make a wish, Isa.”

And then you smile.

“It’ll calm me down. If I make a wish at the Favor Tree.”

When you finally let yourself look at him properly, you… try to ignore how hurt he looks. You ignore the kicked puppy expression on his face, the way his fingers curl in on his palm like he’s trying to recede into a body that’s too big for him.

“...S-Sure, Sif. I’ll… leave you alone for now, yeah.”

No, you want to say. No, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it, please. Stay with me, please. Stay by my side. Tell me you won’t leave. Tell me that you love me. You don’t even have to say that. You can hate me, you can despise me, you can kill me with your own hands, just, please, don’t leave me–

“But we’ll talk about this later, alright? We gotta have a proper feelings talk before we head out tomorrow. I’m sure everybody needs one.”

When you don’t respond, he raises his hand like he’s going to put it on your shoulder. It hovers, inches above your trembling form, and– 

Returns to his side. As it’s meant to. Your stomach feels like a black hole in your endless form. You can’t bear to look at him.

“...Alright, I’ll get going, now. See you at the Clocktower, Sif.”

He leaves you.

You stand still, feet rooted to the ground. Your bodies are buried under here, still clawing at their coffins. Let us go, they say. Let us go! Let us decompose, let us rot, let us die!

You will not. Because you are not a kind person, and you have never been.

You step over to the Favor Tree, stardust’s silver coin burning in your pocket. You sit down on your casket, hands folded primly across the knees of your crossed legs, and close your eyes.

And you wait–

–until the sun sets and the sky is dark, at which point you stand up and dust your cloak off.

Dormont is already quiet. You thought there would be more commotion, considering they still have to prepare for a party tomorrow, but most people have already retreated into the safety of their own houses. 

Lamplight flickers gently, leading you past the distorted face of the Change God to the eastern part of town to the broken bridge. They repaired it not a few months after the King was defeated. Stardust and his friends didn’t stick around to watch it be rebuilt, but you did. You were too scared to follow them.

You hop over the bridge, trailing meteors in your wake, and walk down the short path leading to the tower.

You didn’t have to come here. You could have just stayed at your grave until dawn. You could have pierced your throat with your dagger. You could have cracked your skull open like an egg on the rim of a metal bowl on that blinding peel.

You didn’t, though. Because your life is characterized by fear. You haven’t died in years. You’re afraid of pain. You always were.

You open the door. It’s quiet. You think you can hear the sound of a table being set, obscuring the hushed whispers of your beloved, eternal family.

You silently draw closer, hand curling into a fist by the doorway.

“...I didn’t know what to do,” Mirabelle says, voice strained and thin. “Was– Was it something I said? He only started acting strange when he woke up and saw… me.”

“Aw, Mira. That’s not it, and we both know it. You said they just… started crying, right?”

“A-And apologizing, and– h-he let me touch him, Isabeau. Siffrin never lets us touch them…”

Because they never try.

“... I… noticed they were acting strange at the store,” Odile mutters, “but I didn’t realize they were…”

“Being a crabbing weirdo?” Bonnie asks. “I still dunno how they knew I was gonna make potato samosas today. I didn’t tell anyone ‘cept Dile.”

“And I certainly kept that to myself.”

“I mean, that’s… weird, but that could just be a coincidence, right? Maybe he saw what M’dame was buying.”

“Does this really matter??? We need to figure out what to do before they come back!! Which they could!! At any moment!!”

“We can ease into it over dinner, Mira. Have a nice, calm talk about our feelings, all that. He might even feel better after eating some of Bonbon’s cooking, y’know?”

“Y-Yeah! I… I hope so. Frin might just be hungry, Belle!”

You retreat back to the door of the Clocktower, opening it and closing it like you’ve just arrived. You hear Mira squeak– and then, footsteps.

Isa pokes his head out of the room, followed closely by Bonnie, clinging to his legs.

“Sif! You’re finally here! Took you long enough– Dinner’s ready!”

“C-C’mon, you crab. You’re probably starving by now!”

You are. You didn’t notice until this very second, but you’re starving. You’ve been starving for as long as you can remember.

When you follow them into the room, it all seems normal. Bonnie made the samosas after all, which you’re grateful for. At least some things never change. Mira is anxiously biting at her nails, and Odile has chosen to lean against the counter and analyze you with every fiber of her being.

“...”

Isa bumps against Mira, gently pulling her hands away from her mouth. “Ease into it, remember?”

She nods. “Ease into it. Ease into it…”

Odile huffs, pushing off the countertop to sit down at a seat of her choice. She picks up her tea and sips from it, calm and collected as ever. 

“...Well? You can all have fun standing around in awkward silence. I’m going to eat.”

Bonnie gasps, frantically clattering into their seat. “Nuh-uh! I’m eating, too! C’mon, guys, it’ll get cold!”

You all stream into your seats. Someone serves you up, and you don’t entirely see who it is. Pâté, bread, curry, carrots– your plate is overflowing by the time you blink, but you don't see a single samosa hidden in the pile.

Everybody starts eating. You stare at your food, mouth watering.

But you don’t eat yet. You’re still scared. You’re scared to death of change. 

They pause, too. Because they’re watching you. Their eyes haven’t left you since you arrived.

“…Sif?” Isa whispers, briefly setting down a samosa. “Buddy, you should eat something. Why don’t you try the pâté?”

You should.

You pick up a slice of bread, spread thick with pâté, and raise it to your lips. Your hand is shaking as it enters your mouth. Your stomach is screaming, screaming at you, the gnawing hunger in your gut eating you alive from the inside out.

You

bite down.

And chew.

The crust has a considerable and satisfying bite to it, but the inside is soft and fluffy. The pâté is smooth and buttery and it melts in your mouth, seasoned generously. It’s overwhelming. Everything’s happening at once, and you have to keep chewing. 

Once you swallow your first bite, you cram that piece of bread into your mouth with desperate fever before reaching for another. You can’t stop yourself. You haven’t eaten— Stars, you haven’t eaten in decades. You haven’t eaten! And there’s all this food, and it’s all yours, and you get to eat it!

You nearly dribble curry into your lap as you go to scoop some onto a slice of bread. You can’t hear the sounds of cutlery anymore, so everybody must have stopped to stare at you— but you don’t care. You don’t care. You’re famished. You shovel another mouthful of bread and curry and pâté into your mouth, slamming your fist against your solar plexus when you nearly swallow it all down the wrong pipe.

“S-Siffrin, you… You should slow down,” Mirabelle warns, and you know without looking at her that she’s dimly horrified, “O-Or, you might… choke?”

You bring your cup of tea to your lips and wash it all down, ignoring how painful it is when a wad of half-chewed bread struggles down your esophagus. You eat more. You eat more and more and more, until your plate is empty.

You need more. You’re not supposed to ask for seconds, because that’s impolite. You should always wait until someone offers, decline once, and then accept when they offer again.

“Are… you still hungry, Sif?” Isa asks warily.

YES.

“No! I’m fine!”

The monster in your stomach growls.

“I think that you’re lying!” Bonnie cheers, wisely, piling your plate back up with food. “I made a ton, so you can have as much as you want, Frin. I knew you’d ask for seconds!”

You keep eating. You imagine that the bread fisted in your hand is a live fish, ripping and tearing into it with your teeth, swallowing down blood and meat raw. You imagine its innards, bitter and acrid against your tongue.

“...This is uncanny," Odile finally says. "Even more so than usual."

“I-I mean, Sif… always eats a lot, right? And the food’s really good, so–,”

“Oh, do not try that with me, Isabeau. Though, the food is very well prepared, Boniface.”

“Really? I mean, of course it is!”

Isa taps his fingers on the table, a tense smile on his face. “...Sif, we should… We should talk about tomorrow–,”

Mirabelle abruptly stands up, slamming her hands on the table.

“SIFFRIN! YOU’RE ACTING VERY STRANGE.”

“Mira!?”

You jolt, dropping your half-eaten bread into your curry. You look around behind you, searching for stardust.

“Where are you looking?” Mirabelle asks, sounding scared. “I’m talking to you, Siffrin.”

“M-Mira, we said we’d ease into it!! Mira–,”

“Something– Something has to be wrong! Tell us what’s wrong!! Siffrin!!”

Oh, right~! Siffrin’s supposed to be you now!! Siffrin, Siffrin, Siffrin, Siffrin Siffrin Siffrin you’re SICK of that name!! That’s all they see, when they look at you! Even now, they see stardust’s face plastered on yours– Even when they’re supposed to be yours!! Even when you finally found the courage and wished to–

Even. When you… wished.

…You… wished?

You’re here because you made a wish?

“You’ve been quiet, a-and distant, and you were crying earlier, and– and you look so tired! Something’s wrong!! Tell us!!”

This… isn’t a dream?

Isa continues in his valiant attempt to do damage control. “Mira’s trying to–,”

“Belle’s right, Frin!” Bonnie interrupts, also standing in their seat. “You look really crabbing sad, and- and it’s BUMMING US OUT.”

“Guys, come on– wh-what they mean is–,”

Odile keeps her voice level. “Tomorrow is the culmination of everything we’ve built up to, and it would not do well for us if whatever’s possessed you today begins to affect your performance in battle tomorrow.”

“THEY’RE TRYING TO SAY–,”

“Please– just, talk to us, Siffrin. Please? We want to help you!”

You’re not dreaming.

“Oh,” you whisper. 

“Oh???” Mira echoes, clasping her hands together hopefully.

“I really messed this up.”

“What? Messed– Siffrin, where are you going??”

You stand up, setting your utensils down, and begin walking to the doorway. Isa rises from his seat to try and block your way out, but it’s Odile that makes it there first. She thrusts her hand out, barring your path.

“You’re not leaving until we’ve had a proper conversation, young one.”

Isa catches up, lining up next to her. “Come on, buddy, just– even I’m getting worried. Just talk to us!”

“Yeah, Frin! I dunno if this is adult stuff, but– but you can talk to all of us!”

“Just tell us what’s wrong, Siffrin!!”

You

(peel the skin off your face with your nails rip your hair out out of your scalp you scream and stamp your foot so hard into the ground that your bones puncture skin your body is frenetic astral energy and there is nothing there is NOTHING there is NOTHING BEATING IN YOUR EMPTY RIBCAGE)

smile!

“Okay~!” You say, clapping your hands together gleefully. “Okay!! I’ll tell you what’s wrong!! I’ll tell you all what’s wrong, just because you asked~!!”

Your party blinks.

“My name,” you snarl, “isn’t Siffrin.” 

Chapter Text

The room is dead silent. Confused. They’re all staring at you, and their eyes are the size of the moon.

You.

Y-You said– What did you say? Why- Why did you– You said something strange, you acted off, you went off-script, all you’ve been doing is going off-script and you’re– 

You’re supposed to be Siffrin right now. Meek, useless Siffrin, who destroys everything he touches. And Siffrin wouldn’t snap and break and crack the way you are. They’d turtle up and make themself small, take up as little space as possible, and they’d say sorry, don’t worry about me with their tail tucked between their legs and an ugly smile plastered on their face.

Siffrin isn’t supposed to tell his family that he’s dead. Siffrin is supposed to say his lines, Siffrin is supposed to–

Nausea seizes your body and you clam up, pinning your lips together to fight against the acrid taste of bile rising up your throat. You’ve broken out in a nervous sweat, nearly tripping on your own feet as you stumble back. You try to say something, but your voice comes out whispered and hitched, formless. Ice is crawling up your legs, pouring through your veins, and–

“Uh,” Isa shatters the silence, chuckling nervously. “...What, like, you wanna switch it up? That’s fine! Were you thinking about Changing, S- buddy?”

No, no, nonono, NO, NO, never, never again, you will never Change again, for as long as you persist. You will live and breathe and eat and bleed and die in this body, and you will find something that can beat in your chest instead of the vacuous hole that your heart was supposed to live in, or else– or else, you–

You don’t know what you’ll do. 

Is there anything left for you, if you can’t fill this hole? Will you just have to live like this, with this weeping wound puncturing your chest, forever? 

“No,” you finally manage. “N-no, I– I don’t… That’s– That’s not…”

“Buddy? Are you– Hey, you… aren’t looking too good. Can someone grab a seat– and, uh, maybe a bucket–,”

“If you would move out of the way, Isabeau, I would be happy to.”

“H-Huh? Oh, shoot, sorry, M’dame–!”

“I-It’s okay! They can use mine, it’s fine–,”

(you don’t want to be like this forever you don’t want to be like this forever not for another eternity you don’t want to be trapped in another prison not when you finally finally escaped you don’t want to be like this anymore please PLEASE–)

But before you can repeat yourself for the third time, someone pushes you back into a chair. Your butt hits the wood hard enough that it shocks you back into yourself, the harsh sound of the chair legs scooting against the floorboards making you cringe.

“Sorry!” Isa yelps, frantically waving his hands around. “I-I didn’t mean to knock you over like that! Are you okay?”

Are you okay? Yeah, you think you are. You’re fine. That hurt! That hurt, you’re sitting in a chair, and you think you’ll bruise tomorrow. You hope you do! You hope you get to see your blood mottle underneath your skin, darkening like a stain. You’ll bruise, and you’ll persist! You’ll suffer!! You’ll endure!!!

Why were you even thinking about something so stupid? You’re finally back! Who cares if you have a cavern in your chest!? Who cares if you’re barely a person!? You’re here!! You’re back!! You made it back!! This is real, you’re real, your family is real, and your ass hurts!!!!

“Peachy,” you say into the nebulous liminal space between characterizations. “Just peachy.”

“...”

“Get it? That was a pun about–,”

Odile groans so loudly she’s basically shouting. “Now. Is not the time. To be making butt jokes, Si– Young one.”

Ooh~! So many italics. She’s so mad! She’s mad at you! 

You giggle, and you think you must sound like you have a screw loose in your head. Maybe you do! There has to be some kind of drawback to having your head replaced by a supernova for ten something years. Maybe you were broken before that even happened, actually. Even Isa didn’t seem to find that one all that funny. You’re switching and shifting between so many discordant shocks of emotion that you can barely keep up with yourself! It’s no wonder he can’t follow your comedy routine.

It’s okay. He’ll learn eventually! Because you’re all together again, and this time, you’ll fix it all. You have another chance that you created for yourself, all without stardust’s meddling. You did this by your own power, not with the help of some pale, bloodless copy.

So you don’t need to freak out anymore. Like you were just doing. You’re calm now. You’re so calm now. Deep breaths, in and out, try not to laugh while you do. Tranquility. Peace.

Bonnie bursts back into the room, bucket in hands. You hadn’t realized they’d left in the first place.

“I BROUGHT THE BUCKET! IN CASE NOT-FRIN HURLS!”

And you can’t really help yourself, can you? Your giggles double down into raucous laughter, and you instinctively scrunch up into yourself as you laugh and laugh and laugh. You can hurl~!! You can throw up!! You can finally re-experience the feeling of stomach acid burning your throat from the inside out!! You missed vomiting!!! 

Sweet Bonnie stares at you, setting the bucket down by your feet. “Um.”

You’re tearing up, you’re snotting all over yourself, and you think you must have done this before, somewhere, somewhen. Laughing and sobbing like you’d finally gone insane. You think someone was there to ask you if you were okay, and you think you forgot their name. You wish you hadn’t.

The room is still silent, except for you. 

