Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I wished for Vaugarde to be saved!”

“I wished for my sister to be okay!”

“I wished to win a stupid coin flip!”

“And I wished that we’d be able to find you, to help you, to save you, Sif!”

“What did you wish for?”

Something tastes acrid at the back of your throat, stinging like salt water. It reminds you of waking up on a beach all those years ago, leaning over to vomit sea water onto the bright sands until you could cough the rest out of your lungs. Driftwood lay scattered upon the shoreline, wooden shards of an indescribable puzzle that lay broken and buried by the tide. You take long breaths, taking in the unfamiliar scenery as your hand caresses the sand as if to prove it was real.

At least…it feels like sand? The colour is so odd-

You dig your nails in, gritty particles settling beneath your nails as you scramble to try and hold onto nothing. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, dark, wet hair hanging in your eyes and holding fast to your cheeks. The sand clings to your wet hands, stinging at your eyes when you try and wipe them clean. You cringe, pillowing your face in your sopping wet sleeves and blinking away the sudden wetness of tears. You shiver despite not being cold.

An indescribable feeling of sorrow follows the motion, as though an empty space were present where your guts ought to be. You feel hollow inside and curl over your stomach as it aches. You fall over dizzily, groaning at the impact of your head onto the sand. You blink open your eyes, squinting at the sunlight; you try to shade them with an arm but it shakes so horribly you don’t even attempt it.

You lick your dry lips, they taste like salt and bloodied scabs. You can feel your burning skin peeling off in sheets as you shift. It wasn’t the first time, you’d always had fair skin like your-

Your head begins to ache, you shut your eyes. It’s still too bright.

You open them again, idly scanning the tides as they come in, blinking languidly as fatigue catches up. It’s an old habit of yours, turning away from the sky to search for the lighthouse at the edge of the-

You flinch, it feels like your brain is melting inside your skull, the temperature of bubbling lava as it spills out of your roaring ears.

You see it but you don’t, flashing in and fading out without your permission.

The telescope she kept in the foyer, so well-used it would squeak when it was adjusted–

How…did you get here?

Cliff-diving on a moonlit night with the distinct feeling that your parents would be angry if they knew–

Where had you come from?

Whispering a wish into a leaf and folding it over to keep it safe and warm–

It hadn’t been that long.

A call for you to come in for dinner by a childish nickname–

Surely it hadn’t.

His embroidery needle making careful stitches as you excitedly bounced around the room–

So why…

An old storybook from decades past, a fairytale–

Why couldn’t you remember?

You sit up despite the vertigo, staring at the endless horizon as though you were searching for it.

A… Something lay shattered on the shore, something was split into splinters that had once been yours, right? It had come from somewhere, just like you, and yet there was nothing there. You looked and looked, akin to a child lost in a market by themselves, crying out for someone you didn’t actually know enough to identify to anyone who asked.

It burned like acid in your eyes, like staring straight into the sun, and yet you couldn’t look away or risk missing it. Like you’d blink and what wasn’t there might disappear.

Something obscured your vision, a thick cloud of twitching liquid that spilt down your burned cheeks and burned the entire way down. Your missing pieces stank of copper, pouring out of your eyes, your ears, your nose, and staining the strangely bright sands. You caught it in your shaking hands from where they lay in your lap, each droplet hitting your palm with a splash of warmth that made your head spin.

The blood mixed with your tears, even as you turned away, horrified by the realisation.

That you were alone.

I’m the child of ████████ and ██████.

That you were displaced.

I live at █████, on ████████. It’s by the ████████.

That you did not remember your home.

North of Vaugarde, on the island of █████████.

That you could not remember your name.

My name is ██████, but my friends call me ████.

You had nothing.

Your shame made your throat burn as though you’d swallowed sulfur, the unfamiliar shade continuing to colour the world with yet more unfamiliarity, deeply contrasting the horrible scent you’ve become so deeply acquainted with.

It’s selfish, so disgustingly selfish, but their eyes are so earnest as they plead with you to just admit your deep, lingering desire that’s coloured your life since adolescence.

