Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The tent is dim, the only light within created by little pinpricks of candle flames, crafted to float in the air like miniature stars. They make the space uncomfortably warm, especially when the curtains close and seal the world of the festival outside away, trapping the breath of its occupants and heat of these fake celestial beings inside.

The sound of celebration is muffled, shouting and laughing barely permeating the thick, velvety fabric of the tent. The occupants don’t match that joyful energy, however, the soothsayer watching solemnly on as her current subject shuffles the tarot deck in a carefully measured pattern, splitting the deck into thirds, shuffling two, splitting it again, shuffling an additional two, and then repeating the process.

At last, the Artificer stacks the deck together. She takes the top card off and breathes her name into it, before setting it in the middle of the table and sliding the rest of the cards over to the soothsayer.

The soothsayer nods, accepting the cards with a gravity that only a prophet of the Universe could have. It’s clear that she takes her work seriously, evident by the creases in her cards and wrinkle lines starting to form on her face. Her deck is an original, crafted by her own hands, made up of her own art, her own intentions and interpretations.

”Are you ready, child of the Universe?” the soothsayer asks, and the Artificer pauses for a brief moment before they mirror her nod.

The soothsayer wastes no time after that, laying down the cards in order of the spread. The past goes on the top left, the future on the top right. The weight on the bottom left, the wish on the bottom right. The Universe’s guidance, set right above the self in the middle, completing the star pattern.

“We begin with you,” the soothsayer says, gesturing with flourish toward the card with a specific type of over dramatic acting you would have loved. “The heart of it all. The being that follows the will of the world on its steady and familiar tracks, tugged along and changed through its journey but always returning to the same state of self like a planet orbiting the sun.”

She flips the first card, revealing the realistic image of a see-through man with white hair looking up at the moon, his arms bound in chains as he reaches up towards that holy light with a wistful expression. The frame of the scene is in the shape of a tombstone, the bottom of the card reading ‘Prince of Ghosts’. 

The soothsayer taps the card. “The Prince.” She hums, studying her subject’s face carefully as the Artificer stares gravely back. “This card indicates that you are the bearer of your knowledge, your talent, and your oddities. These are blessings, but can also be a curse for the way they isolate you from your humanity. Be wary child, you are special but you are still susceptible to the follies of man.”

The Artificer says nothing. However, their hand curls into a tight fist, chewed on nails biting into their skin and leaving crescent shaped markings in their wake.

The soothsayer’s hand moves to the next card, seemingly not put off by the silence. She flips it over, revealing a reversed image skeleton wrapped in cloth and silk, only its vacant stare and closed teeth revealed. A lightless veil drapes down from its head, long skirt brushing the crosshatched ground below it. Its glove hands are clasped together, as if in prayer.

”The Mourner, reversed,” the soothsayer informs, as this card has no text on it. “This card speaks of an abrupt ending of something not yet complete. An egg crushed before hatching, the death of a childhood, a protostellar core becoming a frozen, failed star. This loss is followed by…”

Her hand slides over to the future card, flipping it over. It’s another image of a see-through man with long white hair, though this time he is perched upon a throne. He looks out with a bored expression, donning a crooked crown with long spikes and dark armor with large shoulder plates. He is both covered with and surrounded by excess, decant food and luminous gems, though he looks apathetic to it all. The tombstone border again surrounds the image, underneath written ‘King of Ghosts’.

”The King and his son make quite the combination here,” the soothsayer says thoughtfully, fingers tapping across the table in a rolling pattern that the Artificer can’t help but zero in on. Index, middle, ring, pinky, lift. Index, middle, ring, pinky, lift. “The King haunts the reading, he is the holder of the past who cannot appreciate it, nor can he leave it there. All your choices will be tainted by your past, if you follow his majesty’s sweet whispers. This card is as much an omen as a predication.”

She looks up expectantly at them, as if expecting a question or an interjection, but they just furrow their brow and motion for her to continue.

The soothsayer does so easily, her hand moving to the card on the bottom right. “The weight. The thing you carry with you, whether that be a regret, a struggle against the Universe, or a burden placed upon you by the ones you love, the ones you hate, the ones you fear. This card is an obstacle.”

She flips it over. It depicts another upside down skeleton, though this one wears no clothes. It kneels on a swirling pattern of floor, pulling back the string of a bow and arrow. Its rib cage holds a burning heart, fires blazing out of its hollow sockets. The card almost radiates an energy of determination, of anticipation, and the Artificer finds herself leaning forward without intending to.

The soothsayer notices this. “Does this card call to you?” she asks.

The Artificer looks up from the card, piercing stare watching the soothsayer consideringly. You’ve been on the other end of that stare enough times that it no longer affects you, but, despite the soothsayer's experience with people of all types, she still noticeably shifts in her seat, a subtle hint that she’s uncomfortable with the intensity of attention.

Finally, they nod.

The soothsayer hums, gaze trailing back to the card. The Artificer’s eyes follow her hand as she reaches out and taps it three times. “This is the Archer,” she explains. “Reversed clearly. It is representative of brutality, a mercy killing that missed its mark. It is a clumsy, uninformed attempt to help that causes pain. Be wary of this, intention is not the only thing that matters. Your actions will create ripples far beyond yourself.

”And this,” the soothsayer continues, drifting over the card on the bottom right, “leads to your wish. What do you desire? What do you feel you need to overcome your burden? Let us find out now.”

She flips the card over. Another upside down image, this one of a wolf holding a rabbit in its mouth. Blood drips from the poor creature in a reversed waterfall and the hot breaths of the lightless wolf distort its face, like the ink on this particular card was smudged before it could wholly dry. It stands in an empty space, shape made clear only by its outline, and is surrounded by a similar white border.

”The Wild Hunt, reversed,” the soothsayer announces, “a desire for control, a single minded focus. You have proven to yourself that you can brute force your way to your goals, however, this isn’t always a good thing. Sometimes, that fight only serves to harm the things in your path.”

The soothsayer lets this damning declaration hang in the air for a moment, clearly expecting a reaction, watching her subject’s conflicted expression as they stare at the card. They look more confused than anything else, but still, they ask no questions.

The soothsayer sighs, letting her finger run across the table as she moves to the final card. “The Universe’s advice,” she says blandly, and flips the card. On it is a person, the shape of their body is nothing more than a simple outline. They have no face, just a blank empty spot where one should be, the background a swirling pattern of concentric circles. The border is nothing more than an abrupt stop to those circles, and written in neat text along the top and bottom of the card, is a language neither you or the Artificer would understand yet. ‘Mal du Pays,’ reads the top in upside down text. ‘Le Voyageur,’ reads the right side up text.

The soothsayer leans forward, suddenly intrigued again. “This is…” she starts, then pauses, clearly considering her words, “…an interesting card for the Universe to present to you, considering the rest of your reading.”

“How so?” the Artificer asks, the first words she’s spoken since sitting down across from the soothsayer. Her breath is airy and quiet, but it’s tinted with a focused curiosity as she leans forward to get a closer look at the card.

”Well, if I was to interpret the rest of your reading myself, I’d say it’s a warning,” she says, tracing the cards in the order they were laid down. “Whatever path you’re going down, it's dangerous, for you and anyone else you choose to involve. This card, however…” Her finger rests on the tip of the star, tapping it thrice. “The Traveler.”

“The Traveler?” her subject echoes incredulously, expression going sour.

The soothsayer nods, not at all put off by the tone. “The start of a journey, the directing of intentions, the putting your plans into motion. The Universe is saying full speed ahead, damn the consequences.” She looks at them gravely. “Whatever you’ve done to earn its favor, child, you should probably keep doing it.”

The Artificer's face pinches as they open their mouth to speak, but you interrupt by ripping open the curtain, impatient as you always are, and bring an abrupt end to the tarot session with a flood of blinding light. 

The world outside resumes, still just as loud and overwhelming as ever. The sun’s setting at least, painting the jovial crowds in a stark and brilliant radiance that could only come at the end of summer. Soon enough, it will be dark, and you and the Artificer will go back to your home to eat a traditional dinner before coming back out for the final dance under the cornucopia constellation in celebration of the harvest.

“Auntie, aren’t you done reading their fortune yet?!” you shout, out of breath and grinning wildly. You’re covered in mud, your white cloak and matching hat a mess of dirt and grime, hair caked and clumped together at odd, unnatural angles. It’s clear that you’ve been playing some of the festival’s carnival games yourself, probably failing at staying on a rolling log if your state of dress has something to say about it. “I wanna go eat!”

The soothsayer frowns at you, stern expression telegraphing an inevitable scolding. Something you’ve heard a hundred times, about being patient, about setting a good example, about anything under the stars really. You always seem to be causing trouble in the adults eyes, even as they all tell you that you’re supposed to be the responsible one.

Before she can say anything to you though, the Artificer stands up. “We just finished,” they say, bluntly and leaving no room for any disagreements. They start towards you, hand already reaching out to intertwine your fingers so you can lead them home. “Let’s go, ⍟—“

❂ ✪ 𖣔 ✪ ❂

Siffrin’s dreaming.

They don’t know how they know, they’ve never been a very lucid dreamer before, but something has triggered their awareness. They're suddenly standing upright, when last they remembered they were laying down with Isa tucked comfortably beside them. Instead of being surrounded by forest, looking up at the glowing dots of stars from their sleeping bag while the last bits of their campfire crackled into smolder and cicadas hummed around them, they were now swallowed up by a sea of empty lightless space that stretched out as far as they could see.

They swivel around as they take in what seems like an endless expanse of void, each movement sending a ripple of white light echoing out from beneath their feet with a hollow chime. It reminds them of the sound Mira’s brooches when she walks, the quiet little ding ding! It’s more comforting than it should be.

He can’t help but remember the last time he was stuck in a void like this, wandering around the depths of his psyche when he was frozen in time by the King. That comparison alone would usually be enough to bring him to his knees. Stars above, he’s had plenty of nightmares about the loops already, what’s one more to add to the pile?

Surprisingly however, the anxiety feels distant, untouchable. Replacing it is a sense of purpose, intent, so strong it takes him a second to realize it’s not his own. The air hums with anticipation like it’s full of electricity, making Siffrin’s hair stand on edge and his spine tense.

The empty nothing he finds himself spasms, flooding itself in a flash of bright, near clinical light. It’s as overwhelming as it is abrupt, and he gasps, crumbling at the waist and clutching at his head as it throbs.

And just as sudden as it came, the light disappears, replaced again by the void. However, the same ripples that appeared when Siffrin moved are now lapping against their feet in even rings that echo past them. The gentle chime, previously reassuring, now announces the presence of something else. Something other. Something hunting them.

His heart leaps in his chest and he stumbles a step backward, anxiety slamming back into him like a dam that had just been reopened. The empty under his feet rings out, a wave of light swooping out from under him.

Whatever else is moving around in the space pauses for a moment, the chimes of its prowling fading out. And then, like Siffrin’s misplaced step was a snapped twig in the quiet woods, the thing starts moving towards him with a renewed and graceful purpose, each bell ringing speaks of movements deliberately placed.

Siffrin gets the urge to flee, but something keeps him locked into place. Sweat is dripping down his temples, and he has a moment to consider how odd of a sensation that is to make note of if he’s simply dreaming. Honestly, he thinks with a growing pit in his stomach, this dream is starting to feel a little too real for his liking.

It takes an eternity for the figure to appear in the void, starting out as a small speck of white in the distance and growing bigger as it approaches him. The chime of its steps heralds a change yet to come. 

A sense of foreboding hits Siffrin. He knows, with a sudden certainty, that this thing has a goal and it will do anything to see it through. Whether it’s a noble cause or a malicious one is yet to be seen, but either way, he has a feeling that this interaction is going to hurt.

The figure continues its steady trek towards them, the ripples under its steps racing past in quick succession now, like the ascending beat of a drum that plays during the climax of an act. It comes to a sudden stop a few feet away from them, the void going so noiseless that even the silence itself seems to speak.

Siffrin has to squint to try to make out its features, even at such a close distance. It’s like its face is a painting that someone decided to drag their thumb across and smudge before it fully dried, just a blurry halo of white. Its darkless hair cascades down in messy rivers that reach just below its shoulders and a long cloak drapes its form, almost touching the ground. It stands at about the same height Siffrin does, if not a slight bit shorter. When its mouth opens, it’s nothing more than an empty circle in the center of its face.

“I found you, ⍟✵.”

Its voice is quiet and breathy, but it also seems to explode out of it, filling all the empty space. It roars through Siffrin’s thoughts like the static sound of a crashing waterfall, makes his head throb in acute pain. He stumbles backward, clutching his hair with crooked fingers, and the figure chases after, hand outstretched as though to steady him.

The faceless figure stops before it reaches him though, hand freezing mid air. It slowly lets it drop to its side, balling it into a tight fist, knuckles white as the bones that strain beneath its skin.

“I’m sorry,” it says, voice still hitting Siffrin like a solid wall of noise. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What-“ Siffrin starts with a grimace. Then they pause, wetting their lips. “What are you?”

The figure’s hum vibrates the space, an earthquake shaking the placid air of a void. “You don’t remember me,” it states, more as a fact than a question.

Still, Siffrin shakes his head. “Am…Am I-?” He winces, closing his good eye as he massages his temple. The pressure in his head is awful, and it’s steadily getting worse. “Am I supposed to?” he finally manages.

The figure goes silent, still as a statue or a being frozen in time. As it stays unmoving, its face slides more into focus, revealing two piercing eyes staring him down. Its irises are made up of concentric circles, the same that occasionally lined the face of the Change God statue in the center of Dormont or are carved into the metal of Mirabelle’s brooches.

“You are,” it finally says, fluidly gliding back into motion as it does. It starts stalking towards Siffrin, graceful as a dancer, purposeful as a predator, each step accompanied by a cheerful chime.

Siffrin’s feels his face contorting with fear, mouth falling open as he sucks in a sharp breath. He stumbles backwards, hand instinctively dropping to where his knife would normally be sheathed and coming up empty. He glances down at himself, and finds he’s dressed in his pajamas, even his signature cloak is gone, probably left with his other things outside of this astral plane he’s found himself in.