You finally manage to collect yourself, wheezing out another few, wispy laughs. You wipe a tear out of your eye with a sweaty glove and look at the preteen, whose jaw is currently plastered on the floor alongside the rest of your party. What a good laugh. Good times were had by all! 

And then you pick up the bucket and puke.

Okay! That didn’t go well. That didn’t go well at all and you totally goofed it up, but that’s fine. Mira’s got her hand wound tight in your hair, pulling it out of your face as you expel the rest of your meal from your stomach out into the toilet. You keep laughing in between retches, which only serves to nauseate you even further.

You think the others are cleaning up after your mess. You couldn’t quite keep your attention on them as you were whisked out to the washroom, but they’re not here with you. It’s just you and Mirabelle, and her hand is the only thing tethering you to the ground.

Once you have nothing left to bring up, you sit back, trembling. Mira, also quivering, hands you a paper to wipe your face with, along with a cup of water, and keeps one hand on your back. She flushes your shame down the toilet as you take a generous sip, sighing.

“...Water’s so good,” you say, very normally. “I should drink water all the time.”

Mira stares at you, dumbfounded.

“Um… Yes? You should?”

Of course you should!! It’s as easy as that! Why didn’t you drink water for so long? Are you stupid??? Maybe you are!!

You take another deep, whistling breath, trying to calm down the hiccuping laughter that keeps leaking out of you through all the hairline fractures in your body. This is so bad! You’re doing such a bad job!! You’ve never, in all your infinite lifetimes, done it this badly!!

“Are…” Mirabelle attempts, tracing every vertebrae of your spine with a flat palm. “You… feeling better?”

“Y–,”

“Okay that was the wrong question I’m sorry but I think if you say yes I’m going to get very upset so please don’t.”

You beam at her.

“I feel stellar!”

You’re so funny. Stars. Who let you be this funny? Eternal torment really does build character!

Your extremely tough crowd bites down on her lips, eyes glistening with… irritation, you think? No, that’s only half right. It’s not just that. Frustration is a better word. You’re frustrating her with your erratic, deranged behavior. What a thrill!

But it’ll be okay! Because as soon as this scene ends, you can take care of your business and start it all over again, and this time you’ll do it right . You’ll recite all of stardust’s lines and you’ll piss your family off magnificently, and then you’ll go through the House all by yourself and they’ll save you! They’ll save you, because they love you, and not stardust!

It’s a perfect, flawless plan. The Sadness that lives in you has more than enough material to work with, doesn’t it? Maybe you can become an even bigger black hole than stardust was. Supermassive, even. You’ll exceed that disgusting, whining fragment in every way, and you’ll delight in it.

“...I don’t appreciate the way you’re speaking to me right now.” Mirabelle finally mumbles, pulling you out of the brilliant tactical mindscape you were drawing up for yourself. “I-I don’t like being condescended and lied to, and– and I feel like you’re doing both to me right now.”

She always thought you were a mean person. Someone who toyed with other peoples’ feelings for your own selfish enjoyment. Someone who treated everything like a game, like a play. You always thought it was impressive, how she seemed to know that about you before you had the barest inkling of it.

“I’m sorry,” you say, suddenly feeling far more sober now that you’re looking back into the toilet bowl. Stardust’s face wibbles back at you, gaunt and haggard and decades younger. “I’m– I’m trying to…”

Trying to what? See just how bad it can get? Worry them on purpose, so you can force them to acknowledge your miserable existence?

She rubs your back. “...I know you’re trying. And- And I’m very glad that you are! But, I think… you need to try less hard at what you’re… trying at right now?”

You almost laugh. Maybe not the right thought to have preceded that line of dialogue.

“Wh-What I mean is!! I think, um… You should try… being honest. With me.”

The stardust living in the toilet bowl winces dramatically, and you can almost hear their voice ringing in your head. 

Just don’t forget, he says. You’re going to have to talk to them from now on. You said so yourself, didn’t you?

Mira’s hand pauses. 

Please. 

“...Please respond to me,” your Mirabelle says, and her gentleness is wasted on your damaged heart. “I-I need to know that you’re listening. I just– We want you to be truthful, Si– W-We want to help you! And we can only do that if we know what’s wrong.”

For your perfect ending.

You wonder if those words are a memory. It’s hard to recall what brought you here, for some reason. Probably the mental shock of having traveled so far from stardust’s timeline, if you had to give it a reason. 

You tear your eyes away from stardust and look at Mirabelle. At her soft face, painted by concern. You missed her. You missed her. Stars. You missed it when she looked at you.

“...I want to eat samosas,” you admit, destabilized and free-falling out of orbit. “I want to- I want to eat them.”

She doesn’t seem satisfied by that, but you think the tone of your voice must have convinced her that you were being genuine. “...I thought you didn’t like potatoes?” 

“I don’t,” you respond, almost choking up again. “But I missed eating things I hate.”

“You… missed it?”

You smile up at her, wobbly and longing. “I really did.”

She goes quiet for a moment, but then she takes your hands and stands the both of you up together. Vertigo assaults you for a moment, but she keeps you grounded. She keeps you real. You hope she never lets go, and she doesn’t.

She grins back at you, and you wonder if there is anybody on earth who deserves her love less than you. 

“We can go eat some, then. But eat slower this time, okay?”

When you finally leave the bathroom and return to the main common area of the room you’re sharing at the Clocktower, Bonnie and Isabeau are anxiously playing a game of cards. Odile is nowhere to be seen.

Bonnie catches sight of you as soon as you walk into the room, instantly abandoning their cards to scurry over to you.

“A-Are… you… you less pukey now, Not-Frin?”

You nod, letting Mira lead you back over to the chair that assaulted you earlier. You sit down at the table again like a child waiting to be served dinner, knees pressed together, toes pointed in, hands politely resting on your lap.

You rub your thumb along the back of your hand while she grabs a napkin for you, along with a samosa.

Isa sets his cards down, eyeing you cautiously.

“...You sure you wanna eat those, buddy? Bonbon said you… didn’t wanna eat them too much, earlier.”

“They said they wanted to,” Mira says for you, and you wish you could thank her. “And they should probably eat something, right?”

“I… guess if they want to. Good point.”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna eat anything else??” Bonnie asks, fingers twitching like they want something to grab onto. They keep clenching and unclenching their tiny hands. “I-I can make… I can make something else! Something that won’t make you throw up again!”

Their guilt seeps into you, and your gut churns. They must think it was their fault– but it wasn’t! It was never them! It was just you, with eyes too big for your stomach.

“...Please?” They say, finally pinching the hem of your cloak to get your attention. To get you to reach out, first, because they’re a child who needs comforting. “C’mon, Frin, please? I-I’ll… I’ll do better this time. I promise! I super duper promise, so–”

But your name is not Frin, and that means you don’t deserve to touch them.

Mirabelle sets your samosa down in front of you and sweeps Bonnie into a hug from the side, squeezing them close to her. They turn and press their face into her skirt, grabbing huge swaths of fabric to try and calm themself down.

“...You did just fine, Bonnie,” she says, smoothing their hair down. “You- You did…” 

She opens her mouth like she wants to keep talking, but nothing comes out. You take your samosa in both hands, taking a tiny nibble of it, and wait for the familiar taste of sawdust.

But it isn’t. It’s just a samosa, packed with garlic, scallions, cumin, and fluffy potatoes, seasoned to perfection. It’s a little cold now, but it’s still delicious. You don’t remember why you hated potatoes in the first place.

You took so much for granted, the first time around. You can’t believe how spoiled you were. Bonnie fed you so many delicious foods, and you let yourself get complacent! You let yourself grow apathetic to their care and consideration.

Maybe that’s why you failed.

You take another bite, samosa crunching deliciously between your teeth. You hear fabric and a sniffle, and realize Bonnie’s turned to watch your reaction.

“...’S it good?”

“It’s really good, Bonnie,” you say. “It always was.”

Little Bonnie grins at you, pearly tears dampening their lashes, and laughs. They release Mira’s skirt from their stranglehold and clomp back over to you, grabbing onto the back of your chair. They’re like a seahorse, you think, always wrapping their tail around the closest strand of seagrass so they don’t get swept away by the current.

“S-See? You didn’t have to be scared of samosas at all!” They say, bouncing. “I bet I could get you to like croissants again, too!”

You’re sure they could. You know they could, because you watched them manage it in a future that isn’t yours. You hope it can be yours, this time. You’d like to eat croissants again.

“Maybe,” you say, smiling softly. “Maybe we can have this talk again next time.”

“Next time?”

You can start collecting things to live for again. This might be a doomed loop, but you can carry all these memories with you into the next one. You take another bite of your samosa, chewing slowly.

Isa shuffles in his seat, tapping the corner of a card against the table to get your attention. You raise your head and look at him. Jack of Clubs. How fitting.

“Sorry!” he says, raising his hands. “Sorry– I know you’re eating, but… I. I just. Really think we should talk about what happened earlier, buddy.”

Right. When you started crying and screaming and throwing up. You’re really doing a great job at this “being back in your body” thing. You shift in your seat, resolutely tracing a knot in the table with your eye.

“Did something happen?” Isa asks. “Was it really just a nightmare? It couldn’t have been, right? You wouldn’t… have reacted like that, if it was.”

“Sh-Should we be talking about this when Madame Odile isn’t with us?” Mirabelle interjects, folding her hands together. “She should be included in this discussion, shouldn’t she…?”

“I’m here,” Odile suddenly cuts in, catching you off guard. You turn around and catch her standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Her coat is off, and without it, her willowy frame almost looks fragile. “Apologies for the delay. I was washing a bucket.”

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“I hope that apology is for keeping secrets, and not for throwing up,” she says, shutting the door behind her and leaning up against the counter. “Now then. We were talking about your behavior tonight?”

You shrink into your cloak and try to burn the pattern on the napkin into your brain instead of facing her judgment.

Isa laughs awkwardly. “Come on, M’dame, you’re making it sound like they’re in trouble! Which–,”

“He is.”

“H-He is not, actually–don’t listen to her, buddy, she’s just in a weird mood–and we should try to take this at whatever pace our friend wants to take this at, alright?”

“I dunno if that’s a good idea,” Bonnie says, managing zero volume control despite being right by your ear. “What if they start crying and hurling again?”

“I’m not cleaning the bucket this time.”

“ I’m not cleaning it, either! We should do rock paper scissors to see who cleans Not-Frin’s puke bucket next.”

“I-I can wash it…!”

“That is somehow the single worst option available to us, Mirabelle.”

“Yeah, Belle. You break dishes way too often.”

“I don’t– I don’t mean to! It’s just slippery!! I have slippery hands!! Also, it’s a bucket???”

Isa shoves his face into his hands. “I don’t know why I’m even trying to do damage control here. It never works.”

“I think you’re being very helpful! Keep it up, Fighter~!”

“Thhaaanks, dude. Wait, what?”

Got too comfortable for a second there. You try not to giggle, quickly looking away.

Isabeau shakes his head. “Okay, no. We’re actually talking about this, and we’re not getting distracted this time. What happened? You’re acting really weird, buddy. We wanna help!”

Well, you would, but you have no idea where to start! From the beginning, maybe? From the prologue? How do you contextualize to your companions that this life is an epilogue? An afterword in stardust’s tale? 

Is it worth subjecting yourself to this conversation if you’re just going to restart? You kind of don’t want to, to be honest.

You polish off your samosa and set the napkin down, shifting uncomfortably. You bring your hand up to your ear in a familiar hand sign, wiggling it noncommittally. 

“Um. Can I phone a friend?”

“...Can you what??”

“Stop speaking in tongues and answer the question, young one.”

You open your mouth to make another shoddy joke and suddenly clam up as a near uncontrollable spike of anger bolt through your system. You exhale loudly, retreating back into your shell of a body to kick things around in the privacy of your own head, and drop your hand back down onto your knee.

It’s hard!!!! You don’t know where to start!! And when you don’t know where to even begin, you have no idea how to explain yourself!! They don’t get it!! You’re trying!! You’re trying but you can barely tell when and where you are, you keep looking down at your hands and wondering why you can’t see stars, you keep burning and burning and burning, and—

Mira sees your tongue-tied, constipated expression and frowns, lacing her fingers together.

“...Would… it help if… we asked you something more specific? I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”

Finally. Stars, yes, that would help. You nod. Mira brightens.

“Okay! Okay, in that c–,”

“I’LL GO FIRST.” Bonnie blurts out, barely waiting a millisecond. “Why do you keep talking weird? You don’t usually talk like that. All… floaty. It’s weird!”

“Um,” you stammer. “I don’t know. I felt like it? I’m trying to get on someone’s nerves, but they’re not even here?”

“Who?” Odile asks, eyes narrowing. “Who are you trying to piss off?”

Mirabelle gasps. “Madame!”

“Please. Boniface has most certainly heard worse. I’d wager they’ve said worse.”

“I’m a responsible person and I don’t say swears in front of adults.”

“Except for the ones you do say.”

“Except for the ones I do say. You should answer the question, Not-Frin-Right-Now.”

You don’t hesitate. “Someone who died.”

The room goes quiet. Which makes sense. Because you just completely shattered the amicable, almost playful mood everybody had painstakingly built up. Everybody recoils except for Odile, who’s eyeing you suspiciously.

“O-Oh,” Mira breathes. You think she’s about to apologize, and that’s the last thing you want to hear right now, so you smile.

“I killed them.”

You don’t look at their faces. You don’t look at them, even though you’re staring straight at them. You put a planet over each of their horrified expressions, and remind yourself that you’re lucky to be a traveling comet in their solar system, even if it’s only for now.

You hear Bonnie’s boots step away from your chair, hesitantly retreating back to Mirabelle’s side. 

They’re frightened. They all are. Of you. Of course they’re frightened of you! You’re barely a person. You’re a piece of the Universe forced into a vessel that’s too small to contain you, fighting to shatter and swallow up your surroundings, to pull all light into your vacuous gravitational field until there’s nothing left. You bleed red and leave a trail of dead stars in your wake.

You’re a murderer. It’s for their own good that they learn sooner than later.

“W-Well,” Bonnie whispers, and you can hear their voice quiver with trepidation. “You– Y’know what?”

I hate you, Frin! I hate you, I hate you!

You wait for condemnation.

“THEY PROBABLY DESERVED IT!! SO!!!!!”

Your eye shoots open. Bonnie’s pressed up against Mira, but they’re staring straight at you, unflinching.

“...What?” you ask, the star in your chest stuttering and skipping a beat. “N-No, that…”

Odile huffs. “So much for trying to instill a moral compass in them.”

“I know my cardinal directions very well, Dile. The sun rises from the east.”

“Does it, now? I can’t wait to find out where it sets.”

“Th-That’s,” you stammer. “That’s not the–,”

Isabeau hums, crossing his arms where he is across the table. “Mmm, I mean… I like to think there’s good in everyone, somewhere. Everybody’s got the capacity for Change, right, Mira?”

Mirabelle nods. “Yes! Everybody deserves a chance to Change… It’s not our place to deprive someone of that. But…”

“But our gentle rogue wouldn’t just hate on someone without good reason,” he finishes, leaning back in his seat. “So they probably deserved it!”

Mira continues nodding. “If someone hurt you badly enough that you… that you felt the need to end their life, then… You probably had to. You wouldn’t hurt someone if you didn’t need to.”

Odile shrugs. “I won’t even pretend like I care about any of that. Some people deserve to die.”

“SOME PEOPLE DESERVE TO DIE!!!”

But– he didn’t. He didn’t! He never deserved to die, he never deserved to have you take his place–!!