You can’t look them in the eye when you speak the words, expecting the hatred and revulsion that would soon follow. Like a kiss that didn’t happen, a non-existent argument, or a secret meeting you overheard that made your mouth taste bitter.

You’re all stuck here, forever and ever, something not even love could fix.

And it’s. All. Your. Fault.

You despair with every syllable, ringing out in the silence like blood hitting the ground from a fatal wound when they all stared at you in horror–

“I wished…” You sob, sickened by your entire being, “I wished we could go Home.”

They’re confused, and why wouldn’t they be? No one knows about you this loop, and after all these months you can hardly remember it yourself. But The King had made it ring in your head until you wept out your own soul, and The Wish you’d held tight to soon became infinitely clear.

You’d wished so deeply and fiercely that you could stay with them. But that wasn’t possible, you knew it from the very beginning. They were going Home, a place you lacked, a place to which you couldn’t follow.

Buried in the wish you’d made was an impossibility, one even more unlikely than your little family staying together.

If you couldn’t stay with them–

Couldn’t you at least have somewhere to go back to?

Chapter Text

He reached out a hand to catch your tired, fragile body as it shook. His worried eyes reminded you of years and years ago, crawling from the shoreline lest the cold seawater douse your burning body with salt once more. You struggle on all-fours, stumbling onto the field and tasting grass hard enough that your teeth ached.

A noise sounded somewhere far away, just barely audible over the ringing in your ears that had only just began to subside. You blinked through the fuzz, coughing, and flinched when something laid itself upon your back. You froze as it patted gently, eventually giving into the burning ache in your lungs and returning to your hacking. A gentle warmth enveloped your side as they sat down beside you, a delicate arm hung over your shuddering shoulders. You were tired enough to sway, slumping into the support as they whispered something over and over.

You panted as they spoke, then startled when they hefted you upwards, carefully pulling you up by the underarms and waist until they were supporting nearly your entire body. You felt small compared to them, tiny even, and everything ached as you stood. Something cracked audibly, and the figure chuckled; you don’t know what to make of it. They keep you upright, careful hands prying twigs from your darkless hair as you grip their other arm with both hands. They say something quietly, laying a hand on your cheek that makes your face warm and your blisters protest.

You startle when they lift you, squeaking out a protest that quickly shifts into a groan as the pain in your throat makes itself known. They adjust you, laying your head on their shoulder and their arms beneath you; one of them is holding your hat. They keep speaking as they walk, occasionally pausing to adjust their hold, and the rhythmic motions make you drowsy. You try not to let yourself sleep, but the figure starts to hum, chest rumbling alongside the sweet notes. Like a siren’s song, it calls, and you can do nothing but follow.

-

You dream of something shining just off in the distance, calling out through the fog like a plea for help. You’re so desperate to reach it, running as fast and far as you can, always so far and yet so utterly close. You fall over, panting hard with a sweat-laden forehead, but when you try to right yourself, something doesn’t let you. You fall hard onto the mud, scrambling forwards and into the light. You look behind you, and notice the trail left behind like breadcrumbs, being picked at by crows who gaze at you with stained beaks.

You look down, and see your legs are gone, severed at the knee.

The bones, or what is left of them, peak out from beneath the bloodied flesh, freshly coated in a fine sheen of rot. You struggle to breathe at the sight, equally captivated and disgusted all at once. You crawl backwards, and more skin sheds from the stumps, as if in response to the motion.

You look back towards the shimmering light, desperate to reach it, but your body burns with every motion, and threatens to tear itself apart to make you stay. You leave piece after piece behind, drinking from streams and howling with the wolves that fight over your laden remnants. Sweat drips down your brow, sweaty palms stricken with scratches can barely carry you forward, and something… something is wrong.

You hang your head to catch your breath, feeling every breath itch at your lungs. You’re coated in grim, and something darker that nearly blends in is splattered across your front. Looking carefully, your blood goes cold when you finally see it.