Siffrin looks back up, and startles as they find the figure has closed the distance. It’s standing a hair’s breadth away, slate colored eyes boring into him like bullseyes. Light bends and twists around it oddly, distorting its features, and sliding it in and out of focus.

It shifts, hand reaching out towards them, and in a blink and you miss it moment, its face reveals itself fully for the first time. It feels…oddly familiar, in a way Siffrin can’t place and slides out of their head every time they try to recall. Their faulty memory acting up again.

He has a brief pang of frustration, even amid all the thought consuming panic. Maybe, if he could just remember his blinding home, he wouldn’t keep finding himself in these situations. The King, the gaps in his memory, this phantom figure who he apparently should know; each problem leads back to the island in the north, like a broken boat guided back to shore by the light of the constellations.

They don’t have long to linger on the thought as it disappears almost as suddenly it arose, replaced by the figure’s thumb placed on their forehead. They go cross eyed trying to look at its hand, but then the figure applies the lightest bit of pressure and the world goes static.

Siffrin gasps, pain overwhelming their thoughts and rendering them useless. The pain in their head devours them, vision going black, white, black, white. “Stop!” they try to cry out, but can only choke out a frightened sob.

“Don’t worry ⍟✵,” the figure soothes, or at least tries for some approximation of it. “Now that I’ve found you, I’ll help you.”

‘I don’t want your help!’ Siffrin thinks, tries to say, but can’t spit the words out. ‘Not if it’s like this! Not if it hurts!’ He gargles instead, sugary gravel rattling around in his throat. The air he manages to take in tastes overwhelmingly of burnt caramel.

The figure’s thumb leaves his forehead and its hand slides over to gently brush Siffrin’s unruly hair back before dropping back to its side, a comforting movement so quick he has to wonder if he imagined it. The pressure eases monumentally without its touch, but the remaining headache and smell of sweet linger leaving Siffrin reeling. He huffs and puffs, trying to get a solid breath in while feeling a little like he’s dying again. 

Oh stars, are they dying again?

Abruptly, before they can really start to freak out, the figure takes a deep breath in. And out. And in. And out.

Despite the pain, despite the panic, Siffrin can’t help but match the familiar rhythm. Some steady metronome locked into his lungs easing him back into that measured calm. Without thinking, his hand reaches out to the figure, fingers flexed open. The figure pauses for a moment, and then, with some trepidation, it reaches out and grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together.

This, too, feels overly familiar. Siffrin shivers, half from the sensation of being touched and half from the rush of fever that has accompanied his aching head. The figure squeezes his hand, grip tight enough that it edges into something painful, a clumsy attempt at reassurance, and all he can do is blink down at their conjoined fingers like they are foreign objects.

They meet the figure’s stare again, its slightly inhuman eyes piercing through them, dissecting them. Siffrin opens their mouth to speak again when abruptly, all around them, the void starts to fracture, cracks of light breaking through the empty space like stars blinking into existence. It’s like the Universe was suddenly made aware of a conversation happening backstage and wants in on it, splitting apart reality once more. 

The figure barely acknowledges it, laser focused on Siffrin even as a crack splits wide open between them, bathing their entwined hands in an unearthly halo. “I won’t let you leave again,” it promises seriously, raising its voice above the noise of the breaking empty. It grips their hand so tight it burns, nails digging into their flesh. “Not this time. Not when I can do something about it.”

The remaining pressure in Siffrin’s head disappears in a sudden rush, right as the floor breaks entirely open beneath them. The blur over the figure’s features vanishes, thrusting its face into a sudden clarity, and it becomes a full person now, one they at knew almost as well as themself at one point, almost better than themself, and she’s staring at them, determination lining her features, mouth pressed into a thin line, but they’re still falling and her grip is slipping, and her name is— Her name is on the tip of their tongue, waiting for them to just say it…to just sAY IT!! SAY IT!! SAY IT—!!!!

Siffrin surfaces in the waking world, gasping for air and scratching at their chest like it will help them get in a breath. 

The moon has been replaced by the rising sun, the stars fading into obscurity as its overwhelming light peaks over the horizon and illuminates the trees. Distantly, they hear the sound of morning birdsong beginning, but it feels as though cotton has been stuffed in their ears, muffling it. Their vision is blurred, shades burning into their retina that only serve to make the growing pain in their head worse.

“Sif?” a tiny voice speaks in a groggy, rumbling tone, concern smoothing out its rough edges.

Siffrin can’t parse out who's speaking to them though, scrambling out of their sleeping bag in order to better curl into a ball. They wrap their arms around themselves, pull their knees to their chest. Acting as if they could make themself small enough to go unnoticed by the overwhelming amount of pain that looms over their head like it’s holding a wicked blade and is ready to take a stab right at their cranium if they so much as breathe the wrong way.

They peer out from the gap between their arms, in too much agony to really process what they’re seeing but self protective instincts demanding they keep a watch.

It’s this pose that allows him to see Isa leaning into his field of vision, eyes tired but face pinched tight with worry. “Sif?” he repeats again, and then goes on to say something else in a language that Siffrin can’t understand.

The confusion of this knocks some of the pain away. They didn’t know Isabeau knew any other languages besides Vaugardian? Granted, they know Isa tries to hide how smart he is sometimes, but surely being fluent in some foreign tongue would’ve come up at some point?

Siffrin stares at him, good eye wide and uncomprehending, mouth slack, loosening their death grip on themself. They can’t find their voice, breathing in an awkward breath before swallowing thickly.

Isa is growing more alert by the second, spurred into wakefulness with clear, cautious anxiety. “Siffrin?” he asks again, hand reaching up and hovering over their shoulder in an awfully familiar gesture that has their breath hitching.

Their wild gaze darts to Isa’s hand, his fingers twitching under the sudden intensity of their stare. He seems to realize what Siffrin’s hang up is, his fixation, quicker than Siffrin ever could in his position though, as the hand gently falls to Siffrin’s shoulder in a well telegraphed movement.

Siffrin manages to suppress the jolt that normally accompanies touch, instead allowing himself to relax somewhat. It’s almost easy to do actually, Isa’s hand a grounding object that eases off a little more of the pressure in his head.

“Siffrin,” Isa says, sounding grave and serious, grip tightening on his shoulder.

The tone is one that Siffrin has become intimately familiar with since the loops ended, and has since been dubbed his ‘defender voice’ by Bonnie. It’s one that can normally knock them out of a dissociative moment where they start to zone out or provide a much needed tether to a reality that has a steady passage of time. 

That doesn’t seem to be the problem here, however, as he goes on to ask another question in that same smooth, accented language that they have no hope of understanding. All the words seem to flow into each other, just some endless stream of nonsense syllables that all sound the same.

“I can’t understand you,” Siffrin says carefully, uncurling just enough to put his own hand over Isa’s. “What language is that? Can you switch back to Vaugardian?”

He’s not expecting Isa to wince when he speaks, the free hand that’s not on Siffrin’s shoulder moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. He says something else in that odd language, voice tight. Another question, maybe? It had a lilt to the end of it, but what could he be asking?

Siffrin hears a ruffling to the left of him, where Odile’s sleeping bag is resting. She was always the lightest sleeper of the group, now only rivaled by Siffrin and their new loop induced vigilance. It should be no surprise that this new, sudden outburst would’ve woken her up.

He turns towards her, finding her wincing and rubbing at her hip as she leverages herself upright, and is hit with a wave of relief. If there’s anyone in their little party that can set this straight, it’s Odile. She’s smart, she knows all sorts of things, has been all over. There’s no doubt in his mind that she’ll know whatever language Isabeau is speaking in, she’ll probably even be fluent in it herself!

”Odile!” he cries, a nervous smile wobbling its way onto his face. “Thank stars you’re up. Isa’s speaking some weird language and I can’t understand him. Can you translate?”

Odile winces too, an immediately worrying sign. Her hand drifts towards her head, delicately pressing her index finger on her temple as she squeezes her eyes shut. “Siffrin?” she asks, voice rough with sleep. “Isabeau?”

And then, she goes on to ask her own question. But instead of being something Siffrin can understand, it comes out in that same rolling language Isabeau was speaking, all those parts of speech pressed tightly against each other.

The smile freezes cold on Siffrin’s face, Odile’s words forcing them to have a critical realization. One that sends a chill through their blood and has their breath hitching.

It’s not that Isabeau and Odile are suddenly speaking some strange, foreign language that he’s never heard of. No, they’re still speaking Vaugardian, have been this entire time.

As always, it’s Siffrin who’s the odd one out. He’s speaking some weird language neither one of them understand. But…if that’s the case…shouldn’t he still be able to understand Vaugardian at least? He should know what they’re saying! He’s been speaking the language for…for…well, he doesn’t know how long, but it’s his first language. Probably. It’s at least the first one he remembers speaking.

But then again, his memory isn’t that great is it?! Swiss cheese holes in his gray matter, spots missing that shouldn’t be, words that he can’t remember but definitely should. Words that he should be familiar with! Kiln, pottery wheel, sharpening stone, stuffed animal! Is it such a stretch that the whole language could just drop out of his head at any given time?

And what language is he even speaking then? He can feel himself, babbling it even now, the foreign words easy on his tongue and spoken without any conscious thought. “Oh Guiding Universe, full of celestial mercy, please lead me home. Let the stars shine my way, let my boat steer true, let me remember—”

”—frin, Siffrin!” Isa yells in their face, his hands suddenly wrapping around their wrists, shocking them out of their prayers. “Please stop gripping your hair, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

Siffrin blinks up at him as the world snaps back into focus and the final remnants of pressure in their head dissipate, like a rubber band finally pulled to the point of breaking.

The world around him might be clear and tangible now, but it takes a moment for sensation to actually start registering again. First comes sound; the humming of songbirds, the shuffling of leaves in the forest beyond their little clearing, and if he strains his ears, the distant babble of the river they’ve been following towards Bambouche.

Next is touch; the plush cushion of his sleeping bag beneath him, pressed against the packed earth. Isabeau’s hands on his wrist, grip just shy of too tight but welcoming all the same. He can feel another hand hesitantly place itself on his shoulder, and he swivels his head towards it reflexively.

Sight comes in last, as he meets Mirabelle’s gaze. She’s dressed in her pajamas still, hair bunched up underneath her familiar polka dotted bonnet and frill lined dress draping down below her knees. Her face is tight with worry, mouth open slightly around a concerned breath, like she’s steeling herself to say something. But something about him makes her pause. 

Her eyes roam around his face, studying him for a long moment before she sighs. A reassuring smile finds its way onto her face, wobbly but entirely genuine. It almost makes Siffrin jealous, at just how quickly she’s able to mask her concern and replace it with a true kindness. It was something he could never master, even after loops and loops of perfecting his acting.

”Siffrin,” she says gently. “Are you back with us?”

They swallow tightly, and then give a jerky nod.

Mira sighs again, this time in relief. She drops on her knees next to them, her satin dress immediately getting stained by the dirt below. Her hand doesn’t leave their shoulder, the same way Isabeau’s hold on their wrist hasn’t. It’s more comforting than it should be, even accompanied by that reflexive urge to twitch and flinch out of their hold.

”I…” Siffrin croaks, and then grimaces, finding their throat oddly sore. Did they wake up screaming? It wouldn’t be the first time, but…the longer they seem to sit here, the more wiggly their memories get. Even the last few minutes are becoming a haze, smeared together half recollections. Isabeau. He said something weird, right? Then why’s everyone looking at them?

They take a shallow breath, trying to sort through their disorganized thoughts. “I had…a bad dream?” It comes out as more of a question than a statement. “…Didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m—”

He pauses, apology locked and loaded on his tongue, but one stern look from Mira sends it scampering back down his esophagus. Yeah, he probably should’ve expected that one.

“Don’t be dumb, you don’t have to be sorry!” Bonnie says, abruptly appearing on Siffrin’s good side, way too close and way too unexpected. They look angry, hat removed, hair disheveled and sharpened from sleep, but Siffrin’s informed enough now to know that being angry is this specific child’s equivalent of being concerned. “Everybody has nightmares!”

Odile slides into their line of sight next, everyone huddled to Siffrin’s left. She puts a firm hand on Bonnie’s shoulder, drawing them back before they can get any more in Siffrin’s space, of which they are immensely grateful for.

She studies them, her expression as unreadable as always. She cocks her head like a curious crow, her straight hair flowing down her shoulders now that sleep has removed it from its normal bun.

Normally the intensity of her gaze would terrify Siffrin, would make them question what they were doing wrong and how fast they could go about fixing it. However, right now, it’s almost…comforting? Familiar, in a way he wouldn’t have recognized before he woke up.

“Siffrin,” Odile calls, snapping him back into the present. He straightens up, more alert, and Mirabelle and Isabeau share a glance before letting him go. He takes a deep breath.

Innnnn. And ouuuuut. Innnnnnn. And ouuuuuuuut.

“Sorry,” they start thoughtlessly. Then, before anyone can jump in to correct them, they shake their head jerkily. “Not sorry, I mean, not sorry, but…I…I just had a nightmare, I think. I’m fine now.”

Siffrin doesn’t smile when they say it, which counts as a victory in their book. ‘I’m fine,’ is a loaded statement when it comes to them now, and it’s somewhat of a relief to be able to say it again and it be an honest fact. 

This time, however, even without the smile it might still be an act. He genuinely can’t get a read on how he’s doing, because he keeps on losing his thoughts, memories falling through his head as quickly as a heavy rain. It’s almost disorienting, the way the pressure eases and releases in bursts, condensing time down to solely the present, the only moment he can semi decently get a grip on before it too escapes his grasp.

“Ok,” Bonnie says with a serious little nod, taking his words at face value even as the rest of the adults around them stare back with different expressions of disbelief. “If you’re fine, then can I finally ask what that weird language you were speaking was?”

Siffrin blinks. “Weird language?”