Odile nods. “They must have been terrible, if even our fair Housemaiden agrees. And we all know that her word is basically law.”

“That’s right! And I say that it was deserved.” 

“YOU SHOULD TELL US HOW YOU KILLED THEM!!!!!!!”

“Okay, that’s going a bit too far, Bonbon. That’s adult talk.”

“What?? C’mon, Za, don’t be lame!”

“Oh, crab. You’re right. It was super lame of me to try and shield the child from possibly extremely gruesome depictions of violence.”

“Super duper lame.”

You can’t take this anymore.

You stand up so violently that your chair crashes thunderously to the ground behind you, slamming your hands on the table.

“Are– Were any of you listening to me!? Did- Did you hear anything I said!?”

All you can hear is the blood rushing through your ears, roaring and screaming like the ocean at high tide. Words are tumbling out of you before you can restrain yourself, falling out of every gaping wound and crack in your jigsaw puzzle body.

“I killed someone!” you shout, balling your hands up into fists on the table. “I killed them with my bare hands! I killed them slowly, every day, until I felt their pulse stop, until I felt their last breath, and- and then I ran. I ran from everything. I ran because I couldn’t take it anymore, and- and I left… I left everything behind! I abandoned everyone! I killed someone— Don’t you get it?!”

You abandoned them. You abandoned your family.

Isa raises a brow but keeps quiet. His expression pulls even more astronomically misplaced fury to the surface, and you thrust your arms up.

“Don’t– Don’t just LOOK at me like that! Say something! Don’t be a coward now of all times– tell me how sickening I am!”

He winces. “...I just… Y’know. You, uh. You do realize we’re on a journey to, uh… kill someone, right? Like, that’s the express purpose of our journey so far?”

You.

Are. That’s True. 

“No!” you yell, reaching up and tearing at your hair, the warped inertia of your emotions throwing you out of orbit. “Arrgh, no, no! It’s different!! You’re– You’re all different! You’re not me!! You don’t understand– you don’t understand what I’m saying!”

“But we’re trying to!” Mirabelle interjects, raising her voice to match yours. She steps into your space and snatches your hands up and you flinch but she doesn’t let go. “We’re trying to understand you. We’re trying to understand why you’re not Siffrin anymore! We want to help, even if you don’t think you deserve it!”

“But I don’t, Housemaiden,” you laugh. “I don’t! That’s what you’re missing! That’s the piece you’re missing– I don’t think, I know that I don’t deserve it. You wouldn’t, if you– if you knew–,”

“What don’t I know!?” she yells, eyes welling up with hot, frustrated tears. “Tell me! Just tell me! You keep saying that, but I won’t know until you say it!”

But you can’t. 

You can’t tell them that it was never just about Siffrin. You can’t tell them that you killed them, too, in every way that mattered.

You can’t tell them. Because you’re scared. You’re scared that they’ll stop loving you. You’re scared, because even this moment might be temporary. Because right now, they love you! They love you, and you know you are loved. And you are so selfish that you can almost stomach the fact that they love Siffrin, and not you.

But if you want to be loved properly, you need to tell them that you killed a member of their family. That you took their place like some kind of interloper. You have to tell them that he’ll never come back.

Mirabelle squeezes your hands.

“...Please. Just tell us.”

Mira stares at you with her wide, lightless eyes, like she’s waiting for a savior.

Everybody waits patiently for you as you flap your mouth like a fish out of water, taking in shuddering, sniveling breaths.

“...This is real,” you finally manage. “I’m real again. You’re all real.”

“We are,” Isa responds, clearly hesitant. “Do… you have problems with figuring out when stuff is real or not, buddy?”

No. Yes. Of course. Not at all. You know exactly what’s real, and what wasn’t. Not in the way he’s talking about, probably.

“This is real,” you say instead of a proper response, broken like that doll stardust loves. Like that doll you love. 

Mirabelle rubs your hands in her own, trying to warm up your frigid, twitching fingers. She can’t fix it, you want to say. They were the first part of you to burn up and turn to cold, dead rock. Your hands are a black dwarf star, desperately clinging to the faint, waning heat your core tries to generate.

“...It is,” she says. “This is real. We’re real, and so are you. And… it’s because this is real that we want to help.”

“Don’t you miss Siffrin?” you ask. “Don’t you miss him? Don’t you want them back, instead of me?”

“I… don’t think I know what you’re asking,” Mirabelle whispers. “Of course we do. We miss Siffrin. But... something happened, right? To the Siffrin we loved so much."

And now he's gone. And now you're here.

"And..." she continues, pressing her cheek against your hands. "...It doesn't change the fact that we love you. We care about you, even if you aren’t Siffrin anymore.”

It’s not fair. It’s not fair to Siffrin. They deserved this so, so much more than you did. They deserved to be here with them– he’s the one who fought. The one who fought, suffered, endured, persisted, smiled and smiled and sobbed and wished for anyone to please help.

It’s not fair that you get this. You’re sorry. You’re sorry you stole his epilogue from him. You're sorry that your perfect ending doesn't include him.

“Can I hug you?” Mira asks. “Please?”

Someone nods your head for you, even though you don’t deserve it. Mira pulls you closer and wraps her arms around you, drawing you tight, tight, safe, warm, into her embrace. Something else presses against your side, and when you look down, Bonnie’s latched onto the both of you.

You think you must be crying again, because your vision blurs. Your breath hitches, and you shove your face into the soft fabric of the cloak draped over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. “I wish I could be him. But I can’t. I can’t do it again. I have to keep him safe.”

“...Then you can be someone else,” Odile says. Mira turns her head to look at her, but you keep yours tucked safely against the crook of her neck. “And you can start by telling us who you are now.”

“Tell us what you want to be called, young one.”

Your name isn’t Siffrin anymore. Siffrin disappeared a long time ago, and it was only when you woke up at the foot of the Favor Tree that you truly realized that he was dead and gone. 

But he never stopped haunting you. You chained his corpse to your body and carried him with you everywhere you went, embracing his limp form and pretending they were your partner in this performance. You gazed into his closed eye, twirled his body around in a dim ballroom without an audience, and you pressed your forehead against the delicate curve of his knuckles to thank him for the dance.

Even now, you want to be Siffrin! You want to be Siffrin, you want to take yourself back, but you know, you know that you will never be Siffrin again, because Siffrin is dead! Because you buried him yourself, you kissed him good night, you made a wish to the Universe that his rest would be sweet. 

And you let him go. 

You will never be Siffrin again, because you love him too dearly to let him hurt any more.

…Who are you, then?

You think about the name stardust used for you. Something drenched in painful, dramatic irony, something that would remind you of your failures every time they came to see you. He was all that was left, and you only deserved to be identified by the worst of your traumas.

But he escaped. He escaped, and you are still here. He is not. You aren’t there to help them, because they don’t need help anymore.

“My… name,” you whisper, and you don’t understand why your voice is shaking like a leaf. “My name. Is…”

You are a star, desperate to find itself in a world that it doesn’t belong in. You are a piece of the Universe forced into a vessel that’s too small to contain you, fighting to shatter and swallow up your surroundings, burning yourself alive until all that will remain of you is your frozen core, floating alone in the vast expanse of space. 

“...Is?” Isa prompts, and his hand is on your shoulder, having risen from his seat in the short time you lost yourself in your head again. He doesn’t mean to be impatient. He's trying to coax you back into yourself.

You are a star, and Loop no longer serves a purpose.

“...Étoile,” you murmur. “I want to be called Étoile.”

“Étoile…” Mira echoes quietly. “...I think it suits you very well.”

Odile hums. 

“...Étoile it is, then.”

Chapter Text

“Well,” Odile says. “Étoile. I still believe that there are a few other questions that need answering before we move on and decide to wrap up tonight.”

You’re starting to feel like that date you have planned with your dagger is drifting further away with every second.

“B-But, you only have to answer them if we really need to know,” Mira reaffirms, hugging you again. “You don’t need to tell us how you killed people, or anything! Unless you, um, want to??? Maybe???”

“I still think that’s important,” Bonnie whines, voice muffled because it’s being projected directly into your bony hip. “We should take a vote. But my vote counts for one million, and you guys only count for one.”

“Oh?” Odile asks, audibly raising a brow. “You think my vote counts for less than yours?”

“Dile’s counts for two million because I like her. And Za’s is negative one.”

“That’s better.”

“I love how you guys act like I don’t have feelings.”

You don’t think you’d be able to answer that question anyways, so it’s fine. You close your eye in the comfortable darkness against Mira’s arm. She smells sweet in a way that you don’t, floral and fruity and comfortable, and you take a deep breath before realizing that’s kind of weird. Why are you sniffing her?? Is something wrong with you?? 

Mira giggles. “Oh, thank Change! You’re breathing again. I was getting worried.”

What? Were you not? No, you definitely were. And you certainly are now, considering how acutely self-conscious you are of your own breathing patterns now that she’s pointed them out.

“I should really start doing that too,” Isa comments, squeezing your shoulder. “It always seems like it works really well for you.”

Yeah, you’d sure hope breathing works well for you. What?

Bonnie exaggeratedly inflates like a balloon next to you, inhaling at unprecedented volumes. You’d compare them to a vacuum cleaner if you knew what that was, and it’s entirely obvious to you in that moment that this is some kind of narrative gag being set up for you to follow through with.

But you can’t actually figure out what they’re talking about. They deflate, blowing a raspberry into you as they do. The fart continues for maybe a solid thirty seconds of highly confused, blrlbrpbrblrt filled silence. Odile coughs like she’s trying not to laugh.

“It kinda works!” They cheer. “You should do it with me, Étoile. Before we ask you more questions and you maybe start crying again.”

You pull your head out from Mira’s shoulder and stare at Bonnie.

“You. Want me to fart with you?”

Someone who’s way too old to be laughing at fart jokes snorts in the back of the room before excusing herself because she needs a glass of water.

“Um,” Bonnie says, leveling you with a scathingly judgemental expression. “No. That’s weird. I was talking about your deep breathing thing?”

Ohh, right, of course! You’re so comically stupid that it’s not even funny!

“But, I mean, I guess you could fart if you wanted to embarrass yourself,” they snicker. “It’d be funny.”

“Please don’t fart while I’m hugging you,” Mirabelle begs. “This is a very important moment for me.”

“I can’t fart on command, Mira.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!”

Odile comes back into the room, clearing her throat. “New challenge for the saviors of Vaugarde. We can start small by trying to stay on topic for five minutes.”

“W–,”

“That means no farting, Isabeau.”

“I WASN’T? GOING TO SAY THAT??”

You can feel Mira and Bonnie quiver with laughter, pressed against you, and you think you must be as well. It’s nice to laugh without that underlying tension of neurotic anxiety. 

Odile steps over to the table and pulls up the seat she was sitting in at dinner, pushing her glasses up. “Let’s all sit around the table and have a formal discussion about this all.”

Mira releases you, and things happen in a blur. Isa stands your chair back up, Bonnie shoves you onto it, and in the short time you take to process the shift in perspective, everybody’s also taken a seat.

Bonnie props their elbows on the table and laces their fingers together, an ill-suited and joking scowl plastered on their face. “Let’s talk Business. My fellows.”

“Indeed we will,” Odile responds, fond beyond comparison. “Étoile. I believe that we’d best start by discussing what it is that you actually dreamed about. Are we in agreement?”

Isa mutters hear, hear as Mira nods. Bonnie echoes the both of them, still cartoonishly serious.

You really wish they would ask you easy questions. Like, “what are your pronouns,” maybe. Or “did you like dinner today,” even. Maybe “what’s your favorite animal?”

You pick at your gloves, looking down. The leather sticks to your skin, dragging, crawling, like thorns hooking into your flesh. You wish it hurt more.

“...”

“Every second of silence is another five minutes on the ‘staying on topic’ timer, Étoile.”

“Ugh, fine,” you groan. “I forgot how pushy you could be.”

Odile’s eyes widen like she wasn’t entirely expecting your retort, but then she smirks. “I’m quite stubborn about things that catch my attention, you’ll find.”

You know.

You’ve basically had this conversation before, but it was about someone else. You’ve never been the subject of the discussion, but… you can try to use it as a guideline, right?

So. Where did you start last time?

THE FOOL (V.O.): If you’re looking for your Siffrin, they’re in the House.

That’s just so beautifully applicable. Great start, really. Do you really have no script for this? Nothing at all? Next line.

THE FIGHTER: Who’s there!? 

THE RESEARCHER: Isabeau, step back.

THE FOOL emerges from beneath the Favor Tree. They can’t seem to make eye contact, rubbing their arm. They’re silent for a moment.

THE HOUSEMAIDEN: Wh-Who…

THE KID: Who are you!? How do you know Frin!?

THE FOOL searches the gazes of their family, desperate for a spark of recognition, and

finds nothing.

You hate yourself for wishing stardust was here. You hate yourself for always wishing, wishing, wishing. Maybe that’s why nothing worked for you? You kept overlapping stupid, useless wishes, and the Universe got sick of lending an ear. Like a character from a children’s book, a moral of a story— like an origin that gets subsumed by a copy.

“It…” Isabeau hesitates, and his voice is measured in a way that you recognize. He’s stepping around fragments and shards of bone, carefully navigating through the warzone of damage that you’re capable of. “...It wasn’t a dream at all, was it?”

They really just can’t stand to let you take your time, can they? 

He notices your dark expression and cows, shrinking back. “I-I, just thought we were still doing that guessing thing? Sorry, Étoile.”

“No,” Odile mutters, “there’s no reason for you to apologize. I sincerely doubt they intended on telling us themself. I was planning on cornering them into admitting that, anyways.”

So considerate of your feelings, as usual.

“B-But, how could… How could it not be a dream?” Mira asks. “We saw him leave for the meadow ourselves. They couldn’t have possibly gotten into something in such a short time…”

“That’s exactly why, Mira,” Isa continues. “I won’t act like I have any idea what happened, but… it couldn’t have just been a dream. This just isn’t normal.”

“My, thank you,” you mutter dryly. “So kind of you to notice.”

Of course he would, though. Kind, compassionate Isa, who loves Siffrin so dearly. Isa, who notices everything about him. Isa, who’s always, always watching you.

“Duh,” Bonnie says, not quite catching your sarcasm. “People pay attention to stuff they like.”

“B-Bonbon, c’mon…”

“Ew.”

You wonder if you would have blushed, if you were dumber.

“Our challenge, everyone,” Odile reminds, trying to scoot you all back on track.

“...It’s a lot,” you finally say. “It’s a lot of spoilers. For maybe the next… what, fifteen years of your vastly successful and celebrated lives? I don’t really know. I stopped counting. It’s not like I was involved.”

Mira seems disturbed by that, which was wholly intentional. She shuffles uncomfortably in her seat as Odile’s scrutiny intensifies.

“...You mean to imply that you’ve seen into the future, somehow?” Odile asks.

“I don’t think I was implying very much,” you respond. “That was fairly direct, wasn’t it? I’m something of a prophet, if you think about it!”

She frowns at you, clearly displeased by how casual you’re being about all this, and you giggle. What else are you supposed to do? Contrary to how you’ve been acting for the last few hours, you actually don’t like crying. Your eyes are getting puffy and hideous, and you’ve had about enough of it. And what are you, without your sense of humor?

You cross your legs, leaning back into your seat. “That’s not really the part that matters, anyways.”