You look down, and there’s a whole in your chest, empty where a heart should be.

-

You wake up screaming, something so visceral and pleading you can hardly recognise it as your own. Your hands scramble across the front of your body, gripping your shirt as you breathe, breathe, breathe.

You flinch back when they come close, eyes shut tight, one hand gripping at your hair with desperation. Slowly, they coax it away, holding it close with their own. They guide it to their chest, and you’re confused until you feel the movement beneath your hand. They take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. You copy it, utterly transfixed for what feels like an eternity.

You’re still breathing steadily when they pull away, sitting beside you on the bed. They lean you back against them, uncurling your spine and laying your head on their chest with gentle suggestions. Their heartbeat, steady and fluid, thunders in your ear and makes the world real. You shudder out the next breath, tears dripping down your cheeks as they hold you close, and the fear melts away. You look up at their face carefully, hesitantly taking in their soft smile and letting the stream of nonsense words flood into one ear and out the other.

You take in the room, clothes are folded on a dresser with your hat sitting atop them. Pictures are hung on the walls and displayed in frames alongside pressed flowers and cross stitched patterns. The wooden bed creaks as they rock back and forth, shaking the four posters that support the gauzy canopy overhead. The bedside table houses a figurine with an oddly drawn expression that makes you strangely nervous. A little bookshelf is filled to the brim with thick books that look well-loved.

You can’t read the titles, they’re wholly unfamiliar to you. Your brow scrunches up as a thought seems to click into place, the nonsense speech, the strange figurine, and the strange text…

You look up at them, intent on asking, but your body coughs instead. A glass is pressed to your lips that they won’t let you hold, citing something you can’t understand in response. You gasp with relief when it’s finished, and although you crave more, you wet your dry lips to ask.

(“██ ███ ███?”) You croak, holding your aching throat with shaking hands. It hurts even worse at that moment.

Their expression is pained, as though someone had just shouted in their ear, then it fades into pure confusion.

(“██ ████████ ████…?”) You start, caught off guard by the sudden realisation that you don’t know the name of your own language. Your head hurts when you try and grasp it, pressure building until something trickles down your face that makes the other person gasp. They blot at the blood weeping from your nose carefully, concern colouring their features.

(“██ ███ ███…”) You say, then clutch at your head. You try to say more, but they press a finger to your lips. You glance at them, watching them shake their head sadly. They’re right, you should stop, but you feel like if you do you may never be able to speak again. You suddenly feel terrified, and make a writing motion on your hand that brightens their expression. They pull something from the bedside table, hastily handing over paper and…something else.

You try not to think too hard as you write, deciding on something basic. Your vision swims as you read it over. It looks like nothing, not gibberish, not another language, and not quite a blank page. Just…nothing, as though it has no substance and you’ve simply drawn an array of random lines. The letters unique to your script are just blobs of pigment, the others meaningless, and the whole line sways and swims like alphabet soup.

You don’t even remember what you’ve written, and your writing hand aches so much you drop the…whatever it is.

You glance at them, panic stricken across your features, and nearly sob when they tear out the page you’ve written on and set it aside. It clearly hurts to even glance at, for both of you no less. Why…? Why was this happening?

They kneel beside the bed, holding your hands in theirs with a subtle sadness you can only interpret as sympathy or pity.

(“████,”) You choke out desperately. Surely that would fix it, you just had to go home.

You weren’t sure where you were, sure, but you could’ve sworn you saw… nothing on the horizon? 

That’s right, you hadn’t seen anything there.

But, you had been near the water, so it must be close right! After all, you lived on an… an…

Huh? The word wasn’t coming to mind, and the picture you might’ve once had was blank.

That’s fine, you can just ask! You can’t say much, but you can just say that one word, right? Just ask where… where it is…

Where… what… is…?

Where… where the country is. You just have to say its name, surely they’ll recognise it by name, or at least someone will.

You look at them with dread-filled eyes, empty of hope, and struggle to capture the thought, any thought of that place.