“Uh, yeah?” Bonnie says, nose wrinkling as their face pinches in confusion. “When you woke up, you were speaking some weird pointy language! It was all sharp and it made my head hurt hearing it.”

Siffrin blinks more rapidly, thoughts bottoming out into nothing as he tries to recall what other languages he knows that might fit that description. “Uhhhh,” he manages. “Mwudian?”

“No,” Odile says immediately, shaking her head. A thoughtful expression appears on her face, wrinkles softening as she reaches up and puts a hand over her mouth. “…Not Mwudian…but maybe…?”

“M’dame?” Isa asks, looking up at her expectantly.

Odile darts a glance at him, then looks back at Siffrin, humming. “Not now,” she says quickly, with no further clarification. Then, before Siffrin can ask, she addresses them again. “Present check?”

Oh, they know the drill here. “We’re headed to Bambouche to reunite Bonnie with their sister,” they recite. “…We’re a couple days out now, I think.”

Odile nods decisively. “That’s right,” she says. “And the King?”

Siffrin feels their expression darken for a moment before they catch themselves and smooth it back out. “Gone,” they respond, quieter this time. “He’s gone.”

For all that he’s tried to start opening up to the others about the loops, there’s too many details and too many holes in his memory to be able to do so accurately and concisely. Even if he was eager to just vomit all his emotions, all his experiences, all the terrible things he saw and did, he’s not sure he’d be able to do it without traumatizing the rest of his party or, even worse, making them more concerned about him than they already are.

So he’s still waiting, for the right time, for the right words, to explain what feelings mentions of the King bring up in him. Because yes, there’s anger, there’s fear, there’s a deep seated hatred, and all that’s there without even touching on what he did to Bonnie.

But underneath it all, the emotion he can’t bring himself to acknowledge, the one he sometimes forgets he even feels, is one of intense longing. Like it or not, the King is one of the only pieces of home he still has, one of two people in his mind that have such a presence that it’s impossible for him to forget what loss they all have in common.

How disgusting.

A sudden pressure centralizes in the middle of their forehead, a stirring of awareness. They get a flash of memory, a pair of inhuman eyes staring out at them, which slip away almost as soon as they recall them, leaving nothing behind but a hollow feeling.

“The loops?” Odile continues, moving down her routine checklist.

Siffrin takes a deep breath. “They’re over,” they confirm. “Time is passing normally, and I’m safe.”

Odile nods, satisfied. She’s clearly fine with leaving things there, now that she’s assured that Siffrin is at least stable after their nightmare. “Come on Boniface,” she says as she taps their shoulder, voice losing some of its stern edge as she addresses the preteen. “Help me start getting our packs together and then I’ll assist you with breakfast.”

Bonnie looks over their shoulder at her as she glides away, and then back towards Siffrin, uncertain. They quickly collect themselves, puffing out their cheeks and putting their hands on their hips. They point at Siffrin, and they try not to startle at the aggressiveness of the gesture.

“I’m gonna make you a good breakfast!!” they announce confidently. “My sister always says a good breakfast makes your brain stronger, especially before school, so it should extra help when you’re worried about going to school for a long time!”

Siffrin blinks at them, and then snorts into their hand. “Thank you Bonbon,” they say, completely genuine. “I’ll make sure to eat it all.”

Bonnie beams at them, all teeth showing. “Of course you will! Because I’m gonna be the best cooker in the world! No one will ever leave without emptying their plate when I open up my own restaurant.”

“Best chef in the world,” Odile chimes in, at the same moment that Mira claps her hands together, eyes sparkling.

“Oh Bonnie!” she exclaims. “I didn’t know you wanted to be a chef! That suits you so perfectly.”

Bonnie blushes, rubbing the back of their neck in a gesture they’ve clearly picked up from Isa. “Well…uh,” they bluster. “It’s just…something I’ve been thinking about. Since leaving Dormont and all.”

Siffrin tries to shove down any discomfort they feel about mentions of the future. Come on now, they think, psyching themself up. You’re better than that now, you can be normal about this at least.

“Oh, that sounds like a hard career Bonnie,” they say, with a pre-pun drawl that has Isabeau jolting to attention. “Are you sure you can dish it out?”

“Well, of co-“ Bonnie starts, only to be interrupted by Isa’s loud laugh. Their face pinches as they rewind through Siffrin’s sentence, clearly looking for the pun they missed and then pouting when they discover it.

“Hey!” they shout, stamping one indignant foot. “I’m gonna make breakfast for you, you crab!!”

Siffrin chuckles softly, feeling a little lighter now. “Sorry Bonbon, I just can’t stop myself from serving up good jokes.”

“Yeah, you’re a real connoisseur!” Isa uproars, giving Siffrin’s shoulder one more pat before removing his hand, while Mirabelle moves hers to hide a laugh behind it.

“Ugh!! I can’t with you,” Bonnie says, in a manner that immediately makes Siffrin think they’ve been spending too much time around Odile. “I’m leaving and I’m starting breakfast. Pack up your own crabbing stuff!!”

They stomp off, and Siffrin takes that as they’re own cue to start getting up. They stand, feeling slightly unsteady as they do, and Mira and Isabeau follow their lead, two sets of hands hovering nearby.

“Hey Sif,” Isa says, waving a little hand to get their attention. They look over at him, and he smiles gently back. “Sure you’re all good buddy?”

Siffrin blinks at him, then nods, once hesitantly and then again firmer. “Yeah,” they say. “Yeah, I’m good. It was just a bad dream. I can’t even remember it now.”

While this was meant to be an assurance, it doesn’t seem to make either Isa or Mira feel better. Isa’s smile wavers, and Mira sags a little, almost seeming disappointed.

Before Siffrin can figure out what he did wrong, Mira picks up where Isabeau left off. “Well!” she announces. “If you do remember something! Or! Even if you just want to talk! You can let one of us know ok? Feelings buddies, right?”

Oh. Oooooh, Siffrin sees now. They think this is loop related and they want to help, because they love him. Because he’s made them feel like the power of their love could help him solve all his problems, even the ones he can’t remember.

If only it could be that simple.

Siffrin nods without an ounce of hesitation. “Feelings buddies,” he assures her. “Don’t worry Mira, if something comes up that you can help with, I’ll let you know.”

She doesn’t look like she quite believes them, but she smiles anyway. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Alright Siffrin,” she says, reaching out and grabbing one of their hands with both of hers. She squeezes it once and then pulls away, almost too quick for them to realize it happened.

He’s left staring at his hand as she turns away to roll up her sleeping pack, flexing his fingers. Nostalgic, he thinks, naming the emotion that’s welling up inside him. Why is he feeling nostalgic..?

Isa claps him on the back, jerking him out of his stupor. “Alright Sif!” he announces. “Ready for another long day of hitting the trails?”

Siffrin grins, the little one, that they seem to reserve just for Isabeau. “Yeah, Isa,” they say cheekily. “I think I’m al- hike with it.”

Isa laughs, loud and unrestrained. “Yeahhhh!!!” he shouts. “Let’s goooo!”

“Stop being gross!” Bonnie yells back, furiously stirring something delicious smelling over the fire. “And hurry up! I’m almost done with the eggs.”

Oh, that one’s too easy. “Sounds egg-cellent Bonbon!” Siffrin calls back, thoroughly enjoying the incoherent noises that Bonnie makes back at them and basking in the sound of Isabeau’s laughter.

They can almost pretend like it’s a normal morning after that, like their bad dream was nothing more than a blip in the road, a star blinking out of existence in their mind. It’s not like they can even remember it anyway, why do they have to worry about it?

They do their best to avoid Isabeau’s concerned looks. They don’t correct Mirabelle when she bites at her nails. They ignore Odile scribbling away in her notebook, head tucked over the pages as she neglects her breakfast and winces in pain as she rereads whatever she had just written. They accept Bonnie’s food with a grin and a pun that makes them groan, loud and over dramatic.

Just another wonderful, sunny, post loop day! Keep going Siffrin. The show, no…no, no , the show’s over now. The loops are done, it’s over. Now it’s the world, the Universe, that won’t stop for him and all his baggage.

They take a deep breath. Innnn. And ouuuut.

Keep going Siffrin.

Chapter Text

Odile does not consider herself a very good worrier. It’s just not in her nature to do so. She is spiteful, contrary, sarcastic. She’s the person you come to when you need a quip or a devil’s advocate. She was not made to be concerned of all things.

However, concerned is something she finds herself feeling more and more often since leaving Dormont.

It should be the opposite. She should be filled with relief, riding the high of defeating the King and restoring peace to all of Vaugarde. She’s an agent of change, a savior of the people, going on a victory tour with her allies through the country in order to reunite Boniface with their sister. It should be all smooth sailing from here on, because what else is there to do really? When the most important thing has already been accomplished?

She’s perched on a tree stump, close to the edge of the clearing where they are settling down and setting up camp for the evening. The evening sun burns brightly through the trees, a gradient of sunset shades running up the wall of sky and transitioning neatly in the dim glow of dusk.

They’ve all split off to do their own thing for now. Boniface has taken upon themselves to begin preparing dinner, while Isabeau and Mirabelle arrange their sleeping bags and organize their camping supplies. Meanwhile, Siffrin has decided to perch themself in a tree and nap until food is prepared.

Initially, Boniface made a display of trying to bully the obviously exhausted rogue into being their sous chef, chasing them around camp until he finally scrambled up the tree like a disgruntled cat. Boniface’s initial yelling quickly turned into a childish game of them sticking their tongues out at each other, only ending when Mirabelle finally came over to split them up and allow Siffrin to get some rest.

Odile rarely has bursts of affection, at least the type that are cheerfully described in narrative prose, with their warm bubbly feelings and involuntary smiling. Watching that had given her something close though.

It was good to see Siffrin and Boniface getting along again, their newfound understanding of each other one of the few good things to come out of Siffrin’s meltdown in his final loop.

It appeared having the chance to protect Siffrin from the King had eased some of Boniface’s guilt over their lost eye, as well as humanizing him somewhat into less of an untouchable role model. Now, the two of them played together even more than Boniface and Isabeau did, Siffrin one of the only ones in their group to have the energy and speed to keep up with a child their age.

She watches Boniface for a long moment as they gently sauté whatever food is in their pan, and is again grateful that this little cross country trip to defeat the King hasn’t seemed to traumatize them too much. Not that any of the adults in the group would’ve allowed them to be harmed, but it’s still a lot for a child to go through.

Speaking of trauma however…

She glances back down at the book she had been trying, and subsequently failing, to read, the words slipping out of her head as soon as she completes a sentence and leaving her with nothing but a gnarly headache for her troubles. She winces as she turns a page, hoping to find something that sticks well enough to aid with her research.

It’s at that moment that Isabeau seems to notice her. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the way he perks up as he glances over in her direction. He finishes laying down the sleeping bag he was setting up before moseying over.

His shadow runs over top of her as he moves closer, setting sun stretching his already looming form and distorting it till it covers her and her book.

“Isabeau,” she greets, pointedly turning another page. A single glance at the words makes her head throb, her vision blur.

“M’dame,” Isabeau responds, with a curt nod.

She doesn’t say anything else, trying her best to get through a passage of Vaguardian, but there are too many mentions of some mysterious ‘Universe’ for her to be able to do so comfortably. Her eyes back track to the subtitle of the blurb. ‘Local Religions’, it reads.

“Sooooo,” Isabeau drawls, curiousity clearly getting the better of him. He’s not subtle at all about the way he’s trying to peek at the cover of the book, telegraphing the action quite clearly, acting up the motion so Odile knows exactly what he’s doing. “…What are you reading there, m’dame?”

Odile raises an eyebrow, but decides to humor him immediately rather than drag the interaction along. She closes the book, knowing she won’t be getting any further in it now, before flipping it in his direction, displaying its ornate design. In its center there is a small six pointed star, etched into the leather and filled with a shiny foil. Surrounding is a circular labyrinth, which is then surrounded by another complete circle.

There are three languages on its cover; two subtitles, one in Vaugardian, one in Mwudian. And then, the main title that makes her ache just thinking about it. She can tell it has the same effect on Isabeau as his eyes trace over the words, pinpoint the exact moment he sees it by the way he winces and rubs his temple with his knuckle, eyes pinching shut.

“It’s an atlas,” she states plainly, despite knowing very well that he’s smart enough to have already gleaned as much. She wants to keep him in the conversation though, knowing from personal experience with this particular topic that if she lets the silence go on for too long, he’ll forget what he even asked her.

“An atlas?” he echos, confusion slipping into his tone.

The conversation is already getting fuzzy in her own brain, now that the book, her reminder, is facing away from her. It’s an odd and foreign experience to lose track of her thoughts, one that she’s been getting more and more accustomed to acknowledging in the handful of weeks since beating the King. She can only wonder how many times the matter has slipped away from her, her of all people, as stubbornly determined to hoard knowledge as she is.

She’s been practicing for this though, clutching the thoughts in the forefront of her mind. The need to know outweighs whatever pain it causes her, and she uses that to drive her thoughts forward. Besides, she isn’t just doing this for herself, is she? It’s not just curiosity for curiosity's sake.

She places the book face down on her lap, so it can no longer cause psychic damage to either of them. “It’s an older, multilingual edition,” she continues, half speaking to herself now. “Many countries have them, especially countries in close proximity to each other. It makes traveling easier and connects some of the bridges in terms of translations.”

Isabeau squints at her, and Odile can see the veins in his forehead throb as the words slip out of his head like sand sifting through an hourglass. Whatever odd craft is at play seems determined to clutch onto its secrets with its vice grip, and soon enough the strain clears from Isabeau’s face like it was never there to begin with. He shifts back into a smoother, more relaxed curiosity.

“Is that why you’ve been secretly hitting up the libraries in each city we get to? To find one of these?” he asks with a cheeky grin, tapping the book with one of his knuckles. “Were you planning on taking us on a surprise trip Mwudu sometime then?”

Odile tries to quell her irritation, her mouth ticking down into a sharp frown. “Not quite,” she says slowly.