Odile nails you to your chair with a disbelieving stare. “Prophetic visions of the next fifteen years of our lives aren’t relevant.”

“Um. No? Probably not? Also, I said fifteen years of your lives. Don’t include me in that!”

“I-I don’t understand, Étoile,” Mira stammers. “I… I’m trying to follow what you’re saying, but– it, it feels disconnected?”

“Yeah, I don’t get what they’re saying at all,” Bonnie admits with perfect clarity. “But, you saw the future, right? Did we beat the King?”

Your body freezes solid, and you wonder for a second if you’ll ever forget how it feels to be frozen in tears and time. If you’ll ever forget how it feels to be drained of all the blood and stars that course through your veins.

We didn’t, you want to say. We lost. You watched him squeeze Mirabelle’s limp corpse in his hand, fling her around like a ragdoll, splattering her body across the floor. You watched Odile’s foamy, bloody spittle fly as she cursed the King until her rattling breaths finally stilled. You listened to Bonnie’s sobbing, desperate escape. You watched Isabeau reach a blood-slicked hand out to you, a final, desperate bid to tell you his feelings in the last moments of his flickering life. You watched him fail.

And you replayed that moment thousands of times, just because you wanted to feel something.

…Were you always this prone to nausea? You don’t think you were. You don’t want to think about this anymore.

Mirabelle’s expression twists into horror as your silence drags on. 

“...We lost,” she finally breathes. “We lost, didn’t we?”

But it’s never that simple.

It could never be enough to just lose. You had to watch someone else win in your place. You had to watch stardust steal everything from you– you had to watch, you had to sit there, you had to be that ugly, inelegant bystander to your own story.

And it was your own blinding fault.

You try to ignore the seething acid in your chest and attempt to cobble together your next line. 

“...We did,” you say. “We did. So I ran away! I abandoned you all, and never looked back. I reinvented myself from the ground up to escape from my past! Can you tell that this is a running theme in my life?”

“That can’t be…” Mira tries, but she seems nauseous herself. She can’t finish her sentence. Odile frowns.

“...Your story’s still incongruous, Étoile,” she says, prying, prying, prying into your ugly, soulless body. “You’re clearly trying to imply that you… were the only survivor against the King, and yet you claim to have memories of our futures. That shouldn’t be possible.”

You avert your eyes, desperate to maintain your impassivity. “...Rather strict ruling for something you know nothing about.”

“How, then? Explain it to me, clearly. Delineate the process.”

You bite your tongue so hard you taste iron, grinning up at everyone and moving to rise from your seat.

“Wow, everyone, I just noticed how late it’s getting~! Shouldn’t we be heading to sleep s–,”

“Delineate the process.”

“Stars, you are awful,” you shout, slamming yourself back down on your chair. “Fine!! Fine, okay!!! You asked for it! Let me just list it all out for you~!”

If she wants to hear it, she can! You don’t even care anymore!! She asked for it!! She asked to hear this!! You open your mouth and–

–you rasp. A hideous whine, pitched shrill and keening in the back of your throat. Your eyes are pinned wide, and you feel like you could throw up blood. Your body tenses, your fingers seize up, you start trying to hide in your stupid, empty husk again, and– ooh, if you weren’t stuck in this stupid, blinding scene with them, you could have been over with this ages ago!!! It’s their fault that you’re stuck talking about this and it makes you sick, it makes you feel like your organs are turning inside out in your flesh, this ugly, grotesque roiling sensation in your gut–

But it’s not. It’s not their fault. Your terror is your own fault. For all your bravado, you can’t speak and it’s your own fault because you’re a coward. You can’t escape yourself, no matter what. They’ve given you chance after chance to say it yourself, but you’re just broken! You can’t say it! You can’t say it, and because you’re inescapably broken, you’ll never see the end of this play!

It’s your own fault!! This is supposed to be your perfect ending. This is supposed to be it! This is supposed to be a triumphant moment, but you keep ruining it for yourself by breaking down like some pathetic, lost child! 

But you have to talk. You have to, you know you do, but you didn’t want to do it here, not now.

“Étoile, if you—,”

“Be quiet, Fighter,” you spit, venom boiling you from the inside out. “I can handle a blinding conversation without your help.”

You won’t lose. You refuse to lose. You will not lose to stardust, not here, not now, not ever again. You’ll say it, you’ll say what he couldn’t, you’ll say it and you’ll do it all yourself.

Isa shrinks like the wallflower he is, wilted and poisoned and far too beautiful for you. “S-Sorry.”

“Scene one,” you grit out, clutching your chest like you have something left there to pulse in place of an empty, dead galaxy. “Mirabelle wakes you up in the meadow after a nap.”

Mirabelle nods slowly, wringing her hands. She waits for you to continue. You wish she wouldn’t. You wish she’d stop you. She’s supposed to hate spoilers. She’s supposed to say no, please, I don’t want to hear this.

“Scene two,” you continue, and you don’t allow yourself to wish you were anywhere else but here. “You speak with your- your party. You speak with your party on the day before the world ends, and you burn their names into your memory.”

Scene three, you think. You head to the Favor Tree and you pick up your dagger. You drive a stake into your heart and you wish and you wish and you wish until you bleed bright, bright red into your casket, your grave, your only witness besides the Universe and its infinitely compassionate gaze.

“Scene three,” you say instead, voice stuttering as something burning and molten courses through your body. “You visit the Favor Tree, and you make a wish.”

Scene four. A star erupts from your eye, shredding your skin and deconstructing you to the base components that supernovas flung across the Universe at the dawn of Its creation. The Universe carves a crest into your chest and shatters your skull, and you are, in that moment, irreversibly infinite.

You falter. You let silence hang in the air again, poignant and weighted with aching, crushing guilt.

“A wish?” Odile asks, filling the gap. “What do you mean?”

“I can answer!” Bonnie says, pushing up against the table and raising their hand high. “The Favor Tree listens to prayers, and if you believe hard enough, your dreams’ll come true. Didn’t you know that, Dile?”

“Of course she did,” you mutter. “She made a wish herself.”

Odile raises a brow, surprised.

“...I did. What did I wish for, Étoile?”

“To win a coin toss.”

You remember all of their wishes. To save Vaugarde, to see their sister again, to win a coin toss, and… to save stardust. Not you.

“That was another secret I kept to myself,” she says. “You really did… see the future, then. How could that be possible? The Favor Tree shouldn’t be capable of what’s tantamount to magic.”

You laugh. “What, you don’t believe that believing is enough to make your deepest desires come true?”

Bonnie winces, retreating from the conversation. Isa notices, scooting his chair a little closer to them so he can place a hand on their shoulder. You imagine gutting yourself with a broken shard of glass, and say nothing to reassure them.

Odile narrows her eyes. “I do not. And clearly, it isn’t— if we failed in battle against the King, it would mean that the wishes of the vast majority of Vaugardians went unheard and ungranted. It has to be something else.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Kind of! You’re almost there! But I don’t blame you for not figuring it out. None of you could, even if you tried.”

“And what do you mean by that?” she asks, and you try not to laugh at how clearly peeved she is that you doubt her investigative powers. If she were from your country, your homeland, maybe she would be able to— but you’re alone, isolated, wholly unique in your suffering. What a blessing.

“Even I couldn’t figure it out alone,” you say. “It’s hard to know about something that doesn’t exist anymore, right?”

Isabeau is looking at you strangely. He shares a concerned glance with Odile, and they have some kind of telepathic conversation that you’re not allowed to be privy to. You miss being able to read between the lines.

“Then… what did you wish for, Étoile?” Mira finally asks, soft and sweet and so, so scared. “You still haven’t told us.”

An escape. A savior. A hand, reaching out, to pull you from the dark. Someone who would understand, when no one else would. 

“To leave you all behind.”

You don’t look at her. You don’t look at any of them. You focus on a hand that’s supposed to be yours, a hand that you’re supposed to recognize, and feel no familiarity.

Mirabelle purses her lips. “…I don’t believe you.”

You laugh sardonically. “Does it really matter, what exactly I wished for? The end result is the same, isn’t it?”

“It does matter!” She says, so upset that her voice breaks. She takes a short, quick breath to calm herself down. 

“Earlier, at the meadow, you told me that you dreamed we all died. And I said that we wouldn’t blame you, because I know you would have done everything you could have done to prevent it.”

“A-And, now,” she continues, “I know that wasn’t a dream! You must have tried. You must have tried in every way you could to keep us safe, and I– I can’t imagine how horrifically we must have died for it to have hurt you like this, but– but it doesn’t change the fact that you tried! A-And, I…”

She goes quiet again, nervously sorting through her busy, anxious thoughts.

“...I keep remembering what you said,” Mira whispers. “You ran away and saw decades into our futures, but… you haven’t… said anything about yours. You said you weren’t included.”

Scene five. You wake up, and you are empty, empty, empty. You wake up, and you will never be yourself again. 

“...Étoile,” Isabeau quietly says, and you hate yourself for the spark of hope you feel when you hear his voice again. Brave, courageous Isa, who tries so hard even though he’s afraid. Even though you just snapped at him. Even though you hurt him. Even though you let him die. “Where did you go?”

Scene six. You meet all that’s left.

When you fail to respond, he continues. “I might be wrong about this, so… you can totally ignore me if I’m off the mark. And I’m sorry for speaking up even though you told me to be quiet.”

You forgive him. You would always forgive him, a thousand times over. He never has to apologize to you. He could sink his hand into your chest and tear your lungs from your broken rib cage, he could squeeze your throat till your spine cracked and leaked cerebrospinal fluid, and you would forgive him. You deserve it, you deserve it, you deserve it.

“But I don’t think you went anywhere at all.”

He’s always been too smart for his own good.

Odile’s eyes widen. And she stares at you.

“I think you died,” he says. “That’s what you meant, when you said you killed someone. You– You must have sacrificed yourself. You died for us, so we could live.”

You don’t respond. Isabeau lets out a jilted laugh and smiles anxiously. He leans in across the table, nervousness painted across his every action, and he’s trying to reach out to you like you could ever take his hand. He doesn’t know that you’re universes apart. He doesn’t know that you’re in retrograde, that you’re a star a million lightyears away from your home. 

“Come on, Étoile, I- I need a little more than just silence, buddy. I know it’s a ludicrous theory, but I’m trying to–,”

Laughter bubbles out of you, and you’re almost caught off guard by the fact that it originated from your own body. You giggle until you can’t breathe, wiping a tear from your eye with a finger.

“Is it really that unbelievable?” you say, body still shaking with trembling, disingenuous laughter. “Was your opinion of Siffrin really that high? You really think they wouldn’t just give up the moment they felt it was impossible!? You barely knew them! They barely knew themself!!”

You scoff incredulously, waving a flippant hand as your single, bloodshot eye slips shut. “ Sacrifice. What a joke. I’ll give you points for humor, Fighter~! Don’t you see that they abandoned you all?! As if that disgusting little monster could care about anything but their own selfish wishes—,”

Someone knocks you over the head, so hard that your hat falls off. It doesn’t hurt, but the shock forces your eyes back open and you clutch at your skull to shield from the blow, reeling. “What was that for—!?”

It’s Bonnie. 

Standing at the chair, tiny hand still raised, balled up and quivering. Their lips are smashed together so tightly that you can see the creases and divots in their chin, tears welling up and spilling over their round, flushed cheeks.

“Don’t talk about Frin like that,” they say, voice warbling like a songbird about to die. When you open your mouth to respond, they cut you off by bringing their fist down on the closest thing they can reach, your shoulder, and shout. “DON’T TALK ABOUT FRIN LIKE THAT!!”

They hit you again, and again, and again, tiny, useless fists pelting against you as they cry. They’re saying something, but it’s so unintelligible that you can’t parse what they mean, and– you don’t know what to do. You’re supposed to comfort them, but they’ll hate you if you do. Isn’t that what you want? Why else would you say any of this? Why are you hesitating?

Every raindrop that hits your skin is gentle in its arc, softened by love you’re undeserving of. This is grief, you realize, grief, the only expression of love you can recognize anymore, and their little body is only capable of holding so much before it all comes crashing out of them, like the tide against lightless sand. 

No, you want to say. I’m sorry, Bonnie. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just wanted you to hate me. I just wanted you to let him go, so it wouldn’t hurt anymore. You don’t have to grieve for someone who never existed. Please. Please, I don’t want to hurt you anymore.

They keep hitting you.

“Frin cares,” they say, mucus dripping from their nose as they frantically and clumsily wipe their face between punches. “Frin cares! Frin cares!! Frin loves us!! Frin loves us, and- and now– now they’re gone? And I don’t get it, and you’re– and you keep being mean, and– and…”

Their breath hitches, and their rain of fury dwindles to stillness. You remain petrified. Rooted. A ghost trapped outside your ill-fitted, oaken casket.

“Bonbon…”

Isabeau’s out of his chair, moving to pull Bonnie away from you. They frantically shake him off, twisting their fingers into the fabric of your cloak like a starfish on a rock. 

“I don’t get it,” they whimper, confused and lost and scared and searching for the comfort they used to seek from Siffrin. “I don’t get what– wh-what anyone’s saying. Frin– Frin wouldn’t abandon us! Frin wouldn’t!”

But they would. They would, they would, they would. And you’re sorry! You’re sorry they did! You’re sorry, you’re sorry!! You’re sorry! If only you’d been stronger! If only you’d been smarter! If only the script the Universe handed you wasn’t a tragedy, if only you’d never been born, if only, if only you’d just held on longer! Maybe you’d still be Siffrin, and maybe you’d still be—

They shake your cloak, pressing their face against the darkless wool and soaking it with tears.

“Why– why… why aren’t you Frin anymore? Where did Frin go? Where’s— where’s my— where is he?”

I’m sorry, you want to say. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He loved you. He loved you, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He loved you. I still love you! I’m sorry!

Isabeau kneels down by Bonnie and pulls them into a hug, running a hand through their hair as they shake and weep. They keep calling out for Siffrin. They keep asking where he is. You can’t answer.

Odile sighs.

“…Étoile.”

You’re sorry. You’re sorry. But you can fix this now, right? That’s why you’re back! You can finally fix this!! That’s what you wished for—

“ Étoile.”

You jerk back to attention. Mirabelle is crying again, face turned away from the sight of it all, and Odile… is watching you, expression inscrutable.

“…”

She sighs again, shifting in her seat.

“…I think you ought to tell us what happened. Without any of that… obfuscating nonsense. In… simple terms. So we can all understand.”

You still don’t want to.

But you have to, the stardust that lives inside of you now says. You have to. You promised me before you left. For your perfect ending.

Your perfect ending.

Would it really, truly be perfect, if you just traced stardust’s path? If you followed his trail of cosmic dust, delicately dancing around what actually matters? Step in, step out, avoid the fallen glass, follow the already beaten path, and never deviate from your script?

Is that really the right answer?

Bonnie is still crying. Their hands are fisted in Isabeau’s shirt, the skin of their knuckles stretched taut and pale. 

“He made a wish,” you finally whisper, centuries away from your orbital path. “He made a wish for something. And it twisted and broke and failed and rotted, and he never escaped it.”

You should tell them what you wished for, stardust says. You should be honest.

But you’re not ready. You can wait a little longer, can’t you? You can wait a little longer. You’re scared. You’re still scared. You don’t know if you’ll ever break free from this fear.

“He never escaped it,” you say again. “But I did. I ran away and left you all behind because I couldn’t keep going anymore.”

Odile’s eyes never leave yours.

“...Étoile.”