I’m the █████ ██ ██████ and ██████.

But are you?

█ ████ at █████, ██ ████████. It’s ██ ███ ████████.

Because when you try and look.

█████ ██ ████████, ██ ███ ███████ of █████████.

There’s nothing.

██ ████ ██ ██████, ███ ██ ████████ ████ ██ ████.

There’s nothing there.

Chapter Text

“Say it with me now! Hal-”

“Hal.”

“Eh-”

“Eh.”

“But.”

You snicker.

“Oh! You little dustmolt!”

“Halibut,” you respond, still giggling.

“Halibut…” She sighs, then smiles.

-

At first, learning new words was encouraging. Understanding, even bit by bit, gave back your ability to communicate, your own humanity spoonfed to you until you were real again. But slowly, ever so slowly, you began to feel the loss of who you once were take hold. You would point at something, she would answer, you would repeat until it was right, and just like that the word in ██████ was lost to you.

It hurt, ached even, and it was the very reason why you refused to pick a new name.

She, of course, came up with dozens of nicknames ranging from annoying to utterly humiliating. It was out of love, or so she said, but it still felt like a sort of punishment for your stubbornness. But you’d pout or rage and she’d just hold you close and remind you “it isn’t like that.”

Usually, you believed her, but sometimes you loathed yourself, deeply annoyed by your own unwillingness to move on.

“It’s been years now… I- I should be over it by now. I should just put it behind me.”

“We both know it isn’t that easy. I certainly won’t force you, so you shouldn’t force yourself either.”

…You felt guilty for loving her, like you’d used her to replace someone you no longer knew. You couldn’t help it. Everything left about you was a blank slate except the fear, the sheer anxiety you felt each time you learned something knew. That something old would be deleted, sure, but also that you might just forget again.

Was there a point in teaching an amnesiac anything? What was the guarantee that they could even learn at all? What if they were just a ticking time bomb, waiting for the day that everything would disappear all over again. You’re afraid of that future, of that inevitability.

You know that, one day, it will all be gone. You heard your neighbours chatting about an…a something by the continent that disappeared. The name felt like white hot pain being poured directly onto your brain until no one said it anymore. It drifted away from the world just as you had drifted into a new one. The regret stung like a fresh papercut, albeit one that showed right through to the bone.

Nothing could soothe the fever of fear, not even the balm of her care and affection.

Maybe that was why she left.

You don’t remember why anymore, you hardly even remember her face, much less her name. Just stumbling into the square, a fresh program in hand and a ticket stub in your pocket. You’d worn your old cloak that day, eager to feel its comfort in hopes of soothing the longing you felt. The play had been more emotional than you’d expected, chewing a brand new hole into your brain so it could burrow in and make a place for itself. You pulled the script from the bedroom shelf once you were back, eagerly combing through the lines and mouthing the main character’s beneath your breath.

You carried the book outside one night, reading by the light of the stars. You set it down, still open, on your stomach as you stargazed, tracing non-existent pictures in the unfamiliar stars (you still can’t forget that word) and mouthing the last few lines of his monologue again and again.

He was so cool, every bit of the person you truly wished to be. Strong and steadfast, yet also playful and interesting. He’d flip his dagger and scare his allies, then shoot them a cheeky grin. He was a little distant, but they still loved him, cared for him as their friend.

You sighed, rolling onto your side and hugging the book close. Curling up, you close your eyes and think of his name, over and over in your head. You’re whispering along without much thought, so used to rolling it around in your thoughts.

Siffrin, Siffrin, Siffrin…

A strange odour wafted through the air, tasting it when it laid thickly on your tongue. You blinked harshly, sneezed, then sat up. The book tumbled from your lap, and laid open on ground, the pages turning with the wind. The breeze nearly stole your hat, but you stamped a hand onto it and secured it on your head. Out of habit, you pick up the book as you stand, idly flipping it back and forth in your hands as though searching for a secret.

Eventually, you shrug, and stow it in your pockets.