The frustration is irrational, especially when it's clear the issue at play is much bigger than a faulty memory. Her eyes dart over to their own forgetful rogue, the driving force behind her curiosity, the biggest unknown factor, and the question at the heart of it all, still peacefully dozing away in the tree. They’ve rolled over at some point while she and Isabeau have been talking, their arm now dangling down through the leaves like an out of place branch.

Isabeau follows her gaze. He reflexively smiles when he sees Siffrin, which would be adorable if it wasn’t so disgustingly sappy. Odile is glad he’d finally gotten his act together enough to confess. Despite the circumstances leading up to it and the theatrics of proclaiming his love after the world almost ended, it had been nice to see the way the two of them eased into more equal footing now that everything was on the table.

Well. Perhaps not everything was on the table. Not on Siffrin’s end, at least.

Which led to the current dilemma. As much as she wanted to pry answers out of Siffrin with elbow grease and a crowbar, she had been restraining herself. It was clear they were traumatized by their experience in the loops, no matter how well he thought he was masking the fact.

They were doing better obviously, though pretty much anything could be considered an improvement from how they behaved after they woke up in that field for the final time. There are good changes, improvements on his touch aversion, more clearly establishing their boundaries, talking more, opening up.

But even now, she can see him trying to refit himself into the same lazy, carefree roguish role they played in the party before everything. Before the loops, before the King, before losing his eye.

He can’t quite manage it, hard as he tries, haunted enough by their experiences that being ‘normal’ again becomes akin to trying to jam a square peg through a round hole. It was obvious that their nervous system was still cranked to max sensitivity, their senses sharpened with weapon-like precision from a number of repetitions of the same two days that she didn’t even have an accurate count for. And then, of course, there was that false, off putting smile he had ready to plaster onto his face at some series of unknown triggers like a dog responding to a noise only it can hear.

However, worst of all were the little moments, moments where he thought no one was looking. It was awful to watch them age so much in a single second, the exhaustion that creeps over them. The way they’ll occasionally wake up and stare at Mirabelle with something close to fear. Or how they sneak off into the darkness of night sometimes, looking as blank as untouched clay on a riverbed, only to return in the morning more haggard and restless than before, leaves and twigs sticking out of his hair in what looks like an attempt at crafting a diy bird’s nest.

Odile’s been trying to let Isabeau and Mirabelle take the reins on managing the looping side of things as much as she can for now, knowing that her strengths lie beyond the realm of feelings. As long as she can make sure Siffrin isn’t a danger to themself or others, she can wait a bit longer for him to come to her.

Perhaps when they reach Bambouche, she’ll have to get more directly involved. It’s become rather clear that Siffrin’s adverse to cities at this point, too much unpredictability, and while not large, Bambouche is decently populated. Another thing to add to her to-do list.

For now though…She brushes a hand across the back of the book, the silky leather running smooth against her calloused fingertips. There are other issues she can start to examine, pick apart and lay out the pieces too, areas where her expertise might come more into play. She might not have been researching any particular topic during her travels through Vaugarde, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t one hell of an investigator when a matter catches her attention.

“Isabeau,” Odile says, calling him back to her.

He looks over, raising one eyebrow in question as his hands naturally land on his hips. “What’s up, m’dame?” he says, tone dropping into a more serious register. He can tell she means business.

Good, that’ll hopefully make this stick then.

She hums, considering how to go about this. Telling him outright will probably have no effect, her spoken words as easy to forget as the language hidden in the pages of the book in her lap. She can’t really have him remember in the same way she does either though, as Siffrin’s identity and lost memories have intertwined in her own journey to learn about herself and the culture she lost as a result of her mother’s absence. It’s easier to hold on to, she thinks, when she feels she can relate to it.

Best to come at this sideways then, force those connections in his brain. It shouldn’t be too hard, not with the way they're knee deep in this mess already, even if only she, and to some degree Siffrin, are aware of the fact.

Besides, she thinks wryly, it might be nice to have someone to share this headache with anyhow.

“Do you remember, when Siffrin first started traveling with us, and I believed he might be an assassin sent by the King to kill Mira?”

Isabeau’s mouth parts in a little, surprised ‘o’ shape. “Huh? M’dame? You’re bringing up our drunken misadventures of your own volition?”

Odile chuffs. “I’m illustrating a point, Isabeau. I assure you, I wouldn’t be reminding you of this without purpose.” She taps the book in a rolling pattern, weighing her next question. “...What exactly do you think made me come to that conclusion?”

He frowns at her, but doesn’t respond immediately, turning over what should be an obvious answer. “I-” he says, then grimaces, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index finger. “You told me didn’t you? When you were theory crafting? You said…you said…his hair…?”

Close, but not quite. “Yes,” she snaps, suddenly impatient. “Their hair is the same shade of darkless, yes, I know. But there was more to it than that wasn’t there?”

Isabeau is starting to look worried, which is not what she needs right now. “M’dame…are you feeling alright?” He reaches his hand over towards her, as if to check for her temperature, but she scowls and warningly smacks him away with the spine of the borrowed atlas.

“Where is Siffrin from?” she asks, changing her avenue of attack. “Surely they’ve told you before, at some point during our travels. Where were they born?”

His lip twitches, hand spasming as he considers the question. She watches his face go through several stages of hesitancy and confusion, before finally landing on something pained. “He’s…” he starts, through gritted teeth. “He’s never said.”

“But if you had to guess?”

The air suddenly becomes cold and heavy, closing in all around them. The shift in pressure has her ears popping, sends a shiver rushing down her spine. Her eyes dart around, instinctively looking for a threat.

Nothing appears. There is no movement in the bushes, no breaking branches or dry brushing sounds of footsteps. No soft sobs of a wandering Sadness. If anything, the forest has become too still, too quiet, the sounds of nature receding like they’ve been spooked off by something.

Still though, she can’t shake the feeling of being observed. It’s an awareness that skirts the edge of her conscious mind, similar to the feeling she gets when researching the island, but more like it’s sinking its claws into her head rather than digging thoughts out of it.

The trees seem to lean closer, leaves rustling in anticipation of Isabeau’s answer. Odile tries to follow their lead, refocusing, but once she does, she becomes worryingly aware of a dark, viscous liquid dripping from Isabeau’s nose.

He seems to notice at the same point that she does, his tongue swiping across his upper lip. He grimaces at what is surely the coppery taste of blood, before reaching up and wiping the rest of the streak away with his sleeve. He stares at the offending stain warily, then levels her with the same look.

“Odile,” he says, deadly serious now, laced with a thread of fear. “What’s going on?”

If Odile is not made for concern, she is even less so made for panic. Her thoughts become a rushed kaleidoscope of options, half formed ideas that she twirls around, looking for the correct pattern to accomplish her objective. To push Isabeau to the correct conclusion? Potentially hurting him in the process? Or back off, let him forget and leave him to his massive headache while she alone tries to sort this out?

Her eyes drift back over to Siffrin, sleeping as still and silent as the woods surrounding them. The only way she can tell he’s still alive is the small, steady rise and fall of their chest as they breathe. His movements have loosened a branch next to his hand, and it reaches its twigs out towards their open palm like it's trying to latch onto them.

She can still remember the way that they flinched when she asked if they couldn’t remember anyone worrying about them. The idea of it eats away at her, an entire childhood wiped away, those core memories that make up who a person was suddenly gone and unattainable.

Is it any wonder as to why Siffrin is so skittish? So distant, yet so attached to all of them, as they struggle with a loss of identity and sense of self that comes with a loss that huge? And an even worse thought, how many signs of that internal conflict did she overlook?

It took her the longest to accept them into their merry little band of regiciders, ease up on her suspicions of him and chalk his oddities up to a mysterious persona. But how much of that was actually her logical decision? How much of that was this odd, memory altering thing at play?

She wouldn’t trade Siffrin for anything now, would go to such lengths as pulling out the dread ‘l’ word should it be needed to reassure him.

Still though…the idea of such a lack of control of her own thoughts and reasonings…it frightens her.

The book slips out of her slick and sweaty palms, her fingers spasming as she tries and fails to catch it. It hits the dry ground with a soft ‘whump’, spreading a cloud of dirt floating through the air, and falls open to a very specific page.

The map of the island looks innocuous from this angle. Just a misshapen circle inked into the paper and surrounded by rings of swooping lines to represent the oceans. Towns are mapped out with tiny dots, the indecipherable language scrawled next to it with what are surely names but can’t be focused on long enough to tell. Written underneath the compass in the left corner, in stark, clear lettering, is…is…

Odile snatches the book up before it can do any more harm, slamming it shut with a definitive snap. She looks up at Isabeau, who is staring at her slack jawed and clearly in pain. Sweat beads down his brow in thick lines, looking haggard like he had just run a marathon rather than simply glanced at a book. She’s sure she doesn’t look much better.

”Siffrin is from the forgotten island,” she says in a rush, before she can think better of it, and then tries to regain some composure. She resettles the book in her lap before reaching up to brush a stray hair out of her face. “The one to the North of Vaugarde.”

Isabeau grimaces at the reminder of the island. He rubs his eyes with both hands, bringing them to a pinched stop on the bridge of his nose. “Ok,” he says with a processing air. “Alright, well that’s-“

”The King was also from there,” she adds, cutting him off. Might as well lay all her cards on the table at this point.

Isabeau flinches, most certainly remembering the same thing she is. The King, slowly turning ashen and withered from Mirabelle’s counter strike, his skin becoming as thick and hard as stone, wisps of hair chiseled away into clumps on lightless onyx. The way he held his hands out to the sky, tears freezing from his eye sockets, joyful in defeat and stark relief.

“I see it now, I see it!” he had said, shaky and breathless. “I remember it now…I remember it all.”

“M’dame,” Isabeau starts slowly, jaw tense and creaking around each word. “I…He…Does…Does where they’re originally from even matter? Siffrin or the King, I mean, they—Well, the King at least is gone and Sif is here, with us still.”

Ahh, yes. The Vaguardian courtesy of accepting all its travelers regardless of their backgrounds rearing its head once again.

It used to rankle her, that easy acceptance, especially when she first arrived and her disconnection from the culture was at its strongest. Normal in her oddities, accepted for her differences, informed by but not defined by her roots. It’s a charming little cultural niche, allowing for Change on a level that would be unheard of in many other corners of the world. She can accept it better now, even appreciate it when it’s directed at her sometimes.

For some reason, she doubts Siffrin feels the same.

And in this scenario, that knee jerk impulse to accept and move past Change is a hindrance to her self assigned mission. She scowls at Isabeau, tapping the back of the atlas with a sharpened nail. “Isabeau,” she says. “If just remembering these sparse details of the island causes this amount of pain, what effect do you think it could have on someone who lived there? Someone who spent their entire childhood in that place? Spoke their language? Followed their customs?”

Isabeau goes ashen. “Do you think…” His eyes drift over to where Siffrin is perched, still peacefully dozing and completely unaware of their conversation. “Do you think that his past is hurting him somehow?”

Odile nods grimly, “I have my suspicions, yes. There’s unaccounted for factors of course, we’ll most likely never have the full scope of what they experienced in their time loops. Some of that’s even less to do with his reluctance to tell us, and more so his issue with memory. But even from what we’ve witnessed on our own since the end of the loops, it’s obvious there’s still…residuals of his culture, trapped in their subconscious somewhere.”

Isabeau’s jaw clenches, like he’s chewing on the new information. “You’re talking about yesterday,” he says, voice flat and words slow like he’s reading the information from a blackboard rather than coming to the realization himself, “when he woke up, Sif couldn’t understand us, it didn’t seem like. And he was speaking, uh—“ He winces, rubbing up and down his arm in a soothing motion. “Uh…”

”Don’t push yourself too hard,” Odile says, aiming for kind but, as always, overshooting it and landing somewhere stern and calculated instead. “It does neither of us any good to try to recall specifics right now, we just need to focus on the matter at hand.”

”Which is?” Isabeau asks. Coming from anyone else, Odile might’ve thought the question was sarcastic, but he sounds genuinely confused and concerned.

Odile’s nervous fingers drum across the book in one more considering motion, before she sighs and stands up again. Her bones creak as she does, knees protesting the sudden movement. “I am looking into figuring out what happened to the island,” she says, the first time she’s spoken her little sidequest aloud. “We have new avenues of understanding it now, new leads. Perhaps in unearthing what became of it, we can also figure out some way to jog Siffrin’s memory.”

Isabeau hums, still looking more conflicted than she thought he would. “Look…m’dame, I’m not—I’m not dissuading you from researching this, but what are you looking to accomplish here?” he asks. “If it…hurts…Sif to remember this, isn’t it better to just leave it alone? We can help with any memory issues it causes, maybe find some alternate solution that doesn’t—uh, you know…potentially break his brain?”

Odile frowns at him, the small worn lines of her face emphasized by the motion. She’s almost insulted by the implication that she would harm Siffrin in her attempts to help, but she can’t deny the possibility of it entirely and she respects Isabeau’s opinion too much to dismiss him out of hand. So, she turns over the question for a long moment, observing the problem from every angle she can think of.

“I believe,” she says, thinking through the words as she speaks them aloud, “this matter is already ‘breaking his brain’ to some degree, even if he’s not entirely aware of the fact. The island is an unknown factor. Whatever information embargo is happening, we have no idea when it will end or if it will end, and what side effects occur for those directly affected by it.”

Isabeau opens his mouth, but she barrels on, on a roll now. She waves the atlas in his direction, drawing attention back to it. “I’ve been grabbing atlases from each city we’ve been to establish a timeframe. The island stopped appearing in publications exactly ten years ago. Siffrin would’ve only been a teenager at that point, which potentially means he has been suffering from this the entirety of their adult life. This struggle to recall, the fear in which that has brought them, is that not its own kind of pain?”

Isabeau’s mouth snaps shut and he nearly pouts at her, crossing his burly arms across his chest. “Not fair, m’dame.”

“Nothing about this is fair,” she responds bluntly, “but we can only work with what we’ve been given.”