You already know what she’s going to ask.

“...How many times did we die to the King?”

Hundreds. Thousands. You don’t remember. You never had the luxury of counting your loops.

Her gaze softens when you don’t respond. With sadness, maybe. Bitterness. You wish it was sharper than that. You wish it was disgust. Hatred. Fear.

She mutters something to herself in her native language, resting her elbows on the table to rub at her face under her glasses. She takes a deep, measured breath.

“...And we didn’t win a single time?”

“Once,” you answer, shame and despair and sickening, sickening guilt reaching up and ripping you to shreds. “But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t an escape.”

His hand in yours, swaying gently. Her palms, cupping your face, a thumb brushing against your decaying eye so gently that it felt like a feather. Cantaloupe, swirled under your tongue. A reassuring voice, kind beyond measure. Your life in their hands, safe, protected, warm. A debt you failed to repay.

She sighs, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world is crushing her. 

“...I see.”

“I-I don’t,” Mirabelle says, sniffling. She’s still trying valiantly to follow the conversation despite the emotional hurricane she’s getting flung around by. She’s so brave, you think. You wish she knew that. “I still– I still don’t understand. What do you mean, it wasn’t an escape?”

“They were trapped in some kind of time, spiral, thing? I think?” Isabeau explains, picking Bonnie up in his arms and balancing them on his hip. “At least, that’s… the impression I’m getting. That’s what you were thinking, right, M’dame?”

She hums a wordless response, face still obscured. This is your fault.

“And, I… guess the cycle didn’t end even after we beat the King. So they must have made another wish to– to… at least save us.”

You open your mouth. Isabeau glares at you.

“Our lives and not yours, remember? You said it yourself. I’m not as dumb as I look, you know.”

You know. You always did. You press your lips together.

“...How is it that you’re back, then?” Mirabelle asks. “If you… If Siffrin truly died for us, then… How did you come back? How did we defeat the King without you?”

Fragments of glass and sand pour out of your mouth, pooling on the floor.

“I let someone else do it for me.”

“...Who?”

Your reflection stares back at you.

“I called him stardust.”

Chapter Text

“I call him stardust,” you correct yourself. “But you all ought to call him Siffrin. That’s… my nickname for them.”

“...Huh?”

Of course that’d be confusing.

“Maybe something else, then,” you muse. “They went through a few names. The Traveler. The Wanderer. Um… I suppose they were the Lost One for a while, but nobody really likes dwelling on that whole debacle.”

“None of those really sound like names,” Isabeau frowns. “We… can call them, uh… Otherfrin, maybe? Since, you’re kinda making it sound like they’re a different person from you?”

It’s almost nice, being indirectly acknowledged as Siffrin 1 for a change. You always were, but it’s relieving to be reminded that you did come first.

“Hardly an inspiring moniker,” Odile remarks. “I would have thought one of our resident pun enjoyers would have come up with something a little more witty.”

“I’ll have you know I was holding myself back for the sake of maintaining a serious and professional atmosphere, M’dame. I’m being merciful.”

“Missed opportunity to call him Sifauxrin,” you comment. Isa actually snorts, which you consider a victory.

Odile sends you a dry, disappointed glare. “I’m glad you’ve at least preserved your terrible sense of humor, despite… everything. Now, back to the topic at hand. Consider that our thirty second intermission.”

“Didn’t even give us a chance to get up and stretch our legs, huh, M’dame?”

“And risk this slippery thing bolting out the door? Don’t think I haven’t seen the way he keeps eyeing it.”

Guilty as charged. You’ll get your chance eventually. 

“Wait, so,” Mira stammers, “A different… Siffrin… A Sifwrong… saved Vaugarde? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Um. Yes,” you respond. “I suppose that is what I’m saying, isn’t it?”

“I’m still confused,” Bonnie mumbles, cheek squished against Isa’s shoulder as they twist their neck to see you better. “How’d Twofrin even get there?”

“What even is the bit here right now,” you ask. “Are we just making up names for fun? Is this the allocated two paragraphs of idiocy per chapter?”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it. Why don’t we just put it to a vote? Who’s in favor of Siffrin?’

Funny way of wording that, and an even funnier result of nobody raising their hand. Get fucked, stardust. You giggle to yourself.

“Too confusing,” Isa remarks. “We’re still getting used to your name being different.”

“Fair! Not Siffrin, then. Thoughts on Otherfrin?”

Mirabelle and Odile raise their hands, and you nod. “Otherfrin it is, then.”

“What?!” Bonnie exclaims, jamming their sticky palm against their face to paw at their drippy nose. “Why?? You didn’t even ask about the others.”

Isa clicks his tongue, pulling out an embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and wiping their face for them. “Silly Bonbon. Don’t you remember? M’dame’s vote counts for two million. We just have to admit defeat...”

“No,” they retort, deathly serious. “If I raised both my hands, I’d have two million votes, too. And if you voted, Belle’s vote wouldn’t count, and I could still win. That’s how math works.”

Is that how it works?

Odile raises her other hand in the air without a moment to waste. “Four million and one. We’re sticking with Otherfrin or I’ll never find the answers I’m looking for. Now, please, back to our discussion. Explain how this other Siffrin came to be.”

Explain how he came to be. She says it so easily.

You part your lips to respond anyways.

(you think you might have thousands of maggots writhing under the surface of your skin, underneath your cloak. you rub your arms, again, again, again, but you can’t get them out— all you do is smash their putrid, wriggling bodies, smearing lightless blood and microscopic organ tissue into your flesh. maybe they think you’re still a corpse? they wouldn’t be wrong.)

You grit your teeth and force yourself to say it.

“...I used Wish Craft.”

Ash, ash, ash, a pyre built out of bows of palm and acacia, a glass funnel spun from lightless sand, a mahogany boat decorated with four leaf clovers pushed off to sea. The corpse of your ephemeral, childish body, hands folded over your heart. A funeral you never received.

“Wish Craft,” Odile repeats quietly. “So it is Craft. And you say it doesn’t… exist anymore?”

No. Wish Craft is as infinite as the Universe is, unending and fathomless. Even if it were possible to wipe it from this reality, it would persist in every other; and if the Universe encompasses all that is, and all that can be, it couldn’t possibly be eradicated.

The same doesn’t go for your home. Your country. Your home, the stars, the constellations dotting the sky and your skin. The maggots thrashing in your body must be stars, you decide— stars that are displeased by the rotting prison you’ve wished yourself back into.

“It still exists,” you mutter. “That’s not what vanished.”

“....What did?” Mira asks.

You don’t answer. Odile frowns. 

“...Would knowing that facilitate our ability to understand what’s going on?”

You shrug. “Would understanding the creation of the Universe as we know it help you understand how silver pins are made? Maybe. Or it could just confuse you, and drag this talk on longer than it already has.”

Nobody seems all too convinced by that answer, but your core is rapidly cooling off, leaving you dead in space. Clarifying misunderstandings, explaining concepts that drive a spike through your cranium and hammer them in, talking, talking, talking— you want to read your lines. You don’t want to do this anymore. You hate upsetting them. You hate making them sad.

“You were right, earlier,” you continue. “Belief isn’t enough. Wish Craft isn’t magic— it gives you methods, coincidences. Boundless time. And… mine created stardust. A perfect imitation, capable of everything I was, and more.”

“They saved Vaugarde. Him and his stupid family. He got his perfect ending, and I…”

The soft, delicate flesh of his throat, tender under your thumb. Their pulse, rabbiting against your palm. Blood running in rivulets across his darkless skin, crimson. Eye wide with herbivorous, mortal fear. You were predator and prey in that moment, your teeth hovering over his jugular, ready and starving and desperate for the stench of iron against your tongue. He’ll be denied the funeral you were destined to have, and it’ll be because of you.

“I was weak.”

Being weak isn’t a bad thing. You almost regret saying it as soon as the words leave your mouth. Your party is weak. All of them are so fragile, so frail, so mortally vulnerable. They limp everywhere, dragging their lifetimes of hurt behind them like a curse. You always thought it was inspiring, that people so weak could be capable of so much.

You’re different. You’re not weak. You’re followed by a trail of bodies, so fundamentally lacking in humanity that you warp and corrode spacetime around you, swallowing all life, light, hope in sight. 

You’re something else entirely.

A gluttonous, insatiable vacuum, condemned by their inability to imagine a life worth living. You could’ve had it all. You could’ve stolen it all from him, ripped his life from his clawing, thieving hands. Cannibalized their existence until not even their bones remained.

But you didn’t. You didn’t, because you loved them, probably. Maybe love’s too strong a word— but how else could you possibly describe the intimacy of having your lives permanently intertwined? To be able to recognize every ridge and groove of a hand that mirrors yours when you lace your fingers together? Born from the same Universe, the same star, knowing that his every scar and silhouette was yours?

And maybe it was for the best. You’re here now, aren’t you?

So it doesn’t matter that you can’t remember your last moments with him right now. It doesn’t matter that you can’t recall whether they were smiling when you made your wish.

What matters is that you wished to be here, once more. You won’t allow yourself to let that slip from your memory this time.

“...You’re not weak,” Mirabelle whispers. “Please don’t talk about yourself like that, Étoile.”

You don’t deign that with a response.

“...So, you… Okay. I guess I’ve got two questions,” Isa says, trying to follow up somehow. “Was this, like… Man, I don’t even know how to word this. If you’re back here, did you… go back in time, and undo all the stuff Otherfrin did?”

Um.

Well. You... don’t really know the answer to that, do you?

You look away guiltily. “...I don’t know. I know that I must have made another wish, but my, um. This body isn’t… very good at recalling things.”

Your memories were so strangely… accessible, when you were a star. You never had to dig too deep to remember things about your family— never able to forget, forever burdened by memories of a life you’d left behind. And when stardust was struggling, you were always able to remind them. Lucky him, right?

This body doesn’t afford you that luxury. But you’ll get used to it! You can get used to forgetting literally everything again!! Positive thinking!! Yay~!!

“That’s… fine,” Isa responds warily. “Yeah. I think it’s fine, either way! It’s not like I remember. And I don’t think I would’ve really liked living in some messed up timeline where you’re, like, totally dead and buried, even if the King was gone.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t I just explain that there was a Siffrin to replace me?”

“Uh, and? Does that change the fact that you were… Y’know.”

He gestures to all of you.

You can’t help but force an awkward smile. “...And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?”

“I don’t wanna sound rude…”

What is he even– you huff. “Okay, well, it’s ruder to keep dancing around it, so you may as well spit it out.”

Isabeau presses his index fingers like a little girl who’s too shy to ask for another cookie. It’s an awkward thing to do, considering he’s still carrying Bonnie, and you wonder how he’s making it all work. “I dunno! You’re– I don’t wanna make it sound like I’m pitying you or anything, but you’re, like—,”

You scoff. “What, do you think I’m insane? Do you think I’m deranged, or something?”

“I– What!? No, I didn’t say that! I mean, like, yeah, obviously it messed you up a ton–,”

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat~!? No waaaaaaaaaaay~!!”

“I’m trying to be serious, dude, that’s not- I’m not trying to insult you or anything–,” he cuts his frantic tirade off, waving his free hand around. He drops it back to his side, clearly peeved. “I’m trying to say that I don’t wanna live in a timeline where you’re sad, Étoile!”

Oh.

…You don’t really know how to respond to that.

“I don’t even know this other Sif,” he continues. “I mean, I probably– if he was you, I probably, y-y’know. L-loved… him too, but. I don’t. That’s a problem for some other Isabeau who might not even exist anymore. And if… if you were out there, sad and afraid and alone for years, then…”

Isabeau stares at your hands, and you notice only now that his face is flushed– not with embarrassment, but with something else. Something melancholic, something shameful, something that feels like heartache.

“...I’m glad you came back to us,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “No matter what it took.”

You wish you could hold his hands again. His sweaty hands, nervous and trembling, holding yours so tenderly. To place your hand in his in silence, taking comfort in his warm, steady presence at your side. A ray of light in your dark, isolated prison.

“...I actually would have preferred you just call me insane,” you murmur under your breath. 

“So what if you are?” Odile asks blithely. Or, tries to, at least. She’s not actually as unaffected by this as she’d like to be, as evidenced by the way she keeps bouncing her leg and averting her gaze. “Sad, insane, whatever this semantic debate settles on you being. I was under the impression that you were a little too normal prior to all of this, so I’m honestly quite relieved to be proven wrong.”

Mira nods. “Yes! I-I mean, not yes, as in I’m happy that you’re– that you’re, um—,”

Bonnie interrupts her. “Really crabbing weird?”

“...”

“.....”

“...”

No one? No one wants to defend Étoile’s honor? Nobody at all? Not a single soul?

“Come on,” you groan. “At least say something.”

“You are being pretty weird,” Isa says shyly.

Why even bother, honestly.

“B-But that’s not a bad thing!” Mira exclaims. “Like Madame Odile said, I’m… I think I’m happy to be getting to know you better, Étoile. Even… even if… the reason for that is that… s-someone I love very much is… gone.”

…

“I’m sorry!” She frets when you allow silence to permeate the room for longer than two seconds. “I-I know that’s selfish! I feel really, really bad about it…”

You’re sure they wanted to get to know Siffrin, too. They’ll never get the chance to, now.

“...You don’t need to,” you mumble, making a directionless, ritual-less wish to turn into a rock. Something small, something obtuse, something that can hide in the shade unnoticed until it weathers away into dust. “I’m not upset. Teehee, or something.”

“...Wanna try that again, buddy?” Isa asks warmly, melancholically, joking to try and cheer you up, even in the face of his own immeasurable grief.

“Teehee~!”

“Wow. I think that was sadder, somehow.”

You send him a scathing, burning smile. “Why don’t you ask your other question, instead of mocking poor little Étoile?”

“Oh, yeah! Right, right,” he nods, readjusting Bonnie on his hip. “If Otherfrin saved the world, that… means you know how we can all get past the King, right?”

You… do. That’s true. It’s the King, after all. You fought him more times than you could ever possibly remember, and you watched stardust do it a hundred more times. You watched him succeed, the majority of those attempts.

But still, you’re almost hesitant as you nod. Odile lets out a sigh of relief, leaning back in her chair.

“Thank the Expressions,” she breathes. “Well asked, Isabeau.”

Of course she was worried. Hundreds and thousands of failed loops with no victory in sight– she must have thought this whole adventure was hopeless. 

And it was! But now you’re here. You… can be their hope, somehow! Their hope, their guide, their northern star! Isn’t that comforting?

Not really, your brain immediately retorts. That’s a lot of pressure. The last time you were in the House of Change was decades ago, at best. You’re delusional if you think you remember any of it with the acuity that you need to.

“Oh!” Mirabelle gasps, unaware of the uncertainty and apprehension that’s taking hold of you. “That- that means…!! We can save everyone! Oh, I’m so–,”

Okay, no. It’s like they want to fail! Are they stupid?

“No,” you cut in. “No, nono. I won’t stand for any of this- any of this… Baseless optimism. This is what most people call dramatic irony – do you have any idea how many death flags you’re setting up for yourselves? I haven’t even told you how to win!”

“Well?” Bonnie asks, ever the voice of reason. “Are you gonna?”

You kind of want to cave your skull in against a wall.

“I–,” you sputter, incredulous. “Yes?? I suppose???”

Bonnie nods. “Okay. We’ll be fine, then.”

Are you losing it? No, actually— are they insane? You worked up yourself for all of that, and this is the conclusion? 