An unfamiliar emotion creeps in, easing the stress until your jaw relaxes to match your dry hands and brow. You smile, grin even, and feel something palpable take hold that screams of need. It tastes like sugar and wanderlust. Settling on a direction, you do just that, and its as if the play has finally begun.

“Oh, you’re her kid… The nameless one. Haven’t seen you in a bit!” They stoop down to your level, a mere three cheeses tall, “Doing okay? Prolly lonely, huh? You’re always welcome to visit, ya know!”

“Siffrin,” he says, “It’s Siffrin.”

They clap their hands together, utterly starstruck, and merrily smile at you, “Oh my! You’ve Changed! That’s so wonderful! Is that what you were doing all this time? No wonder!”

He smiles, “I guess I have.”

“Well I’m happy for you, Siffrin! Where are you off to then?”

“Traveling,” he decides.

“Oh, to Dormont, maybe? Crab, I bet your big sister will be so proud of you!”

“Maybe,” he agrees, “I’d like to see lots of new places.”

“Ah, of course, of course. Gotta do what makes you happy. Now you make sure to write, ya here?”

“Sure!” He waves to them as he leaves. He flips a stick in one hand, and decides his first order of business will be getting a weapon.

Oh, whoops. He forgot to ask what she meant earlier…by sister…

Huh? What had he just been thinking about?

Eh, it probably doesn’t matter. Whatever!

He hums a familiar tune as he walks, and feels the call of the stage, the curtains rising, and the rising action just waiting to begin.

Siffrin breathes in…and out…and feels whole.

-

“That one is-”

“Stars.”

“Oh! That’s right! You’ve been paying attention, Dear One.”

“They’re…they’re…”

“They’re lights, Darkless.”

“No.”

“Hm?”

“They’re not just lights. They’re…they’re not just lights.”

“Oh, oh, please stop, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“But- But I-”

“Buts are for Halibut, Small One.”

Your train of thought crashes, interrupted by a vicious bout of laughter.

Stars, they were stars.

-

They pull you out of yourself, out of your mania that strung you along through loop after loop.’

“We can be your home!”

They…they had said that, hadn’t they? You hadn’t just dreamed it? Stars you hope not.

You’re pulled in close…it feels good, even through the itching. You’re so relieved, not even the disgust at yourself can ruin it. Not even stammering through apology after apology, some listening sadly while the others insist you stop, threatening to sit on you (“Or something! I don’t know!). Time Craft doesn’t call when you stand with them, ready for it to finally be over, and yet you’re still afraid. It lessens when Bonnie grasps at your hand with sticky fingers, and Isabeau holds your other so your equally sweaty palms meet. They invite in the Head Housemaiden, who awkwardly follows along, and you’re relieved that she’s said something new.

You’re relieved, that is, until her face turns.

For a second you’re back there, in the loops, watching her expression crumble, watching her break. You’ve seen it over a dozen times, enough that you’ve long since stopped bothering to count. Begging for her to see you. For her to listen. For her to fix it-!

“Siffrin!” You startle and blink. It’s Mirabelle, “Hey? Are you okay?”

You go to smile, but stop abruptly at her glare. You slowly shake your head in lieu of finding the appropriate expression for dread.

“...Why are you looking at me like that…?” You ask, the tremor in your hands just as present in your speech. Bonnie doesn’t seem to understand, trying to squeeze harder as if it’ll stop your shaking. It sort of does.

“...Traveling One,” she squints, “Do…do you recognise me?”

“No?” Your brow furrows. Did you forget the script?

“It’s me, sweetling,” she carefully insists, “Euphie?”

“Huh?!” A few people respond, Mirabelle left utterly frozen while Bonnie tugs at her arm.

“Siffrin? Perhaps you can explain?” Odile asks carefully, clearly just as shocked as the rest.

“It…has been some time,” the Head Housemaiden admits, “You hadn’t yet named yourself. I should have visited, I will admit, but I had simply assumed you were still upset when you did not reply to my missives…”

“Say it with me now! Hal-”

“...Hal…” You say, caught in the memory.