“Shouldn’t this be Sif’s decision?” Isabeau asks, shooting a guilty glance towards their tree as though Siffrin might roll out of it at any point now and realize they’re talking about him behind his back. “I mean…it’s their memory loss isn’t it? His brain that we might inadvertently scramble?”

Odile snorts. “I would if I trusted his recall surrounding the subject. As it stands now, I believe it’s best to figure out what’s happening first and then bring them back into the fold. The more prepared we are for the conversation, the more information we have access to, the smoother jogging their memory could be, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, or it could,” Isabeau gestures to the stain of blood, smeared across his darkless sleeve, fixing her with a disappointed look. “You know.”

Odile bristles, “I have no plans on putting Siffrin in unnecessary danger, Isabeau. He’s already traumatized enough as is. Believe me, I won’t be mentioning any of this to them before I am fully certain of what the information will do to him.” She steps closer to him, lifts her chin to look up at him cuttingly, her glasses glaring in the blinding evening sun. “Now, will you help me?”

Isabeau studies her face, lips pinched tightly shut, before he finally sighs and opens up his stance. “I have a feeling you’re gonna go forward with this no matter what I say, so…yeah, yeah, I’ll help you figure out what happened to the forgotten island.” He rests a fist on each hip, glaring down at the ground before fixing her with the same harsh look. “Once we find out though, we don’t just drop all that on Sif, we ask whether or not he wants to know about it first. Deal?”

Odile thinks about that, then shrugs. “That’s fair enough, I suppose.” She reaches out a hand, and, to his benefit, Isabeau only hesitates a second before shaking it. “We’ll be reaching Bambouche tomorrow, which should hopefully have more resources for us. Its location might be advantageous as well, considering it's a coastal trade town right near the ground zero of whatever event occurred.”

”It’s House is pretty big too, bigger than Dormont’s definitely,” Isabeau says thoughtfully, then takes one look at her face and nervously perks up again, boyish smile stretching across his face even as a small bead of sweat drips down his cheek. “Not that I doubt your ability to find something in there m’dame!”

She manages a smirk at him. As always she is both thankful and envious of his ability to ease the tension in any conversation, though she’s sure he has his own insecurities about conflict in general. They make a good middle ground in that regard, his anxious confidence paired with her laser focused sardonicism.

”Yes, well,” she says with an amused huff, “hopefully this one doesn’t have a secret library. Or, if it does, one with an easier to locate switch.”

Loop pops into her head again, alongside the memory of the whole party aggressively poking at the library walls while all doing that ridiculous hand sign. The offputting, incomprehensible star-being truly made a show of themselves, suddenly arriving during Siffrin’s breakdown only to drop a load of exposition onto them, guide them through the castle, and then disappear again without a trace.

Another mystery unsolved. Another piece of the puzzle perhaps?

She looks over to find Siffrin grunting as they pull themselves out of their tree. Their usually unkempt hair is a mess of knots and tangles, made worse by the loss of his hat, that Mirabelle will have a field day of fixing. She’s been in a tizzy about making sure they're all presentable for Pétronille, ‘first impressions are VERY important madame, especially, when it's someone whose sibling we kind of, sort of accidentally acquired under dangerous circumstances in a time of national devastation’ and all that.

“You should go check on Siffrin,” Odile tells Isabeau, already starting to move in the opposite direction. “I’ll check in on Mirabelle and Boniface. We should probably make use of the little daylight we have left to set up camp.” She reaches down and rubs the small of her spine, wincing. “Hopefully, this is our last night of camping for the next while, I don’t know if my back can take much more of this.”

“Ha!” Isabeau laughs boisterously. “The rugged outdoorsy life is finally getting to you, m’dame?”

“It has never not gotten to me, Isabeau,” she says, fixing him with a sharp grin over her shoulder. “Unlike some of you children, I’ve had my fill of romping around the woods due to mortal danger, and now that the danger aspect is no longer in play, I would gladly retire to having a bed for the rest of my natural life. I can only hope Boniface’s sister has a spare room or two for us.”

Isabeau softens at the mention of Pétronille. “It’ll be nice to see the two of them reunited,” he says. “And hey, with that Siffrin’s wish can finally come fully true!”

Odile freezes halfway through a step, before trying to naturally lurch back into a normal pace. She feels something click suddenly, the connection neatly slotting itself into place. Something powerful enough to make an entire island disappear from everyone’s minds…the amount of power that would take would have to be on par with something that could freeze time, right? Or something that could rewind it over and over again?

Another avenue of research opens up to her.

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

The woods are quiet as you sneak through them toward the shore, a small mischievous grin on your face. There’s no real reason to be quiet any more, your parents didn’t notice you sliding out of the back door and gently closing it behind you, too busy with their hushed conversation and the dinner they were preparing. But it’s sort of a fun game now! How quiet can you be, sneaking down toward the beach? Can you be silent as a predator, like a skilled hunter?

You step on a particularly loud branch, crunching beneath your foot with a sickening crack, and flinch. You glare down at it, like it purposefully was put in the way to ruin your fun, before sighing and starting up again to the beach at a normal pace.

Dusk has settled over the island, covering it as though it was draping on a shawl. The hint of stars plays at the edge of the horizon, visible with the darkening sky. It’s close to fall and the harvest season, so you know, if you squint, you can just make out the brightest star of the albatross’s constellation. It’s one of your favorites, a story of the sea bird who traveled the world over and never landed, dying amid the stars and being immortalized into them. It’s romantic, you think, the idea of traveling so close to the edge of the earth and the beginning of the Universe.

You had tried to explain the nuance of it once to the Artificer while you were stargazing, each of you taking turns pointing out different things in the night sky. They had listened intently, fixing you with her normal intense stare down and rapt attention, before finally rolling their eyes as you finished the story up.

“You only like it because you want to travel like it did,” they said bluntly, hitting the heart of the matter with the delicacy of a hammer smashing through a pane of glass.

They’re not wrong, you do desperately want to get off this island and explore the world. But you also know you’ll never get the courage to leave until the Artificer decides to come with you, and convincing her to leave is still a work in progress.

So you’re keeping yourself busy until you can.

Not that there’s nothing much better to do here than just wait around. You’re not super close to any of your other siblings, your parents are always more intrigued by what the Artificer is doing to pay much attention to you, and while the Artificer themself is by your side a majority of the time, it seems like recently the Astroreverand has been pulling them away for more and more ‘Serious University Matters’.

Like tonight for instance. Normally you’d be dragging her along for this little stunt, escaping your parents' tyrannical quest to fill your plate with potatoes and broccoli. However, before your parents even started cooking, the Astroreverand had appeared on your doorstep, looking harried and waving around a stack of disorganized papers.

“--star chart fluctuations!” they shouted upon arrival, barely waiting for your mom to open the door before starting on their tirade. “The Universal readings, they’re all coming out zero…--strong craft smell…We need all hands on deck.”

You had zoned out for most of the conversation, the science mumbo jumbo and statistics going right over your head, while the Artificer had stood beside you and nodded at all the right points. Eventually, when the conversation died down, they hesitantly reached over and grabbed your hand, squeezing it gently.

”I have to go,” they told you when you met their gaze. “I’ll be back though.” Then she paused for a long second, biting her lip, clearly debating her words. “Don’t forget,” she eventually settled on, her voice a breathy whisper that you had to strain to hear.

They were out the door before you could ask what they meant by that, a blur of white as they trailed at the heels of the Astroreverand. Her pointed hat bobbled as she dashed away, her hand pulling down at the edge of it to keep it on, and you watched them become more and more of a blur, disappearing into the architecture of your little town, until your mother finally shut the door behind them.

You’re sure they were talking about some Universe related nonsense, though you couldn’t imagine what you’d be forgetting. You actually have a pretty good memory all things considered! Honestly, you kept track of stuff better than the Artificer at some points and they were a huge brainiac.

You hit the beach, the dank, dark earth of the forest transitioning smoothly in lightless sand. The smell of salt lingers strong in the air, tinged with a faint caramelly scent of islanders’ wishes that have been sent out to sea. The ocean waves roar in against the shore, their foam glittering like shards of glass in the growing darkness.

A long line of boats stretches out towards your right, all shoved up against the shore and tied down to wooden pegs buried deep within the sand. Your family’s tiny fishing boat is amid them, the one that your papa took you and the Artificer out on as kids when your moms were too busy to watch you. You can see the pointed end of it from here, the blurry shape of your family’s crest carved into the wood.

The idea strikes you suddenly to take it out for a bit, get a little further from home than you normally would. You don’t doubt your parents have noticed your absence by now, and the beach is going to be the first place they come looking. It’s such a nice night though, and you’re uneager to be dragged back to a boring, midtier dinner.

Plus, the stars are coming out! And if you get a little ways away, you can probably see some on the other side of the island, ones that you normally couldn’t with all the trees in the way.

With that matter settled, you march over to the line of sea vessels, the sand crunching underneath your feet the entire way. The knot comes loose easily underneath your practiced fingers and you drag the tiny rowboat out into the sea, before climbing into it yourself.

You dig for the oars underneath the wooden bench, tongue poking out from between your lips and let out a little triumphant sound when you find them. You pull them out in an arc, and use the one in your dominant hand to push yourself out further.

The night has grown around you, smothering everything in a dim darkness. The ocean is pitch black beneath your boat, with only glittering hints of the stars’ reflections skimming the surface. You know there will be no moon out tonight, it just finished waxing away last night, the slightest sliver left as it spun around the Earth and melted it away.

A pang of longing hits you as you wish the Artificer had been able to come out with you.

You tilt your head back, oars loosening in your grip as you look up. The stars blink back down at you, popping into existence with tiny bursts of light in the further darkening sky. You can see a few of the constellations, including the belt with the Northern Star that will always guide you home.

You can’t help but wonder if it's already dead, if it’s completed its life cycle some trillions of kilometers away from you and all that’s left of it is the echoes of light left traveling through space to appear on your tiny speck of a planet.

The Artificer would be able to tell you. They’d look upward, far past the mirror of time, and the Universe would speak to them. ‘It’s getting ready to implode,’ they might say. ‘Maybe in the next five or ten years?’

Without them actually present though, you can only make guesses. The wooden bench across from you is glaringly empty, and you push yourself out a bit further to try to ignore that missing piece of you, eased into a sense of melancholy by the rolling waters.

You give it a few more minutes, watching the sky change around you, before finally sighing and deciding to head back to shore. The mission of scaring your parents has probably been successful, at the very least they’ve definitely noticed your absence.

The beach is gaining more definition when you hear the sudden, sharp bark of your name. You startle, almost dropping one of your oars into the sea as your head snaps up to find the growing figure of the Artificer staring back at you.

Icy dread punches your stomach at the look on their face.

It’s very rare that the Artificer is expressive, it’s just been that way for as long as you can remember. They can never seem to figure out how to move their face in the correct ways to display an emotion.

Once when you were both six, when you accidentally pushed them out of the tree you two were perched in and broke their arm, their face never so much as twitched in fear. They just sat calmly as your mama rushed over to fuss at them, steady tears dripping down their face as their lips pressed together in a thin, pained line.

They look scared now though, jaw slack in horror as their chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, like they had run all the way here. Their eyes are wide, wide enough that you can see the whites of them from here. Their hands are stretched out towards you, as though they were trying to pull your boat back in with their mind.

They look up, flinch, and turn their panicked gaze back onto you.

“⍟✵!” she shouts. “Hurry!!”

You’re not sure what you’re hurrying for, but the urgency in her voice has you rowing faster. However, before you can get more than a few feet, a booming noise erupts from the center of the island, casting out a large rush of air that blows your little boat backward and sends it wobbling dangerously.

Someone wordlessly screams from the shore as the fishing boat capsizes, sending you plunging into the freezing depths. You gasp as you surface, struggling to flip it back up right and scramble into it. And then—

And ₜᴴₑᴺ—!!

You look around wildly, but there’s nothing but empty sea in every direction. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest like a caged bird, slamming up against your rib cage. Where are you?! How did you get here?

You reflexively look up for answers, but the sky is no help. The night is just its own sea of meaningless dots, stars just tiny circles of light without further purpose. Why—?

Wait! Over there!

It’s down further South, but in the distance, you can see a large land mass. Its hills crest the horizon, peeking up over the edges of the world in blurry, rolling waves of earth. Did you come from there maybe? What brought you all the way out here then?

You hesitate, your grip on the oars tightening until the wood digs into your palms. Does it even really matter if that’s where you came from? It’s not like you really know where else to go and you’ll only get more lost if you drift further out to sea.

Plus it doesn’t look like you have any supplies on your little boat either. Wow, you really weren’t prepared for this trip were you? You must not have planned on staying out this long.

So, without anything better to do or any other ideas, you begin rowing towards the Southern shore.

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

(You obtained a MEMORY OF LEAVING)

(Don’t worry. You won’t need this for long.)

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

Siffrin jolts awake when something pokes their cheek aggressively, jamming into it hard enough to brush the flesh of it against his teeth. His eye snaps open, hand instinctively jolting towards his dagger, only to glide across the hefty, sweaty arm Isabeau has wrapped around them.

Isa snuffles at the contact, having taken the role of the big spoon as per usual. They never started the night wrapped around each other, just laying side by side, occasionally holding hands or pressing foreheads together until you drift to sleep breathing the same air. However, now that the ‘Siffrin touch ban’ has been called off, it seems even an unconscious Isabeau is determined to take advantage of it.

Odile makes fun of it, of course. Taking every opportunity at breakfast to throw scathing, brutal teasing Isabeau’s way, to which he reacts with the usual dramatic flair and flustered glances over at Siffrin. It’s as though he’s checking to make sure they’re ok with it still, a silent, ‘I’m not stepping in it, am I?’

But how could he be? Ever since the arrangement started, Siffrin’s getting the best sleep that they can remember. Not that his memory stretches out very far.

The thing poking his cheek continues to jab at him, getting more insistent. He blinks his single eye several times trying to orientate himself, a more difficult task after having lost his depth perception. Everything slowly stops being a mess of dark, smeared shades, and starts morphing into larger shapes. Trees gain leaves, the dirt gets texture, and the figure of Bonnie sitting in front of him develops visible tear tracks.