“I feel like I’m the normal one for once,” you mutter, valiantly fending off a migraine. “Aren’t you all taking this a little too well? I feel like I’ve revealed more than my fair share of, frankly, terrifying things about myself today!! And all you have to say about it is that I’m ‘sad’ and ‘weird’ and nothing else??”

“Oh, nah,” Isabeau chirps, finally letting the squirming preteen out of his arms to run around the room and relieve themself of their nervous energy. “I’m probably gonna go hide out in the bathroom with the lights off after this. Like, optimally, I’d want about two weeks to digest everything, but we’re kind of short on time? So at least twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be in there after you,” Odile replies. “Twenty minutes on the dot. No later.”

“I’m glad you’re always so reasonable, M’dame.”

“I think I’d like a turn, too…”

“Aww, Mira, of course you can! You can go ahead of me.”

“Oh, no! You can go first, Isabeau. I can wait!”

You almost can’t believe it. 

Except you can. Because you didn’t forget how strange all of your friends are, even if you forgot everything else. It takes an incredibly specific crowd of people to try and save the world, after all. You should’ve seen this coming.

You slump in your chair, rubbing your eye and hoping that’ll alleviate the swelling and the mounting tension building up in your skull. 

Bonnie’s still toddling around the room, pacing in circles around the table. They’re deliberate about it, crossing their arms and furrowing their brows, audibly going hmmm like it’ll help them understand the absolute nightmare you’re in. You can barely understand it, frankly.

…You can’t help but notice that they still seem a little wobbly. They keep stealing glances at you like they’re afraid you’ll vanish.

“...I still don’t really get what happened,” they finally say, coming to a stop by your chair. “But I think someone will explain it to me better than you did later. And I’m not really sorry for hitting you, so I’m not gonna say it.”

You… weren’t really asking for an apology. To be honest. So that’s fine. You turn your moony, exhausted gaze up to Bonnie’s face.

“...But, um. You’re probably just being stupid about a whole lot of stuff. A-and…”

They look at you strangely, worrying at their lip and strangling the hem of their tank top.

“...I think Frin’s probably still somewhere,” they say. “Even– even if… you don’t think they are. I think he’s probably still somewhere, but he’s just hiding ‘cause he thinks we’re gonna get mad at him, right?”

Some distant part of you wishes that were true. That somewhere, Siffrin could live inside of you. That he could just be waiting until the storm passes and it’s sunny out again, so he can finally be safe with his family.

But you’re too frightened to be hopeful. So you kill that flickering light where it twinkles, so that it won’t disappoint you when it never comes true.

“...What makes you say that?” you ask anyways, because you’re stupid enough to come crawling back to everything that messed you up in the first place, like it won’t just kick you in the head again.

“Well, I mean,” they say, big eyes round and innocent and threatening to squeeze your heart till it bursts and pops like a water balloon. “You’re still our friend, right? If you were a totally different person, you wouldn’t be. So that means Frin’s still there somewhere.”

…You’re sick of your cavernous, hollow chest aching like this. This yawning, thrumming pain that curls into you and settles like a black hole, even when you don’t have a heart anymore. You bite your lip, fisting your hand up in your cloak to keep from saying something you’ll regret, swallowing thickly.

Bonnie continues. “...So, um. Tell Frin we’ll wait a bajillion years for them to come back, or whatever. And that we’re gonna beat the King and save everyone without him ‘cause he’s a big weenie baby!! A-And…”

They take puffy, uneven breaths, swiping at their eyes in a vehement, prepubescent effort to keep from crying again. “Tell them that when they get back, I’m gonna make malanga fritters for them. Okay?”

Your throat feels tight. You offer a stilted, taciturn (“Oh, like Frin, okay.” ) nod in return.

Bonnie thrusts their hands up in the air. “Okay! Cool! That’s all!”

They turn to waddle off to Universe knows where, only to immediately turn back. “Wait- do you like different foods than Frin does?? I know you’re talking all bouncy and fancy, but what else is different? Do you like the same shades?? Do you–,”

Odile plops her hand on their head, reigning them back. “We can ask all these questions tomorrow, Boniface. I know this commotion might have distracted us, but it is imperative that we get a full night of rest, in preparation for our battle tomorrow.”

She watches you, eyes shrewd and perceptive and inescapable and deeply compassionate. “Before we disband for the night to get ready for bed, is there… anything else you’d like to share? Anything that might help us tomorrow?”

Oh! That’s right!

You turn to Mira and tell her about the CARROT method.

Isabeau follows up on his promise and vanishes into the bathroom, and the rest of your party slowly filters out of the room to try and give you some space. You don’t move, because you’re so exhausted that you think you might have started growing roots into the chair.

You close your eye.

Deep breaths. In and out, just like you used to.

…You… almost forgot how comfortable your cloak is. Perfectly crafted to keep you safe and warm, even when you’re alone. A piece of home and safety that you lost, when you gave up, and another thing stardust stole from you.

But you have it back now. You sink into it, slumping against the seat, and try and organize everything in your scrambled, star-spangled brain.

You didn’t explain everything. That would be too much, after all. But you explained some of it, to the best of your ability. Which is to say, as your party has probably come to recognize, not very well.

You told them about stardust. You told them, vaguely, about a Dormont that looked just like your own, shifted slightly to the left, and yet an entire Universe apart. You tell them about a family you were never part of. 

You didn’t tell them your wish. You didn’t tell them the name you cast away. You didn’t tell them about the star beating in your chest, the only remnant of a body replaced by a nebula.

(The clock in the room is ticking. Tick, tick, tick, the seconds slipping by.)

…You’re tired. It’s almost comical, how badly this has all gone. You could stand up and walk out right now, if you wanted. You know where the banana peel is. You could redo all of this, and make sure it went better.

Hell, you don’t even have to stand up. Your dagger hangs at your hip like a lead weight, a constant, reassuring reminder that none of this is as permanent as you’re afraid of it being.

You glide your thumb along the pommel, gently wrapping your fingers around the hilt. It’s not as familiar as it used to be, for some reason. 

You pull it out of its sheath and hold it out above your head. Dimming candlelight flickers along the sharpened edge— and when you turn it just right, you can see stardust’s face reflected in the metal.

…Yours, you remind yourself. Your face. The face you were born with, and the one you took back. You peel back your eyepatch with your other hand, gazing apathetically at the four-pointed scar that decorates your skin.

It almost looks like a star. You never realized it before.

You let your eyepatch fall back to place and bring your dagger close to your throat, allowing the point of it to prick at the soft, unprotected flesh. Both your hands brace the leather bound hilt reverently. When you swallow, your throat bobs against the blade.

You close your eye.

And you let your arms fall back down to your side, dagger scraping against the wooden floor, unstained.

Maybe later. You’re too tired. You forgot how exhausting something as simple as being alive is. Crying, talking, moving, throwing up, smiling, killing yourself— all of it expends energy that you’re sorely lacking in.

You let your mind go blank for a few minutes, listening to the distant whispers of your friends-allies-friends-family-party in the bedroom of the Clocktower.

Having conversations without you, as usual. You don’t process any of it, even though you probably should try to listen.

You force yourself to return to your body when someone’s quiet footsteps approach, quickly tucking your dagger back in its sheath. Someone raps their knuckles on the open door, and you know without turning your head that it’s Odile.

“...Étoile,” she says softly. “My apologies. You weren’t sleeping, were you?”

“Unfortunately not,” you respond. “Are you and the others done having your little secret talk over there?”

She steps closer, lowering herself carefully on the chair nearby. “It was hardly a secret. You were free to join us at any time.”

“I’ll pass,” you laugh humorlessly. “I know when I’m unwelcome, trust me.”

Odile purses her lips, looking at you oddly. “...You are very much welcome in our discussions, Étoile. As… much of a stranger as you may be to us, right now.”

You wish you weren’t a stranger. You wish they knew you as intimately as you knew them. Your struggles, your feelings, your existence. You wish…

…No wishing in threes. You take a deep, uneven breath, and force yourself to smile.

“I didn’t want to be included~! I was busy daydreaming about, um…”

“About?”

Wow your brain really isn’t cooperating with you right now. You twirl a finger around as you think. 

“...Fish… heads?” you try. “Salmon?”

Odile raises a brow. “Is food all you think about?”

“Oh, you don’t even know.”

She huffs a laugh out her nose in that charming, awkward way of hers, pushing back up to her feet. “Well, considering it’s well past midnight, I’d advise you to do some more of that daydreaming in a proper bed. Come on.”

You don’t really want to stand up yet, but she’s got her hand out. You eye it with more than your fair share of caution, and… hesitantly take it. Her hand is thin and wiry, just like the rest of her, but her grip is surprisingly firm.

She pulls you up to your feet in a smooth motion before promptly releasing your hand. No more touch than is strictly necessary. Classic Odile.

You follow her into the bedroom where the others have more or less gotten ready for bed. Mira’s tucking her hair into her bonnet while Bonnie sprawls out on the center bed, kicking their legs. Isa’s pulling his shirt off, meticulously folding it up and setting it in one of the drawers of the nightstand nearby.

…Right. Clothes. The things you’re wearing. You’re supposed to wear different clothes when you sleep. Because you’re wearing clothes. Like a normal person. Stars. 

You realize abruptly that you have no idea where your nightclothes are. You had some, right? You think you did. You think you had a stupid little nightcap with a pompom at the end. 

Odile turns to you when she notices you’ve frozen in the doorway, pointing silently to a little travel bag by the foot of the bed Isa’s standing next to. You step over, crouching down by it and quickly unpacking. You squirrel away your nightclothes under your cloak and step back out of the bedroom, scuttling away to the bathroom where you can change in peace.

With a few deft movements, your silver pins are undone and your cloak comes off. You fold it up haphazardly and set it on the counter next to the washbasin, hurriedly unbuckling the belt you keep your dagger strapped to so you can change your underclothes. 

You almost start laughing reflexively, seeing your own spindly legs. Did your knees always look this weird? So knobbly and misshapen? It’s easier to see the details when you’re not peering into an inky, lightless void. 

You tug on your pants and move to strip off your turtleneck, briefly surprising yourself when you realize you’re wearing a binder underneath that. Wow. Right. That is something you wear! And you’re not supposed to sleep with those on! See? You remember just fine. You’re doing a great job at being a person right now.

You clumsily undo the lacing, peeling out of it and–

Freeze.

Emblazoned over your solar plexus like it never left, the Star pulses and glimmers. You drop the clothing in your hand dead on the floor, a nervous sound leaking out of you like a tea kettle on a stove.

You pull your gloves off and run your fingertips along it, grimacing at the raw, unfiltered sensation that buzzes through you, all the way down to the tips of your toes. It feels otherwise like regular skin and bone, but…

Well!!!! You don’t know how to unpack that~!!!!! That’s really weird~~!!!!!!!! You’re not sure you want to look at it anymore~~~!!! So you shove your head through your nightshirt and straighten the hem.

Yeah, you think. That’s better! Except for the fact that it’s totally visible through the collar! Awesome! That’s great! Why the hell did you buy a shirt with such a wide neck??

You smash your face into your hands and exhale harshly out your nose, strangling your breathing. Okay. Calm down. So what if you have that? The worst it could do is keep someone up at night. That’s not so bad! You’re used to that! It’s better than having a blinding torch for a head!!

You fasten the top button anyways, frantically rescuing your binder from where it’d fallen on the floor by your feet. You shove all your clothing into your cloak and scrunch it all up into an easy-to-carry sack, fishing out stardust’s coin from one of your many many pockets and sneaking one last glance at the glaringly obvious, fantastic light glittering on your chest.

It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Everybody has weird glowing stars on their chest! That’s the least of your problems, anyways.

You shove the coin in your pants and exit the bathroom, trying not to feel like you’re walking towards a guillotine as you return to where the others are.

Isa’s in bed now, nervously playing with the covers. Odile’s taken up her spot in the bed in the furthest corner of the room, hair splayed out around her in a lightless mass. Mira’s eyes are closed, but Bonnie’s clearly staring at you from where they’re tucked under the covers.

They’re… looking at your face, you think. You swallow down your nervousness, frozen in the doorway.

“...What’re you standing around for?” they ask.

Yeah, good question! 

Isabeau nonchalantly waves you over, pulling the covers up and patting the mattress. “Here, Étoile! I saved you a spot.”

You nod, dropping your sack of clothes by the foot of the bed as you come closer. He doesn’t say anything. You glance over your shoulder to check on Bonnie and accidentally startle Mira in the process, who quickly shuts her eyes and pretends she wasn’t peeking.

Okay. Nobody’s… saying anything. Promising, maybe?

You lay down next to Isa, flat on your back. He pulls the sheets over you like the sappy, obsessed dog that he is, curling on his side with a gentle smile.

“G’night, Étoile,” he says. 

“...Good night,” you echo.

…

…

…

…Mission… success? Can you call it that?

Maybe nobody can see it. Maybe this light is for you, and you alone. A silent promise from the Universe that It is inescapable, and that you, once accepted into Its arms, are a permanent member of Its astral cast.

You don’t know exactly how to feel about that. Resentment, maybe. Comfort, maybe. They’re two sides of the same coin, to you.

You burrow into the covers, shoving your hand into your pocket to thumb at stardust’s coin.

This is the point in the script where you’re supposed to close your eyes until Isa wakes you up. This is the point in the script where sleep evades you, but you blink and open your eyes and find yourself at the House. 

You let your eye slip shut, stardust’s coin warm and content in the palm of your hand. You think you’re tired enough that you’ll be able to fall asleep tonight, so you should try and get some rest while you—

“...Étoile?”

—maybe an hour ahead of his cue, Isa grabs your attention. You open your eye and turn towards him.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I know you’re trying to sleep. I just, um. Wanted… to say something. If that’s okay.”

You have the option to say no.

“...I’m all ears,” you murmur, trying to keep quiet.

“Okay, okay, okay. Alright. I’ll tell you, then.”

He can’t confess to Siffrin anymore, you realize. You wonder how it feels, to know that the love of your life is dead, murdered, buried without even being given a funeral? To know that he died without ever hearing whispered, hushed I love you’s in your voice?

You wish Siffrin had gotten a chance to say how they felt.

“...I don’t know… what’s going through your head right now,” he says softly, unable to look into your eye. “I’m sure it’s a lot more than I could even imagine.”

You hold your breath.

“I… had something I wanted to say to Sif,” he admits. “When all of this was over. I wanted to… tell them something. And, I… don’t know if that’s something you need to hear right now, so I won’t. It’s not that important.”

It is, it is, it is. It always was! It always was, and now you’ll never hear it, because those words aren’t meant for you.

“But, um. I just wanted to say that. Um.”

Isabeau finally looks at you. Shyly, timidly. He doesn’t know you dream of eating him alive. He doesn’t know you think about consuming him whole.

His expression twists into something bittersweet. 

“...You’re important to all of us,” he continues. “Even if you’re not Sif anymore. Mira kind of said it earlier, but… you’re still you, y'know? I know you’re acting different, and.. it’s been… Change, it’s been years for you, right?”

Mira shuffles under her covers and stays silent. You hear her sniffle, and Bonnie’s quiet voice ask if she’s okay. 

“...Sif never really opened up to us,” he says. “And, um. I dunno. It’s… kind of starting to settle in, I guess. What that meant. What it means.”

You let the grooves of stardust’s coin dig into your fingers, biting and cracking your brittle, fragile bones.