“Hal?” Isabeau echoes, probably ten seconds away from checking you for a concussion… Or, having Odile check you for one, you should say.

“Buts are for Halibut, Small One.”

“Halibut… Buts-”

“Buts are for Halibut,” she agrees, bemused as she is sorrowful.

You don’t know what to say. It’s still so foggy, like she’s a stranger that somehow knows your name. It…It doesn’t hurt, but you feel tired…well, more tired.

“I’m considering a pilgrimage…to the House of Change. It’s far. Quite far, I will admit. Visits will be sparse… We could write, of course, but-”

“Euphie… Go.”

“Little Love…”

You smile, your fists clenched behind your back.

“It’s fine, Big Sis. You need to Change, right?” You don’t want her to.

“Right…”

She knew you’d never forgive yourself if she stayed. She also knew you needed her.

You knew you’d never forgive yourself if she stayed. You also knew you shouldn’t need her.

You wis- want to remember her. It doesn’t feel too far away, not after your…chat with Loop. You wonder if they knew her too. It’s probably better if they don’t, one less thing to yearn for. You regret how that ended, wondered if perhaps there had been another option for you two…

Euphie kneels to meet your gaze, still half a head above you. You’re still so much smaller than her, you’d (sort of) grown up together, after all.

“...Big Sis,” you test the title, mulling over the concept in your head.

“Little Siffy,” she says, “You always did love that play…”

Your face darkens, and you reach for a hat that isn’t there.

“Whaaaat?” She teases, “Don’t like that one?”

“Hmrmdffhr…” You groan into her skirt, shuddering at the warmth of her hand on your back. It feels just like that day. Sand in places it shouldn’t be, her wet handkerchief chasing the crusted blood on the back of your neck, the weird shower you couldn’t figure out for the life of you. Like forgotten words she’d gently remind you of, easily brushing past your frustration with your memory to compliment your speech.

It feels like a hallway that hurts you when you’re safe. One you’d let trick you again and again just to feel something. That pain that hurts so comfortably, a sort of twisted nostalgia that doesn’t remind you of lost memories or broken homes.

You remember rushing back to that house, silver coin burning a hole in your pocket, a croissant abandoned on the paved road. You remember sitting on the stoop, unable to remember why you were there.

Someone had called your name, asked if you were locked out, then produced a key and pressed it into your hand before you could answer. Vaugardians…

You’d slept there that night, guilty for not asking, and yet wholly safe in the world. The scent was familiar, and something had ached inside of you. In the morning, someone had opened the door and woken you, and in your panic you’d jumped out of their window… They’d found their bed used and unmade, but hadn’t seemed scared, even as you panted in fear, pressed up against the brick beneath the windowsill.

“I slept in your house, once…” You recall, holding her skirt.

“Our house,” she corrected, “Our home.”

Oh.

That…that was home, wasn’t it? You’d thought it was lost to you forever, that you’d never made another after the loss of your country. But…

“I wished we could go Home.”

“I wished for that,” you confess, an agonising feeling of heartfelt sorrow taking hold, “I wished…”

“Oh, Sweet One…”

You start to cry.

“‘M sorry… ‘M sorry I forgot…!”

She pulls you close, “I’m sorry I let you.”

You cry harder. You didn’t think you had any left in you, and yet here you were again. You could feel the warmth of your family members at your back, joining the awkward reunion (it was hardly the strangest thing they’d learned today, after all).

You weren’t that Siffrin. Not the cool, charismatic hero that flipped daggers to scare his friends (you always cut yourself, much to Odile’s chagrin). Not the storybook character, stuck in a tragedy, who decided to burn the world down for it.

You were just Siffrin. The nervous wreck that didn’t know how to ask for help, that forgot the names of everything, from objects to friends. The real person, stuck in a tragedy of their own creation, if only for want of a nail.

You think that’s okay.

The stars in your skin ache, fatigue blankets your entire body, and you’re so embarrassed to be seen as human that you want to start all over again…

But you feel whole.