Siffrin feels like a bucket of cold water just suddenly got poured overtop of them, heart lurching in their chest. “Bonnie?” they ask in a whisper, carefully sitting up. Isabeau’s arm slides down until it’s draped across their lap.

They look around, but there's nothing dangerous in sight. Nothing that should scare Bonnie at least. The forest is covered in a thick blanket of quiet, even the sound of the nocturnal animals muffled by the night. They can see an owl’s bright eyes glinting in one of the trees, the moon reflecting off of them like light slicing across a dagger.

It gives a clear, eerie cry when Siffrin makes eye contact with it, before bursting out of the tree and soaring across their little campground clearing, its shadow cutting a clear path across. He watches it go, its powerful wings propelling it through the air, most likely moving onto its next hunt.

Bonnie sniffles and pulls Siffrin’s attention back to them, as they drag a fist under their eye in a rough motion to get rid of their tears. “What,” they say flatly, almost sounding annoyed.

Ooook. Well, Siffrin feels extremely wrong footed here.

He frowns at Bonnie, confusion outweighing their almost reflexive anxiety. “Are you…alright?” they ask, hesitantly holding a hand up to them.

Bonnie gives their hand a sharp look, almost like it was a wild animal coming out of hiding to attack them. They don’t move for a long moment, long enough that Siffrin’s fingers flinch and start to retract, but Bonnie lunges before they can pull back.

They entwine their hands together, the grip of their sticky fingers nearly bruising. Siffrin startles at the sudden contact, but Bonnie doesn’t react, and Siffrin abruptly realizes how much they’re shaking, vibrating as though they’re trying to escape their skin.

”Bonbon?” he asks again, softer this time.

Bonnie shivers, taking a deep shaky breath before exhaling it in a quick puff. Their eyes dart down to where Isa’s arm is still wrapped around him. “I…I had a nightmare,” they admit, voice growing more confident as they speak.

Now Siffrin is really lost. They resist the urge to look over their shoulder, to try to find Mirabelle, or rouse Isabeau, or, stars, maybe even grab Odile. It’s not like they really know what to do about bad dreams, they have more nightmares than anyone else in their party! More often than not, everyone’s losing sleep because of him and his stupid unconscious!

He has no idea why Bonnie is waking them up, but the moment feels important somehow. Something about that trust that feels too delicate to break. Slowly, they move Isabeau’s arm off their lap, taking care not to wake him.

Isabeau doesn’t stir, only grunting and flopping over onto his back. The arm that wrapped around Siffrin stretches out like he’s reaching for something, untucked from beneath his sleeping bag. It’s a goofy little pose, drool dripping out of the corner of his mouth, and Siffrin aches with the rush of affection it gives him, lips half upturned in a genuine smile.

They push away from him just as carefully, standing up without letting go of Bonnie’s hand. The two of them make eye contact, and Siffrin has to do his best not to wince under Bonnie’s scrutinizing stare, like they’re daring him to mess this up.

But that’s just his anxieties talking, isn’t it? He’s more prepared to shoot them down now, challenging the thought like they learned from one of the self help books Odile got him, to tide him over until they could get him to an actual professional.

Bonnie’s probably way more scared than Siffrin is right now, and that means Siffrin has to step up and be the adult here. Even if he’s terrified of botching it somehow.

He finds himself looking up at the night sky, the way they always do when they're uncertain. As if they’ll find something up there that will give them an answer, as though the Universe will finally lead him with some actual stage directions rather than just abandoning them to eternally improvise.

Not that they have any true hope of that though. Maybe the stars had answers for him a long time ago, back when he could remember his past, but that’s gone now. It has been for a very long time, even if he’s only just recently remembered the loss.

However tonight, for the first time in his working memory, he finds something.

It feels like all the air has been sucker punched out of him, his breath all rushing out in a hysterically little wheeze, because there…there—! In the middle of the sky! Is a constellation!

Their mouth feels dry and they swallow thickly, eyes trailing from dot like he can burn the shape of it into their retina. One straight line for the body, two connecting in the middle for the wings.

He doesn’t realize how badly he’s started shaking until there’s a sharp tug on his hand. He glances down to see Bonnie looking back up at him, their eyes wide and worried even if they’re still trembling themself.

“Frin?” they ask. “Are you ok?”

Normally the question would make Siffrin feel ashamed, make him want to curl into a tiny little ball and disappear. Turning a moment where Bonnie comes to them for comfort and making it all about himself? Disgusting.

He’s too shaken for that though, turning his back skyward in a jerky motion. Still there. It’s still there. The unbidden laugh that comes out of his throat probably sounds a little unhinged.

“Bonnie,” they say, voice an airy whisper. “Do you know what a constellation is?”

Bonnie narrows their eyes at him, and Siffrin can physically see the way the question hits them, the little wince they do when it lands. They don’t shy away from it though, just tilting their head a little and thinking harder.

“That’s…stars, right?” they ask after a moment. “Like star pictures?”

Siffrin wants to cry. He wants to sob, out of joy, out of sadness, out of relief, out of grief, out of every conflicting overwhelming emotion that’s roaring over them like an endless tidal wave. They want to drop Bonnie’s hand and run, run all the way to Bambouche and see if their boat’s still there. See if their island, their home, is still there, while they can still hold the idea of it in their mind.

They can’t do any of that though, Bonnie’s still staring up at him with wide, concerned eyes. They’re so brave, shaken up by their own nightmare but still finding it in them to worry over Siffrin, as he has this…well, whatever this is. He can feel his fingertips going numb in Bonnie’s hand, the burst of emotion fueled adrenaline rushing all the oxygen to his brain.

”Frin,” Bonnie says, with another little insistent tug. “You’re being weird. Why are you crying?”

Oh. Siffrin raises their free hand and swipes it underneath their eye, blinking in surprise when it comes away wet. Oh, ok. Yeah, they guess that’s a thing they’re doing now.

”Don’t worry, Bonbon,” they say, throwing a glance over their shoulder to where Mirabelle and Odile are still fast asleep. “It’s…this is a good cry, not a bad one.”

”Oh,” Bonnie says. They frown, thinking deeply for a moment. “What makes a good cry different from a bad one?”

”A good cry…” Siffrin glances back upwards, gaze locking onto the constellation. “A good cry can happen for a lot of reasons,” he says, sounding distant even to himself. “The older you get, the more messy your emotions tend to get, and sometimes you just feel a lot at one time. But you can’t always react with every emotion at once, so your body just picks one. Right now, I guess my body is picking crying.”

Bonnie makes a sound of confirmation, getting that look on their face when something clicks in a way that works for them. “So you can look sad even when you’re really really happy?” they ask.

Siffrin nods.

”Are you really really happy?”

Siffrin nods again, without any hesitation. He’s a lot of things right now, but he’s certain happiness is among them.

Bonnie doesn’t look extremely convinced, but nods back anyway. “Ok,” they say, apparently able to take Siffrin at his word for now.

With that matter apparently settled, they look skyward. Siffrin follows their lead, eyes immediately honing in on the one constellation he can see.

He wonders what Bonnie sees in the stars right now.

Are they all still meaningless dots? Is this new revelation something that’s Siffrin’s alone? Or is there new meaning, new understanding? Will it stick? Will it stick for either of them?

“…I don’t see any star pictures,” Bonnie finally says morosely.

Siffrin could smack themself. Oh, duh. They’re not going to know what they’re looking for unless he shows them, dummy. Bonnie’s childhood took place mostly after the island disappeared. There’d be no one around to teach them any of this.

“Would you like me to show you?” Siffrin asks, hit with a sudden excitement. This is his culture! He can share his culture! “I can teach you to find one if you like. I have a feeling neither of us are going back to bed soon anyway.”

Bonnie looks back down at them, a flash of surprise crossing their features. It’s only then that Siffrin realizes he’s smiling, grinning from ear to ear at the thought of stargazing with someone else.

They must make quite the sight right now, tear tracks still wet on their face but his smile is the most natural it’s felt since the loops.

Still, after a moment, Bonnie grins back at them. “Yeah…yeah!” they say, a little too loud for the time of night, as they throw up their free hand in a wide, excited motion. “Let’s go picture hunting!”

Siffrin jolts at the sudden increase in volume, making a placating gesture with his own free hand. “Shush, shush,” he hushes, glancing nervously over his shoulder to find everyone else thankful still asleep. “Let’s get closer to the edge of camp, ok? I’ll show you over there.”

Hand in hand, they walk over towards the edge of the woods, just out of earshot of the rest of the party. Siffrin sits on the ground, legs spread in a v shape, and Bonnie plops down right in between them, leaning their tiny boney body right into Siffrin. He doesn’t flinch at the contact, too distracted by the task at hand to do so.

“Ok, so, look up at the sky,” Siffrin says with an upward nod, smiling as Bonnie eagerly follows their instruction. They point at a large glowing star, right in the center of the night sky. “See that big bright one right there?”

“Yeah!”

“So, if you trace that, and connect it to those two dots next to it there…” he lifts one hand and drags his finger in an angled line, sliding from one star to another, “you get the body. Then if you take that middle dot and drag it up and down and connect those two little stars there, you get the wings. And that’s how you get a bird! Do you see it?”

Bonnie squints following Siffrin’s finger with an intense look of concentration. They nod, serious, and then just as plainly say, “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Siffrin snorts unexpectedly, loud enough that they startle themselves. He covers his mouth, cheeks darkening as he grows flustered, and then notices Bonnie grinning as they lean back into him. He play scowls, only hesitating for a moment before flicking them in the forehead. “You did that on purpose.”

Bonnie yelps, dramatically covering their forehead with both hands, then peeks out from between their fingers at Siffrin. The smile quickly places itself back on their face. “Yeah, I did,” they say, with a huff of laughter. “I still meant it though, I don’t see what you’re talking about.”

“That’s fair,” Siffrin says. “If you don’t have a ton of practice looking for constellations, they can be kinda hard to spot.”

Bonnie’s eyes glint with curiosity as they study Siffrin’s face, their little kid brain eager to sop up information like it's a sponge. “Is it something you’ve practiced a lot?” they ask. “Back when you were little?”

Siffrin feels a pang in the back of their head, just sharp enough for them to not go chasing after it. They manage to keep themselves from wincing. Stay in the moment, Siffrin. Stay in the moment. Stay in the moment. If they don’t, this might get taken from them once again.

“I don’t know,” they respond, then quickly move on. “I can probably help you see it a little bit though.” They jostle Bonnie as they put a gloved finger into the dirt, then, glancing between heaven and earth, they carve the stick figure bird into it, emphasizing each little circle at the joints.

“There,” they say, playfully reaching over and brushing the dirt off their finger when the edge of Bonnie’s shirt, who only pouts at them in return. “How’s that?”

Bonnie looks between the diagram and the sky several times, eyes narrowed until finally popping wide open. “Oh!” they say, bouncing in place. “I see it! I see it!”

Siffrin laughs. “Nice! You found it!”

Bonnie raises both their fists in a cute victory pose, beaming at the validation. It takes them a minute to resettle and calm down enough to ask, “Ok. So what about this star bird is cool?”

“Well,” Siffrin says thoughtfully, bringing a finger to his chin. “It’s…not really the star bird that’s cool? Or at least not entirely. Every constellation represents a story, which is usually the part people are more interested in. The stars are just kinda a…reminder? I guess? That way you can look up and remember what the story is.”

“Oooooh,” Bonnie hums, dragging the syllable out. “So like…the sky has just been filled with endless bedtime stories this entire time?! And I never knew?!”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Siffrin says. A melancholy smile tugs up the corners of their lips, as they stare up at the one constellation he can recognize at the moment, the rest just an endless sea of dots. “Don’t worry. I don’t think most people know about it anymore.”

Bonnie gives them a level look, studying their face with such intensity that it can’t help but remind Siffrin of Odile. It's a little less knowing though, less years of wisdom to back the disarming curiosity, aimed at him less like a precise scalpel and more like a clumsy butter knife. Either way, he still can’t help but feel somewhat flayed open.

Whatever Bonnie finds seems to satisfy them though, as they look away from Siffrin back up to the sky. “So what’s the story that has a star bird in it?”

Siffrin is immensely grateful that they moved their attention, not only for the ease of tension, but because recall is much easier without the weight of eyes on him. “It’s called…” they pause for a second, humming to themself until the knowledge settles in his head again. “...the Diomedea constellation, I think?”

“Die-o-meaty-ah?”

Siffrin chuckles and Bonnie shoves their head back into his chest to glare at him. “Close,” he says, then slows down the pronunciation. “Di-o-me-dea.”

“Di-o-me-dea,” Bonnie repeats back.

“There you go,” Siffrin says, still smiling.

“Ooook,” Bonnie says slowly, squinting up at them and then moving the expression up to the stars. “So what does that mean then?”

“Well, Diomedea is talking about a specific type of bird, a…” He flips through his memory of Vaugardian, searching for the right word, before smacking their fist on their palm once they find it. “An albatross! Which is a big seabird.”

Bonnie nods curtly, their skull whacking into Siffrin’s ribs like a small, bony wrecking ball. “How did a big seabird become a big star bird then?” they ask. “Is that what the story’s about?”

Siffrin grimaces, putting a hand on Bonnie’s head in order to adjust them both into a more comfortable position. “Yeah,” they say, then reconsider. “Well, kind of. Becoming a star bird is the end of the story actually.”

“Where does the story start then?”

Siffrin hums, going quiet for a long moment. They only have impressions, spotty holes where memories used to be, of the people who originally told him these stories. Of the way that each teller had a different narration style, a different voice, a different moral, a different understanding. The tradition behind how to tell a good story was as important as the story itself, and if that’s the case, he’s certainly not doing this one justice.

He clears his throat, trying to drop into a more whimsical cadence. “Well,” they start, reaching down to start tracing more pictures into the dirt. “Way back, before you and I were ever born, the sea used to be a lot more dangerous than it was. It was filled with all sorts of creatures who laid claim to its waters, and were ready to defend their home from anything they thought were a threat. Especially people who they thought were a threat.”