His eyes are dark around the edges. “...I’m not as optimistic as Bonbon is. I-I get what it’s like to kill someone who lives inside of you, y’know? You probably do, if you’ve known me that long.”

“...I want to get to know you,” he whispers, voice thick. “I don’t… want to lose this chance, is all. I don’t wanna be a coward anymore, not after you were so brave.”

I’m not brave, you want to say. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough.

“That’s all, I guess,” he laughs quietly, pretending like you can’t see moonlight reflected in the pinpricks of tears in his eyes. “Sorry I kept you up.”

You wish you could respond. That you were capable of kind, sweet words. That you weren’t made of bitterness and envy and shards of broken glass, that you weren’t plagued by your heartlessness.

You curl your knees up close to your chest and bobble your head in some kind of acknowledgement, waiting for him to turn away and return to sleep. As the script demands.

Isa reaches up, instead. His hand stretches towards your blind eye, and gently pushes a lock of hair behind your ear. His touch feels like a drop of sunlight against your cracking, rotting skin, and it vanishes just as softly as it arrived. He smiles at you.

“...G’night, Étoile.”

He turns towards the wall, taking deep, shuddering breaths in an attempt to stabilize. You stare at his broad, gentle back, drowning in a tidal wave of guilt. If you just reached out, you could comfort him. You could press your forehead against him and tell him that it’s not his fault, that it was just the Universe leading you, that it was your fault for following.

You don’t. And instead, you press your face into a pillow and close your eye.

You dreamt about constellations, dotted on your arm.

You wake up again in the middle of the night, the room dimly illuminated by moonlight filtering in from the window, the only conscious soul left in an entire country of people frozen in time and slumber.

You slowly bring your hand out from where you left it in your pocket, placing your littlest finger by your lips, your thumb by your ear.

…

Nobody picks up.

Chapter Text

You aren’t the first to wake up. That’s the Researcher, and you jolt awake as soon as you hear her shuffle out of bed, eye shooting wide open, body tensing up. You don’t move, listening to her quiet footfalls as they navigate near silently through the room. She checks on the Kid before moving over to where she’d folded up her day clothes. You listen to the sound of sweeping fabric and belt-buckling, her deep breathing as she runs through her daily stretches.

You don’t move— not because you’re afraid, but because your muscles won’t let you. You can barely get yourself to blink. There’s static noise pitter-pattering against glass, shutting you out from anything but the immediate ambience of a near-silent room and your own tunneling vision. You think you must have been frozen over night, and your blood’s only now starting to resume its path through your veins to warm your frigid extremities back up.

You can’t remember what order everyone is supposed to wake up. The Kid’s next, you think, and then you? They bumped into something, maybe, and that… woke the Housemaiden up…?

The Researcher’s stopped moving, you realize belatedly. You… don’t know where she is in the room. You’re angled badly, still turned towards the Fighter, and she’s on your blind side. Is she watching you? She has to be. Your heart’s pounding. Your heart’s pounding. Your heart’s pounding, and it’s going to break. Is she going to—

“...Étoile? Are you awake?”

You don’t know the name of the feeling that rips through you, primal and strangely raw. You flinch, but there’s nowhere to hide. You stare at the only thing in front of you— the broad, lightless wall of the Fighter’s back.

“...You are, aren’t you?” she says.

Who is she even talking to? Étoile? Do you know anybody named Étoile? That word has a meaning, you’re sure that it does– it’s a name that means something to you, but you can’t– you can’t… remember.

(...Is she talking to you? You thought your name was something else. You used to only have one name, but now you have more. Is Étoile one of your names?)

She doesn’t move from where she is, but you think she’s still by her bed, just based on the proximity of her voice.

“...Do you know where you are right now?”

…That’s… an odd question. Of course you do. You’re in the Clocktower, in bed. The last few hours of sunlight and clear, purified air before you delve into the cloistering, suffocating dust of your personal, eternal hell.

…Your… personal…

…

Oh!

Reality catches up to you like a chisel against a brick of water softened balsa.

Oh, oh, right! That’s right! You get to go to the House today!! You get to go to the House because you’re back!! You’re back, you’re back, you’re back!! You asked to come back to this nightmare!!! Yippee~!!

“Étoile,” Odile, Odile, Odile, your Odile, enough of that Researcher drivel, you never have to use those stupid, impersonal titles ever again, says quietly. “Please… respond. You’re starting to concern me.”

You’re Étoile!!!!!! How did you even forget that!? You really are stupid!!!

You push yourself up into a sitting position and turn to her, grinning in a way you would describe as sunny and ubiquitously pleasant, but she would probably interpret as deeply unhinged and somewhat manic. You don’t feel like you’re entirely contained within your body, and the sensation is familiar enough that you almost, for the first time since you woke up in that field again, feel comfortable.

“Good morning, Odile,” you sing-song, raising a hand to your mouth to coyly hide your smile. “It’s a beautiful day out, isn’t it~?”

She sends you an incredibly– you don’t even know the word to describe that one. Disgusted, maybe? Shameful? Highly confused? Disappointed? look.

“...It’s raining, first of all.”

It’s what.

You glance toward the window, finding that she is, indeed, telling the truth. It’s barely a sprinkle, but you realize that the white noise cutting into your thoughts earlier was just the sound of rain splattering against the window.

…You… don’t remember it raining. It never rained during stardust’s loops, right? No, it didn’t. It was a clear, sunny day. You remember that starkly, because you can vividly recall the horror painted on his face, the haunting scream that tore out of his throat as he clawed away at the skin under his eyes, shrieking.

And, more importantly, the fact that they were super not wet. When they did all that breaking down and wailing. So. Teehee?

You blink owlishly. The rain keeps tapping against the window like it’s saying hello.

“...Étoile,” Odile mutters, frustrated, saying your name for the third time like she’s trying to wish you straight onto the chopping block. “Please. Respond. I need to ensure that you’re… well enough to come with us.”

“Oh, wow,” you snicker quietly. “You really think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“I did not say that.”

You smirk. “But you definitely thought it.”

“Maybe.”

That gets a proper laugh out of you. She huffs in response, dimly humored by the absurdity of the situation, and adjusts her coat. “Let’s continue this discussion where we won’t wake the others, why don’t we? I’d like to review our strategy with you.”

Sounds good to you. You slip out of bed to pad after her.

And quickly scamper back into the room when you realize that early mornings are really cold, actually, and you’re not going without your cloak.

You usually skip this part of the script. You have virtually no recollection of this scene despite all the hundreds of times you must have lived it— you closed your eyes, blinked, and found yourself in front of the House.

It’s a good thing you’re not blanking now, probably. This is, for all intents and purposes, new! How exciting.

“Right,” Odile mutters, sitting down with a pen and her pocketbook flipped open to a blank page. “Let’s go over some… things.”

Wow. Hardwood feels really weird on your bare feet. It’s so cold! And textured. Also, you leave little footprints on the ground when you move! Look at that! You’re leaving traces of yourself everywhere you go. You’re etching your mark onto the world around you, however impermanent it may be!

“Étoile,” she punctuates, tapping the nib of her pen against the paper. “If you would stop staring at the floor, that would be appreciated. It’s almost insulting that you find it so much more interesting than me.”

“Have you ever thought about how strange it is that we wear shoes?” you ask.

“What,” she attempts, entirely caught off guard, “in the world are you saying to me.”

“Just think about it!” you say excitedly, pointing at your stick legs. “Look at these things!!! Aren’t they just so badly designed? You’re supposed to go everywhere on them, but our skin is so fragile that we need to wrap them in leather casings so we don’t injure ourselves. Who decided that?”

“Perhaps it’s a money-making scheme run by cobblers,” she says sardonically. “Is that the sort of conspiracy theory you were hoping I’d entertain you with?”

“Not at all,” you whistle. “But I do appreciate your willingness to hop on the Carriage of Skepticism so quickly!”

She offers a shrug in response, watching your movements carefully.

“…What… else,” she finally asks, “are you unaccustomed to now?”

You raise a brow. “Hm? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Clothing, by the sound of it,” she lists. “Food, clearly, exemplified by your… concerning appetite yesterday. Basic bodily functions, as well— you’ve yet to use the bathroom, since yesterday.”

“Um,” you blink. “I… don’t know why you’re keeping track of that. That’s a bit concerning.”

“You are perhaps the last person I want to hear that from.”

You giggle impishly. “Who else but me?”

She sighs. “In any case. Please remember to use the bathroom before we go.”

“Stars, fine! Are you my babysitter???”

“And wash your hands for at least twenty seconds.”

“I’m not the F— I’m not that big lug, you know!”

She looks at you oddly. “What is with that nickname you keep using for him? Fighter. You said it last night, as well.”

(you don’t want to answer that you don’t want to think about that it’s behind you now it’s behind you it’s over now you know their names and you’ll never forget)

“Would you at least let me sit down before you start interrogating me?” you huff, begrudgingly throwing your gaze out at the window and flopping a disgruntled wrist. “Such terrible manners, really.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she shoots back. “I’m not the one who immediately dodged any attempts at constructive conversation to talk about the impracticality of human existence.”

“I forgive you! I’m a generous Étoile, after all,” you chirp, quickly resituating yourself on that brazen throne you’ve been occupying off and on since yesterday evening and immediately regretting it because you somehow managed to forget that your ass is now home to a bruise the size of a small galaxy. You yelp and rub your tailbone, grimacing. “Ow.”

She chuckles. “Careful. I understand chairs are a formidable enemy, but let’s leave the struggling for when we’re facing off against actual enemies.”

You send a withering glare in her direction.

“Are we going to talk about killing the King,” you ask, “or do I actually have to answer every little question that pops into your head, before that?”

Odile considers that for far longer than she should before a sigh escapes her. “...Fine. We’ll return to my original line of questioning. But I will get an answer about those nicknames, later.”

You’re sure she will. Stubborn old bat.

“You said we’ll be able to withstand the King’s attacks with that Shield Craft that Mirabelle added to her arsenal yesterday, yes?”

“I did say that~!” you cheer, offering her a polite, two-fingered golf clap. “You’re so sharp!!!”

“...I am. Thank you for noticing,” she replies dryly. “Are there any other skills we should be looking to incorporate into our repertoires, before we confront him? We can take advantage of the Sadnesses no doubt lurking in the halls of the House to hone our Craft.”

You raise a brow. “Well. I mean… not… really? You all build up your strength pretty naturally, so long as I don’t, um. You know. Obliterate everything first?”

She stares at you.

“Which!” you say loudly, giggling nervously at the abrupt realization that you’re in imminent danger, “I won’t~!!! Promise!!! Teehee!!!!!! Ha, haha, funny joke– but you’d probably be fine if you just used that one spell you have, wouldn’t you? What’s it called again? Paper Alpha V, or something?”

Odile raises a thin brow at you. “...I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with that skill.”

What?

Oh. Wow. Right. You forgot that she doesn’t come pre-installed with that. You cross your legs, leaning back in the chair. “Huh.”

She screws up her lips as she thinks, still absently tapping her pen against the mostly blank pages of her notebook. “...Perhaps it would be wise for you to first review what it is we’re capable of, before we move on to the more nuanced aspects of strategizing.”

“Probably~! If you’d just wait one second.”

“Wait? What are you talking about—?”

Status, status. You close your eyes and thumb through the mental catalog of information that’s available to you. There you are— Étoile the stupid baby idiot Fool, level whatever, HP one thousand million billion, yadda yadda yadda, who cares~!!! That’s not what you’re after!!!

Isabeau! He’s… first on the list? You could have sworn that was Mirabelle. Ah, bother. What’s he got…

…?

You open your eyes.

“...Are. You meditating.” Odile asks warily. “Is that what this is.”

Now, hold on a moment. Maybe you just saw that wrong? 4,379 is a lot of HP. Like, a lot? That can’t be right. You take another peekohhhhhhhhhhhhkay no you saw that right. Huh???

And it’s not just Isa, either. It’s– all of them???

You quickly skim through their profiles before realizing you actually don’t recall what they’re supposed to look like. It’s not like you went out of your way to pore over their statlines and record them in your fickle, disastrous memory, so– they must… be right? They don’t look wrong, at least. Did you just misremember?

You tab over to Mirabelle’s Craft skills, running over the brief list. It’s shorter than the one you’d grown accustomed to, but– you can’t help but feel as though there’s something… off about it? But the exact flavor of uncanniness eludes you, and—

“Étoile,” Odile interrupts, waving a hand in front of your face and ripping you out of your menu exploration. “Please. I am trying to have a conversation with you.”

“I’m reading,” you retort, a childish, petulant whine lurking in the back of your voice. “You’re the one who wanted me to review!”

“Reading what,” she asks, voice flat. “The back of your eyelid?”

You snicker, fully content with letting the mystique of your actions continue to perplex her. “I’ll have you know that the view is very interesting. I can see all sorts of things! Like…”

But your thoughts trail off halfway. Something icy grips at your neck, realization sinking into you like a fish hook piercing through the underside of your throat, catching on the meat of your tongue.

(…Why can you see their profiles, actually?)

You… don’t think you could do that before. Right? No, you couldn’t. You did it just now without thinking, but that was a skill you gained as you ripped your existence to shreds and inserted yourself into a reality beyond your own. A glimmering facet of something greater than an individual, capable of pulling back the metaphorical curtains to look between the stitches and folds of the Universe’s intangible body to peer into the base components of the actors that used to be your friends.

You’re not supposed to be able to do this.

Something’s pulsing in your sternum, hot and painful and overwhelming. You pull the collar of your cloak higher and try not to think about what’s under your nightclothes, beating in place of your heart.

“...Like?” Odile prompts.

(Why can you still do that?)

“...Blood vessels,” you finish lamely, the chilling dread that’s settled in your body finally taking residence in your fingertips. “And stars, maybe.”

Her eyes traps you to your chair, her piercing, lightless stare pushing a pin through the gossamer wings of your cadaver for further scrutiny. You writhe under her gaze, uncomfortable, vulnerable, and far too exposed.

“Blood and stars,” she says. “Of course.”

Your mouth is remarkably dry. You nod, casually twirling your foot like you’re not sweating bullets.

Deep breaths. Deep but contained enough that she won’t notice– that’s supposed to help you calm down. It’s supposed to– do something with blood flow and respiration, or whatever. Stars, you hate having a body again, even one that’s broken and cracked and fundamentally incorrect. Even one that feels like there are hundreds of ants crawling beneath your epidermis, gnawing away at your flesh.

You regret that thought almost immediately. Ungrateful, selfish, hypocritical. You don’t deserve any of this. You don’t deserve any of this, but you have it anyways. You took it back, and now you need to see it through to the end. Breathe. Breathe, in and out.

Odile’s still watching you. You’re sure your attempts to go unperceived failed brilliantly, but she’s not saying anything about it. She’s so kind. It makes you want to die.

You don’t need to wait to stabilize before your muscle memory kicks in, forcing a smile on your face. You’re good at acting, after all– and this role is one you have perfected. If there’s anything you’re an expert at, it’s puppeteering corpse– especially your own.

“Anyways~,” you sing, laughing because you’re totally normal and nothing’s wrong and it’s not strange at all that you just went dead silent for two minutes, “why don’t you elucidate me, then~? Catch me up to speed!!! I’m sort of out of the loop here, so. Teehee!”

You’re so blindingly funny. Stars. Someone should kill you before you have the chance to do it yourself.

“Of course.”