Underneath the constellation, they clumsily draw a little boat and surround it with octopus legs and storm clouds. Bonnie watches their hand move with rapt fascination.

“A lot of people went missing back then, entire ships lost to the ocean. One of those ships was a fishing boat, and on that boat, was the husband of a powerful crafter, who was filled with good intention and Knowledge.”

Next to the boat, he draws a little smiling stick figure with a large pointy hat, each stroke gaining more confidence as they go.

“Filled with grief after their loss, they used their power to breathe life in an albatross they made out of clay, one who would never grow tired and could travel high above the oceans without fear of being caught by the monsters below. It flew across the ocean for hundreds of years, traveling the world in order to guide sailors safely to their destinations.”

They draw a tiny house, with a small happy family in front of it, and the constellation bird hanging right over top of them.

“Only once humans took control over the seas, clearing out all the monsters, could the albatross finally rest. And, because it did its task so well, the stars made room for it among them, allowing it to continue traveling the world for the rest of eternity and watch over sailors while they were out at sea, where they could use its lights to guide them home.”

Bonnie looks up skyward from the drawings. Their wide eyes not even blinking as they catch another glimpse of the star bird, like if they do, it’ll immediately fly off. “So it’s going to be up there forever?” they ask, full of wonder.

“Pretty much,” Siffrin says with a shrug. “Much longer than either of us will be around, that’s for sure.”

Bonnie goes back to bouncing in place, staring at the albatross constellation for a long moment before their eyes start darting across the sky, like they’re on a mission to find another on their own. Their eyes glitter with the reflection of stars, pupils wide in the darkness. They reach out and grab Siffrin’s cloak, latching onto their arm underneath it and tugging it childishly upward.

“Another!” they cheer. “You said the stars are filled with stories, right? Can you tell me another one?”

Siffrin’s heart sinks, dread dripping into his veins. He looks up at the stars, but except for the albatross constellation, none of them hold any more meaning beyond just being different size dots littering the night sky.

They try not to let the despair show on their face, as they tug on their lip with their teeth. They want to tell Bonnie all the stories, sit outside for an entire night and find every single constellation together, share this bit of his culture in the same way his family did for him. But it’s impossible, it’s all gone, and he has no idea how to communicate that.

It’s too much weight to put on a kid, that grief, especially when Siffrin’s already probably contributed to giving them enough trauma to last a lifetime. Besides, it’s not like either of them will probably remember this coming morning anyway.

So, instead of crying like he wants to, Siffrin just shakes his head. “No more tonight, Bonbon.” They scoot away from them, untucking them from between their legs, and then stand. He holds out a hand to Bonnie to help them up, who wavers before taking it. Siffrin pulls on them with a little too much force, rocketing them to their feet, and a rush of giggles escapes Bonnie that helps paralyze the part of Siffrin that’s scared of his own strength.

Siffrin tucks his mouth into his cloak, biting down the newly bred instinct to plaster on that rigor mortis, insincere smile. “Come on,” they say, tugging them back toward camp. “We should get back to bed. It’s going to be a long walk to Bambouche tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Siffrin twitches as another loud, jovial group passes by their party, screeching in excitement and waving around long ribbons that flow through the air like running water. His hand in Isabeau’s is cold and clammy, a stark contrast to his own sweaty, warm palms. It feels like a fire has been etched into his cheeks, flushed happiness only kept at bay by how uncomfortable Siffrin looks.

The group is making their way through the Bambouche, following after Bonnie as they lead the charge through the throngs of celebrating people with a mission. They’ve caught a whiff of home on the salt scent air, and they’re eager to chase it all the way back to their sister. It’s not any surprise, Isabeau just wishes they’d slow down a little bit so he could actually check in with Siffrin.

Mirabelle is quick on Bonnie’s heels, her hand in theirs, being tugged alone so the two don’t get separated, and Odile isn’t far behind. Isabeau and Siffrin take the rear for once, moving at a much slower pace, the attempt to keep up more more difficult by the fact that Siffrin is refusing to look up from their feet.

It’s probably the worst timing for them to get into the city, honestly. Petronille’s latest letter had mentioned they’d be arriving during a traditional week-long, city-wide festival, and how she was excited they’d get to see it. Apparently, Bambouche was going all out this year to celebrate the defeat of the King.

Which is great! The people living here definitely deserve it after being frozen in time. Bonnie is a little extrovert, so they’re just thriving in all the activity and bursting with energy. Mirabelle seems anxious about the crowds, but also a little relieved that no one had recognized them as the saviors so far. Odile was just pleased about having one more babysitter for Bonnie so she could finally get that stiff drink she’d been waiting for, and well, Isabeau always loved a good party!

He just…couldn’t bring himself to bask in the energy of it, not with Sif being absolutely miserable.

They’ve been a practically vibrating bundle of nerves since their party lined up to get into the city, joining a huge queue of people assembled in a messy row before the large wooden gates leading to the boardwalk and all its rustic looking homes. Even from that distance, one could see the town covered in all shades of streamers, banners, and frills, noise blasting from its direction and echoes sliding around the hills. 

Siffrin had grabbed onto Isabeau’s hand immediately, which would’ve been cute if their grip hadn’t been tight enough to hurt. He’d gone pale, staring at the city with a critical and untrusting eye. It was a miracle they didn’t take off running at the sight of the crowd, probably only kept in place by their wish to see Bonnie reunite with their sister.

It’s even worse now that they’re in the city center proper. There seem to be people everywhere, filling up every street corner of the port. The wooden boards creak and groan beneath their dancing feet, only drowned out by clashing instruments being played from balconies and parade floats. Everyone is dressed to the nines in frills and suits. Some in the old, glossy traditional dresses of Vaugarde. Others in cutting edge fashionable ball gowns that Isabeau wishes he had more time to stop and marvel at.

The symbols of the Change God are plastered all over. Large spinning wind chimes containing concentric circles, the design painted on the sides of houses and business, and statues of the Change God themself, made from every different material, each with its own individual face. The most prominent one is in the middle of a fountain in front of its House of Change, its sculptor carving its face a peaceful smile and eyes closed in joy.

Isabeau doesn’t miss the way Siffrin’s grip tightens as they pass by it, looking up from their feet for a moment just to glare at it. He notes the reaction, and then tucks it away as something to examine closer later.

However, it looks like this festival was originally created to celebrate one of the Primordial Gods. Its symbols, while fewer and further in between, have been put up as well. A three pronged trident, present on banners hanging off of balconies of the House of Change and on crafted lanterns that line the docks. It's the...Sea God, Isabeau thinks? Which would make sense for a port town.

He spots someone sleeping underneath one of the waving banners, slumped against the House, head tucked into their chest. He wouldn’t normally notice them, but the fact that they’re managing to stay unconscious despite all the noise makes the sight an oddity in itself. Their appearance makes them clearly stand out as well. Bright, darkless hair the same shade as Sif’s, sharp features, and plain, uninteresting clothes in a sea of fancy formal wear.

Isabeau’s Defender training starts to kick in, concern bubbling up. He doesn’t see any clear injuries on the person, but that doesn’t always mean much. He starts to take a step in their direction, tugging Siffrin along, who in turn finally looks up from his feet to give him a quizzical glance.

Isabeau opens his mouth, ready to try to shout above the crowd for the rest of the group to pause for a second, but Bonnie beats him to it.

”NILLE!!“ they shout, letting go of Mirabelle’s hand to shoot towards someone like a heat missile.

A woman spins towards them, completely disengaging from a conversation she was having with another small group of people. Her eyes go wide, mouth parting in a silent ’o’.

The first thought that Isabeau has about Petronille is that she looks exactly like Bonnie. The sibling resemblance is strong; same darker skin tone, sharp eyes, and pointed nose. Her hair is coarse like theirs is, brush back from her face and tied in a thick braid that drapes down her back and swings with her movement.

His second thought about Petronille, accompanied by a slight amount of fear, is about just how strong she looks.

She’s leaner for sure, but she packs almost the same amount of muscle as Isabeau and stands around the same height. Her letters had mentioned she worked on the docks, lugging things around, but he hadn’t been prepared for the towering and imposing way she held herself. 

He finds himself grateful, once more, that he had managed to reach out to her and explain the situation before they met in person. While she hadn’t been pleased in her original letters, she had seemed to soften to them the longer they kept in contact. It probably helped that Bonnie was writing their own letters to her on the side, occasionally dragging Sif in to help them draw the pictures or asking Odile or Mirabelle to check the spelling.

“Bonnie!” Petronille exclaims, throwing her arms open wide.

Bonnie launches themself towards her, and she catches them easily, swinging them in a wide circle. She hefts them up onto her hip with a grunt, easy as anything, like it’s a practiced pose they’ve carried out hundreds of thousands of times before.

Bonnie’s already crying before they’ve even fully settled into her hold, fat tears dripping down their cheeks that they try to wipe away with the heel of their palm. Sobs wrack their tiny frame, hiccuping and gasping for air in between them.

“Oh, Bonnie, it’s ok!” Petronille says, her face pinching as she reaches up with her free hand to help them wipe their face. “It’s ok, I’m ok.”

“I…I’m…!” Bonnie cries, trying so hard to get out the words in between their sobbing. “I’m so sorry!! You got frozen and I couldn’t do anything ! I’m so sorry!”

Sif is rushing forward before Isabeau can fully realize what they’re doing, suddenly looking alert and alive in a way that Isabeau hadn’t realized he was missing. Their tiny shoulders square and their mouth sets in a determined little line, eye lighting up like the sun had been put behind it.

Isabeau is tugged along helplessly, so quick that he barely has any time to process that he’s getting pulled. They’re beside Mira and Odile in the space of a blink, and Isabeau’s arm throbs in its socket, as disturbed as it would’ve been had someone purposely tried to wrench it out of place. 

It’s jarring to get a reminder of how strong Sif is now, just how agile. It surprises him, and maybe it should scare him a little. But, embarrassingly enough, all he can really feel is his cheeks involuntarily getting warmer.

Luckily everyone’s way too distracted to notice that, even m’dame Odile is too focused on the siblings to tease him and she normally has a near sixth sense for Isabeau being a hot mess.

Petronille rocks Bonnie gently in her arms, bouncing them up and down in a soothing manner as she hushes them. ”It’s not your fault,” she says, her voice level despite the way tears build up behind her eyes. “It’s not your fault at all! I’m just so happy you're safe.”

The party stays a couple steps back from the reunion, like they’re all being held back by some force field of sibling love. Isabeau notes that Mira is crying in earnest, right alongside Bonnie, but there’s a gentle smile on her face as she clasps her hands together.

He feels his own eyes swimming. He’s always been a sympathetic crier, especially when he was younger and this is definitely an occasion that calls for it! Crab, he thinks he can even see m’dame Odile getting a little misty eyed.

Siffrin is the only one of them who’s not.

He doesn’t think most people would notice Sif’s reaction as being out of the ordinary, but Isabeau’s internal compass is almost always pointing in their direction. He’s head over heels in love, which means he’s put extra care into studying his…friend? Partner? Boyfriend? Change, he hopes he gets clarification on that soon, otherwise his little heart is going to give out.

Well, only if it doesn’t give out from worry first.

Siffrin is staring at Bonnie and Petronille, eye blown open wide and refusing to blink. Isabeau sees the way they’ve retreated into themself, the way they’ve shut out everything in the world other than this moment. It seems very similar to the way they occasionally zone out, a somewhat worrying habit he developed post-loops.

There’s something more purposeful to it, however, an intent that’s not there when he drifts off somewhere in their mind where no one else can reach. It’s like they’re trying to commit the moment to memory, carve it into their brain as clean as a cut they can make with their dagger. Like there’s nothing in the world more important than remembering this.

Isabeau suddenly recalls his conversation with Odile yesterday. The revolution is hazy, but it's there. When Siffrin remembers his past, it hurts him. Pretty badly, if it's anything close to the wicked headache that Isabeau had, throbbing in his frontal lobe like something was trying to explode out of it.

Is it any wonder that Siffrin wants to hold onto this? Especially when it's the one thing he wished for before everything went to crab?

Isabeau gently shakes Siffrin’s hand, trying to grab their attention.

Sif tenses, clearly registering the movement immediately, but it's a long moment before they look up at him. His face is unnaturally blank, an expression carved out of stone. The lack of hat doesn’t lend itself to the intensity of their gaze, sun illuminating the cutting stare with sharp blades of light.

Isabeau does his best to give a watery, wobbly smile, then gently starts pulling Siffrin over towards the siblings.

They realize what he’s doing near immediately, and their eye goes wide, heels digging into the ground as a nervous, flighty look overtakes his face. Mira appears quickly next to them, grabbing for their other hand and m’dame Odile flanks his other side, shoulders almost touching.

Siffrin flinches lightly, but then relaxes. Not all the tension leaves their body, eye still darting around at the rest of the crowd, but it's enough that he lets himself be dragged up to Petronille and Bonnie. The people around them make room, clearly realizing this is some kind of reunion, leaving the party in a little bubble all their own.

Petronille looks away from her sibling to the rest of them, blinking in surprise like she had forgotten they existed. She’s quick to level out though, a smile breaking across her face like the sun shining through the clouds. 

“Hey-o!” she greets cheerfully, bouncing Bonnie as she turns to face all of them. “You must be the Saviors of Vaugarde, it’s nice to finally meet ch’a in person.” She jerks out her free hand to Isabeau. “Petronille.”

Isabeau beams, reaching out to shake her hand and introduce himself, but Bonnie interrupts before he gets the chance to speak.

”Nille, that’s Za!” they shout, scrubbing the rest of the tears away from their cheeks. Their eyes remain puffy and damp, but it's clear they’re trying to collect themself. “He’s the one I prank all the time! And—and, that’s Mira!”

They point over at Mira so abruptly that she startles, but they barrel onwards. “She’s really really cool. She’s super strong! And nice! And she always shares her sweets with me!”