Odile guides you through your party’s Craft skills, and you pull the appropriate faces as she describes the functionalities of each. She gets a little more exhausted every time you ham up a reaction and giddily clap your hands, but she’s otherwise dignified and respectful about the matter.

This is another kindness of hers that often goes unnoticed, you think. She’s always looking out for you all, whether she likes admitting it or not– and she shows it through little gestures like these. She’s a surprisingly awkward person, blunt and clumsy with emotional conversations. She lets your off-putting behaviors slide for now because she’s afraid she’ll scare you off.

….She’s afraid so often. She’s always been afraid of mishandling the people closest to her, because she treasures them all so deeply.

You wish you’d figured that out sooner.

Bonnie waddles into the room halfway through the debriefing, scratching their stomach and running a hand through their birdnest hair. They file into the makeshift kitchen without a word to either of you, pulling out your food reserves and getting to work.

“Any questions?” Odile asks, spick and span and sharp as ever.

“Nope! Thank you so much for enlightening me to all these wonderful–,”

“Enough with that. Tell me more about Paper Alpha V.”

Étoile time!

By the time you’ve concluded your titanic dump of exposition, the others have woken up. Isabeau took the time to freshen up before gracing all of you with his presence, but Mira’s still out of sorts. She wrings her hands together and looks, shifty-eyed, out the window at rainy, silent Dormont.

Everybody exchanges pleasantries, soft touches on the arm or shoulder and murmured whispers of greeting to one another. Isa’s hand lingers on Mira a moment longer than it does on Odile or Bonnie, and he offers her a soft, reassuring smile. She smiles back, but even you can tell it’s stilted.

You, of course, are exempt from all of that contact. They have better sense than to plunge their hands into a bucket of rusty nails and shards of crematory ash.

Bonnie sets out your plates of food and drink, to which they’re greeted with a quiet parade of thank you’s and a smells good, Bonbon! from Isa. They puff out their chest, still too groggy to verbally acknowledge any of the praise, and prove their cooking mettle by shoveling a massive bite of omelet into their mouth.

(You’re hungry.)

But you wait patiently for everybody to start eating, fidgeting in your seat like a leashed animal at the lowest end of the pecking order. Normal. You have to be normal about eating, and you can’t do whatever you did last night.

Mira, politely sectioning off a portion of her egg, raises her concerned, lampshade eyes towards you.

“...Étoile? Are you… going to eat?”

You were trying to exercise restraint!!! Use proper table manners, or something!!! Nobody here gets it. Nobody understands you. You’re all alone, lonely, misunderstood Étoile. So sad!

“In a moment,” you reply, all sunshine. “I’m just appreciating it, first.”

You never ended up recalling anything about breakfast, despite your best efforts– so in many ways, this is a meal of firsts. Something new, something exciting, something never before seen! A thick slice of some of the leftover bread from yesterday, topped with a gooey layer of cheese. The omelet, presented with a sprig of some leafy herb you can’t for the life of you recall the name of. A cup of milk, rippling peacefully when Isabeau inevitably slams his elbow into the corner of the table and starts whimpering.

(You’re hungry.)

It’s unprecedented. It’s fresh. And still, you’re terrified you’ll become numb to it all again.

Maybe… maybe you should choose something to set aside. Something you can try another time. Something that can always stay novel, something that you won’t get sick of.

You eye your plate. The omelet’s too obvious– it’ll upset Bonnie if you don’t eat that. Maybe… something small. The glossy, pearlescent cherry tomatoes, rolling around on your plate catch your attention. A perfectly succulent shade of dark.

“Appreciating it…” Isa echoes as he recovers, setting his fork down for a second. “Like one of those fancy wine connoisseurs… So cool, Étoile. So mature…!”

“So mature…!” Mira repeats, looking back down at her food to admire it for herself.

“Can’t you guys just appreciate it in your mouth?” Bonnie grumbles, finally talking around their fork.

“O-Oh, I am!” she gasps, promptly giving up the connoisseur lifestyle and quickly taking another bite. “It’s very tasty, Bonnie. Thank you so much for getting up early and preparing it for us!”

A smug little giggle bubbles out of them as they pick up a tomato and pop it into their mouth. “Course I did! You’d all starve if I didn’t, so.”

(You’re hungry.)

“Can’t argue with that,” Isa says fondly. “I dunno where we’d be without our snack master!”

“Probably starving.”

“Th– Yeah. Well. Still can’t argue with that.”

Bonnie snickers. “Heheheheheh.”

“Speaking of which,” Odile says, employing a tactic you’ve grown familiar with called transitional non-sequitur because I want to move on, “I had something I wanted to ask you about, Mirabelle.”

“Yes, Madame Odile? What is it?”

She gestures with her head towards the hallway. “What are those flyers over there, on the wall? They mention something about a festival.”

Mira brightens almost instantly. “Oh! Yes, that’s right!! Those are flyers for an annual festival that we hold in Dormont, to celebrate all of the Changes that have taken place over the year!”

“I didn’t know that,” Isa remarks, also chewing on a tomato. “Jouvente’s Change festival usually takes place around winter, just before spring rolls in.”

“Really?” she asks, eyes glittering. “Ours changes every year… One of the last activities of the day is deciding the date of the next festival by drawing a random day out of a ballot!”

It’s easier to organize something that impromptu when your population falls within the double digits, after all. It’d be a colossal task to try and do that in a city as big as Jouvente. You’ve been an unchanging, constant bystander to enough of these stupid festivals to know how they work.

Odile hums thoughtfully. “And what happens if, by coincidence, your next festival were to fall on the immediate next day?”

“That’s actually happened once!” Mirabelle responds, smiling warmly. “I’ve heard stories from the older Housemaidens— apparently, the Head Housemaiden at the time decided they would just redraw the lot.”

“A surprisingly reasonable decision to make,” Odile comments, wry as ever. “I thought you Vaugardians would have leapt at the chance to change yourselves again as soon as possible.”

(You’re hungry.)

“That’d be Change, yeah,” Isa says, “but it’d be Change without meaning.”

“N-Not that aesthetic Changes aren’t a meaningful form of Change!” Mira says hastily, somehow worried that she’s offended someone. “But… Most people would like to celebrate more than just that, is all. It’s a festival that celebrates all aspects of Change! Death, rebirth, creativity, love… It really is beautiful.”

She trails off, lip wobbling as she stares melancholically at her bird-pecked plate of food. “I… hope you can all see it for yourselves, when this is over. It was meant to take place today.”

Oh.

That’s right. You forgot.

The table falls silent. Isa quietly reaches across the table and gently rubs his thumb over the back of her hand. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a hitched breath.

“Guess we got a festival to look forward to, then,” he says softly, kindly. “You can show us around after we serve the King some payback, yeah?”

“...You’re right,” she whispers. “You’re right. We have so much to look forward to!”

You’re still so blindingly useless.

“Positive thinking. I have to… stay positive…”

(You’re hungry.)

The tension in the room squeezes your throat and compresses the oxygen out of your lungs, but you finally pick up your fork to carefully disembowel the raw, breathing body on your plate. You lift its bleeding heart to your lips, trembling, mouth watering, and place it against your tongue.

Okay so maybe you blacked out and ate all of it in a feverish, carnivorous fugue and scared off your party again. Happens to the best of us, many such cases, you’re content with moving on. In your defense, it was all really, really good!!! You were going to save the tomatoes, but they just vanished into your mouth!!! And they were very tasty, thank you very much!!!

It’s just revenge, you think to yourself convincingly. It’s revenge! It’s compensation! You didn’t spend decades just watching stardust inhale all of those delicious home cooked meals to not enjoy yourself now.

You have a new mission ahead of you, anyways. It’s called using the bathroom, and you’re going to do a great job at it. How difficult could it be?

Isa tosses you your sack of discarded clothing from yesterday and you nearly fumble the catch, completely misgauging the distance as it careens towards your face. Your reaction speed’s quick enough that you manage to snatch it out of the air before it collides with you, but not quick enough that you can avoid bumping your shoulder against the doorframe.

“Sorry!” Isa yelps. “M-My bad! I forgot you—,”

“Not forgiven,” you respond playfully, already turning out of the bedroom. “I used up all my generosity, earlier. You’ll just have to live with the shame.”

“Aww, c’mon…” he whines, clasping his hands together like he’s making a prayer. “What can I do to make it up to you? I’ll do anything!”

You look over your shoulder, a sly, coquettish grin curling up your face like a crescent moon. “Anything~?”

His pleading, wet expression sobers almost immediately, eyes darting away from yours as his cheeks darken. He nervously scratches the back of his neck. “A-Anything, um, within reason!!! H-Haha!”

It’s so easy to make him dance on the palm of your hand. Like a prima donna trapped in a music box, stuck in an endless performance so long as you keep her gear turning. You thought maybe his affections would ebb away with the realization that you’re not the person he fell in love with, but sexual attraction must not be so easy to shirk off.

It’s disgusting. The thought of his gaze searching your body, tracing the cagey rigidity of your emaciated form and somehow wanting it under himself, pliable and exposed— the acrid taste of bile stings in the back of your throat just imagining it.

But the act of wanting isn’t as disgusting as you are. So it’s fine.

You snicker, doing what you do best and attempting to run away. “I’ll give it some thought, then. I’ll hold you to that~!”

Once you’ve found your escape in the bathroom, you shut the door behind you and stare at your wad of clothing. You didn’t take any time to acknowledge it last night, but the washroom doesn’t seem to have a mirror for you to look at yourself.

Fine by you. You saw your face twice already, and both times made you want to hurl— and you’d rather not do that to Bonnie’s hard work again.

For now, though, you need to prepare for the day. Change, empty the tank, etcetera. How exciting!

You tug at the collar of your clothes, peering down under the fabric at the quiet glimmer of the Star branded onto your chest. Still there. Strangely reassuring. At least it’s consistent, as far as hallucinations go. You impulsively graze it with your thumb again and shiver. It thrums through you like a plucked harp, too overwhelming to endure anything more than a feather light touch.

Still not your problem, for now. You’re sure you’ll come to regret it, but you can’t bear to think about it right now for some reason.

You dress, strap your dagger to your hip, carefully affix your silver pins to your cloak, and look towards your next, porcelain objective.

It turns out to still be a deeply awkward affair, being forced to refamiliarize yourself with the filthy, animal parts of humanity. You thought you might find some sort of excitement in it, as you did with eating, but it all just makes you feel nauseous.

Your body never felt like your own, even when you were alive. You draped yourself in a formless, shapeless cloak so that you might be able to pretend, for even a moment, that you were just a shambling wraith, passing through towns and countries unnoticed. A stark, darkless phantom, touched by no one, and touching no one in turn.

That changed, obviously. You don’t need to describe how unsettled, how removed you were from the familiarity of your body as you led stardust down his path. A gaping wound in the shape of the person you used to be, punched out through the fabric of reality itself. Faceless, unidentifiable. Just a piece of the greater Universe you were meant to represent.

And now you’re back. The Universe has left Its claim on you, carved into your skin, and your body still isn’t home.

You’re just not used to it yet, you tell yourself. You’ll readjust. You’ll take it back.

It’ll feel better, someday. It has to.

You stand up, flush, wash your hands, and exit the bathroom.

The rest of your preparations happen hastily, clumsily. Odile runs through a checklist of necessities that Bonnie scurries around the room to confirm, Isa gathers and counts up your meager supply of tonics and Crafted Water to tuck into a bag, and Mira…

Mira floats over to you, waving a hand in front of your face to grab your attention. You blink, startled, before smiling.

“Someone seems nervous.”

The exact tone of your voice must have caught her off-guard, because her eyes widen imperceptibly. Still not used to your new attitude, is she?

It doesn’t matter. She clearly wants reassurance, so you just have to do your job and help her calm down.

“No!” she squeaks. “I mean— yes, but— that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“You’ll all be fine, Mira,” you say airily. “I’m very good at guiding people.”

“I-I know,” she mumbles. “And I trust you, Étoile. I really do! But I, just…”

Mira guiltily looks down at her feet, clasping her hands together. “I just… wanted to give you the option of staying behind.”

Huh?

“It’s not as if I don’t want you with us!” she clarifies quickly, stepping in front of you to hold your full attention. “I would feel very reassured if you were— b-but…”

What is she even saying? They’ll all die without you. They need you.

“I realize the House must be a place with many, many terrible memories for you,” she whispers. “Trapped unchanging, for so long… I-I don’t want you to feel forced into it! We can use that hand sign you told us about! You can… You can stay here, if you’re frightened.”

Frightened? You?

You laugh harshly, the brim of your hat jerking at the absurdity of it all.

“É-Étoile?”

“Please,” you reply, placing a dainty hand against your curved lips. “Let’s be realistic, for a moment. That hand sign has limits, first and foremost— I wouldn’t be able to communicate with you past the third floor.”

Her brows furrow. “Y-Yes, but…”

“Ah, ah!” you tut. “Don’t interrupt. Let me finish.”

She purses her lips into a frown, but waits for you to continue. You place your fingertips together.

“…Secondly,” you continue. “I asked to be here. I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t have the resolve to see this through, would I? We’ll face the King together.”

Mira nods hesitantly.

“And besides, I’m not afraid!”

The buzzing, untethered hum in your body isn’t anxiety. It's not something as simple as fear.

It’s bloodthirst, and nothing else.

(Because this time, you can gut him yourself. You can shatter his armor with your Craft and pin him to the ground, driving your dagger through his throat and gutting him like a fish. You’ll crack his sternum with your bare hands and rip his organs out, tearing out flesh and viscera with your teeth until he’s nothing but a squirming, writhing heap of entrails and intestinal fluid. You’ll lick the blood off your lips, and you’ll finally, finally, stop starving.)

You smile.

“I just can’t wait to kill him again.”

She

doesn’t seem very reassured.

“…Okay,” she finally says, struggling to meet your gaze. “But, if… at any point, that changes, please let us know. We want to be your support, Étoile.”

“That’s right!” Isa cheers, carrying three of your five orbs in his wide palms. “Here, these are for you two.”

“Oh!” Mira gasps, accepting hers reverently. You take yours and tuck it in your pocket with significantly less care. “Thank you, Isabeau.”

He offers her a gentle pat on the shoulder before looking at you. “We’ll be here for each other. That goes for each and every one of us, so I’d better not see either of you holding stuff in, alright? We’ll stick by you till the end, Mira.”

Mirabelle takes a deep breath, her anxieties finally subsiding to a manageable degree. “…Okay. If you both say so.”

“Come on, guys!” Bonnie shouts from somewhere out of view, somehow having teleported to the door leading out of the Clocktower. “I’m getting bored!!!”

“Oh, crab,” Isa startles, quickly moving to leave. “Let’s get going. Got everything, Mira?”

Mirabelle nods, raising her orb to her cheek. “I do!”

“You, Léa? You ready?”

Who?

“Uh, who else is here?”

Didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Boniface isn’t going to last much longer,” Odile calls up impatiently. “And neither will I.”

You nod, and say farewell to the Clocktower.

“I am.”

An hour later, on the same Tuesday that you first lost your life, you open the door to your own morgue. The speech your friends regale you with is nostalgic and familiar, if not drowned out by the rain.

You turn back to cloudy, stormy Dormont— at the dark shadow of the Favor Tree, looming over the small town.

(You wonder if stardust is there, watching you.)

“Léa? You coming?”

You look forward and take the lead, sealing yourself to your fate.

(The Universe leads.)

(You only follow.)