They move on to m’dame Odile, pointing at her next. Her mouth tilts in a wry smile, hands clasped together behind her back. “That’s Dile,” Bonnie says, finally calming down a little. “She’s the one who helped me write my letters to you! She’s been teaching me big fancy words, and she has a bunch of cool books!”

Finally, they point at Siffrin, who stares back as wide eyed and unsteady as a frightened doe. “That’s Frin!” Bonnie exclaims. “He draws really cool pictures! And tells me fun stories! And plays with me alllll the time! They saved me from a Sadness and then I saved them from the King, and then they got all big because they were in school for a long time, and I saved them from being sad then too! He’s my best friend!”

Siffrin seems entirely unsure of how to react to that. Their cheeks flush, their hand in Isabeau’s loosening in shock. They blink, almost star struck, before finally seeming to come to enough to remember to tuck their chin into their cloak and reach up for a hat that isn’t there to try to cover their face.

Isabeau can’t help but laugh. Mira does too, but she’s polite enough to try to hide it behind her hand. Odile even snickers, reaching out to ruffle Siffrin’s hair, to which he looks up and glares at her.

”So easily flustered,” m’dame says, sounding as fond as is possible for her dry tone. “Is it really that embarrassing that your best friend is a preteen?”

Siffrin lifts his head out of his cloak, sticking their tongue out at her. “Only as embarrassing as it is for you to have all your best friends be at least fifteen years younger than you.”

”Huh,” Odile says, smirking back at him. “Touché, I suppose.”

Mirabelle laughs again, more openly this time, before turning back to Petronille. “It’s nice to finally meet you too!” she says, smiling so wide it nearly forces her eyes shut. “We’ve really been looking forward to it, Bonnie’s told us so much about you!”

”Oh really now?” Petronille says, looking over to Bonnie. “All good things, I hope?”

Bonnie huffs, crossing their arms and tossing their head back. “Nope!” they announce. “Only all true things!”

”Why you…” Petronille says, playfully growling as she puts them back down on their feet and then pushes their hat down, twisting it around so it ruffles up their hair. Bonnie screeches with laughter, reaching up to try to pull at her arms to try and stop her.

They squirm, finally escaping from underneath her hold and dart to hide behind Sif. Their hands clutch at their cloak, face nearly buried in the soft white fabric, and he lifts his arms, dropping Isabeau and Mira’s hands in order to look down at them in surprise.

”See, it’s just like I told you!” Bonnie says. “My sister is evil!”

”All sisters are evil,” Isabeau agrees with a nod. “It’s all part of the job description! That’s what you sign up for when you have a baby sibling.”

Bonnie looks up at Isabeau in surprise, taking the new information at face value. “…Really?” they ask, looking up to Sif for confirmation. He nods back wordlessly, and Bonnie’s mouth drops open. “That explains so much…”

Petronille laughs boisterously. “Alright, alright,” she says, turning towards the docks and waving them all forward as she starts to walk. “That’s ‘nough of that. Let’s get out of this crowd and back to the house.” Her nose wrinkles up in distaste. “It’s way too peopley to be catching up out here.”

Isabeau can practically feel the way Sif sags with relief behind him, the idea of escaping the city so relieving that the feeling pretty much radiates off of them. They tuck their arm around Bonnie’s shoulder, pushing them forward as they move to the front of the group and start walking right on Petronille’s heels. The fastest of them all as always.

Mira and m’dame are quick to follow, pushing through the crowd in some unknown direction. Isabeau hesitates though, suddenly remembering the person on the steps of the House. He stands up straighter, twisting this way and that to try to see through all the people. 

There, right where he last saw them, the person still sits, entirely unconscious. Other people are gathered around them now though, a small circle of individuals that seem to be trying to wake them up. A Housemaiden kneels by their side, her worried look clear even from this distance, her hand is placed on their shoulder as she gives some order to a Defender looming over both of them.

The Defender hurries off, taking the stairs two at a time. Meanwhile, the Housemaiden shakes the white haired person again, who only slumps further in response, body going dead weight as a corpse as they slide onto their side. Someone in the circle yelps in alarm.

”Za!” Bonnie shouts from somewhere in front of him. “Hurry up! We don’t wanna lose you!”

Isabeau takes a quick couple steps forward, then one in the direction of the small circle, torn on what he should do. The Defender who left quickly reappears, this time with another behind him. They each take one end of a stretcher, bringing it over to the person in order to load them onto it.

There’s not much more Isabeau could do, he rationalizes. Even if he did go over there, it wasn’t like he was officially a Defender any more. It’s probably best to just leave it to them for now, as they seem to have a far better idea of what’s going on than he does.

Reluctantly, he turns away and starts jogging back over to the party, trying to ignore the growing sense of dread in his stomach.

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

Your parents are going to be so mad at you.

You push your way through another group of people, disrupting the movement of the crowd like a tiny arrow slicing through it. People yelp and curse, but you ignore it, too focused on your self assigned mission to care about the reactions of anyone around you. Your eyes dart around, looking for a white cloak and hat that match your own, but everywhere you look is just another person dressed up in dark, starry robes lined with wavy lace.

You‘re so stupid. So, so stupid! Your parents had told you not to lose the Artificer. They told you not to let her wander off, that they were just going to scout out seats in the amphitheater and try to find the rest of your siblings. And yet here you were, running through the crowd in search of her.

They had been right next to you, but you had looked away for a second, distracted by a street performance, and that was all it had taken. She disappeared like she had never been there in the first place, swept into the jovial herd. And this wasn’t like her disappearing in your small town, where someone from the University would take notice and know where to bring her back to. This was the capitol, filled to the brim with unfamiliar faces.

The sun is setting behind the distant townscape as you run back towards it, your steps echoing on the sturdy stone. Tall, elegant houses are on fire in the fading light, their worn bricks turning muted, impressionistic shades in the evening air. The crowd is thinning now, most of the population having finished shuffling inside.

You’re bursting into another clearing, ready to dive right back into the fray, when you finally spot them.

They’re standing towards the edge of the bridge back to town, underneath a patch of light shining down from one of the crafted lanterns and settling on them like a spotlight. Their cloak is a glowing silver, its plain material reflecting the light in a hazy burst of shades. A gust of wind brushes past, sending it shivering against their tiny form like a ripple on water.

Their back is currently towards you, so you can’t see their face. Just the pointed tip of their hat and hair hanging in uneven chunks after your mom’s last disastrous attempt to cut it. They’re unnaturally still, holding themself up stiffly, an unrelenting figure in a restless crowd.

In front of them, pressed against the railing and staring down at her, is a man. He’s almost comically bigger than the Artificer, towering over her like some imposing statue. His arms are crossed in front of him, chest puffed out. His long snow white hair drapes down, almost reaching his ankles, and he wears the armor of a Kosmoknight, broad plates of sheet metal painted to look like they’ve been dipped in stars.

The two of them appear as though they’ve been plucked out of a myth, some ancient story about a saint facing off a giant. As though they’re two actors in a street performance or posing for some dramatic portrait. The Kosmoknight’s sword hangs on his belt, its handle glinting in the light. It has a rock symbol carved into its hilt, the only type of Craft the Artificer is weak to.

Your heart stops in your chest at the sight of the two of them, then immediately picks up in a rapid staccato rhythm. You clumsily amble over, all your limbs suddenly feeling like they don’t quite fit right as you fill up with uneasy nerves.

Neither one acknowledges you as you approach, engaged in what seems to be a silent stare down. The Artificer’s face comes into view as you circle around them, letting you note the way she looks up at the man. Her glossy eyes are almost looking right through him, though their stare is intense enough to be able to miss the fact. 

It wouldn’t be obvious to most, but you’re not most when it comes to the Artificer. You know that she Knows something about this man. And by the hard look on their face, it probably does not bode well for anyone who decides to stand in his way.

Something about your movement finally startles them out of their trance, and their head whips over to you, blinking like they’re clearing the stars from their eyes. “Oh,” she says, in flat surprise. “Hello.”

The casualness of her tone sends a rush of relief and frustration through you, both feelings equal in measure. Stars, isn’t that just like her? To give you a miniature heart attack and then not even have the decency to acknowledge it?

“Don’t do that,” you order, scowling at her. Your voice is harsher than intended, more out of worry than anything else. “You can’t just disappear like that! You could get hurt, or, or…or lost! What would you have done if I couldn’t find you?”

The Artificer at least has the courtesy to look bashful, cheeks darkening in embarrassment. “Sorry,” she says, not sounding like she means it even though her body language says otherwise. She shrinks in on herself, lifting up one hand underneath her cloak to rub at her arm in a soothing gesture. “I won’t let go of your hand next time, I promise.”

You puff out your cheeks, crossing your arms with a dramatic huff. “You better not! I refuse to get grounded because of you. Especially during a festival week!”

The Artificer snorts, lips spasming and twitching up in a wry smirk. “Yeah,” they say. “You don’t need any help doing that, do you?”

It takes you a second to register that they’re teasing you, their tone to bland for it to kick in immediately. But when it does, you gasp dramatically, placing a hand on your chest like you’ve been scorned. “What, me? Causing trouble? Say it ain’t so!”

They giggle at your theatrics, smile now wide and genuine, and you feel a surge of pride course through you at pulling it out of them. It’s a reassurance, to be able to do this for them, to be able to make them act more like a person.

The man in front of you suddenly clears his throat, and both of you startle at the sound. You had almost forgotten he was there, but he’s been watching your antics this entire time with a critical eye. He shifts his stance, almost anticipatory, gaze darting back and forth between the two of you.

“Bright ones…” he says, in a prim, halting voice. It’s the exact type of voice you’d expect a member of the court to have, deep and commanding. Overwhelming and intense. Scary.

His hands drop to his side as he focuses his intimidating stare on the Artificer. “…Seer of the Universe,” he says, addressing her directly. “……What do you Know?”

The Artificer turns to him again, expression blanking out. The vacant, thousand year stare is gone though, replaced by her squinting at the Kosmoknight in concentration, connection with the Universe broken. You can see the way she’s trying to hear something, force her way back into the headspace, and you almost wish she wouldn’t, though that would be counterproductive.

The silence stretches on for a long moment, until, finally, they slowly shake their head.

“Sorry,” they apologize to the man flatly. “I read your profile, but I can’t remember much of it now.” 

The Kosmoknight’s stare sharpens, turning into a glare that he immediately turns to you. His hand goes to the sword on his hip, on instinct, like he’s going to cut you down for the sole crime of disrupting the path the Universe was potentially guiding him onto. 

It's particularly brutish of him, but experience has taught you that the Kosmoknights aren't super great at being fair . Especially factoring in this guy doesn’t seem to care that the Artificer is too young to be a professional University graduate and you’re a seemingly defenseless kid who didn’t intentionally interrupt their one sided conversation.

A chill runs through you and you freeze underneath it, stance going wide as your body prepares you to run. You’ve got quite a bit of experience escaping the authorities with your trouble making youth, but you’ve got a lot going against you right now. Namely, that this guy is huge, but also, that you have to get the Artificer safely out as well.

As if spurred by you thinking of them, the Artificer snatches your hand, causing you to flinch and look over at her. They don’t pay you any mind though, too busy giving the Kosmoknight a hard and unforgiving look.

She stays still for a long moment, small but defiant. “The Universe favors you greatly,” she politely placates, like some soothsayer for hire dealing with an unhappy client. “However, as of now, it has no where urgent to lead you. I apologize for interrupting your duties, my brother and I will leave you be.” 

The Artificer pulls you away in a hurry, taking her turn to drag you along. You’re both the same height and the same small, lean build that lends itself to running. Your footsteps echo around you, one of the only noises around as you dart between brightening street lights and underneath darkening sky. The crowd has all but disappeared into the amphitheater at this point, the few stragglers who are left cleaning up from their street performances and casually talking in low voices.

You glance over your shoulder at the Kosmoknight, but he doesn’t follow you. He just stands there, with the tense, formal posture of any proper soldier, and watches you go. He holds himself with the self assuredness of a hunter who can bide his time, the slightest curious tilt to his head.

You shiver and look away.

The Artificer doesn’t stop until you reach the gates of the theater, taking the steps up to it two at a time. The wooden lattice has been pulled open for the Ocean God’s festival, and you can see out on the cobblestone arena where the first of the performers are lining up to kick off the whole shebang with the first traditional dance. Their flowing robes glimmer in the twilight, sparkling waves made of tulle, lace, and ribbons in a gradient of ocean shades.

You can’t see any of the seats from this angle, but you can see the back wall of the stage, lined by gothic columns with star and flower motifs carved into their capitals. The orchestra is beginning to set up beneath them, instruments of all different shapes and sizes being carried out and put into place. The conductor is taking their place at the head of it, marked by the signature star emblem stitched into the back of their robes.

You drink the sight in with eyes blown wide up, your grip slackening in the Artificer’s hand as you stare, almost hypnotized by the opulence of it all. It’s only when they squeeze your hand that you jerk back into awareness, glancing back over at her.

She’s smiling at you fondly when you meet her gaze, a look that you’ve only seen from her when it's aimed in your direction. Even then, it's rare. Her eyes drift back over to the arena, stage lighting flashing off her pupils as it’s thrown on.

”Do you think,” they start, voice so quiet and breathy that you have to strain to hear it, “that the rest of the world will be like this?”

You stare at her, tongue tied, before slowly following her gaze. Your grip tightens in hers, longing threatening to overwhelm you. “I don’t know,” you say quietly. “Do you want it to be?”

”I think I’d like it if it was,” she says. “It would make leaving this behind easier.”

You snort. “What? Is the deranged, entitled Kosmoknight not already doing that for you?”

The Artificer huffs out what could be a laugh, or maybe a sigh. Maybe both. “A little bit,” she admits carefully. “I don’t think that would be made entirely better just by leaving though. It’s not like I wouldn’t still Know things.”

”You don’t know that for sure,” you counter, eyes narrowing. “There are theories that Artificers’ connection to the Universe gets thinner the further they’re away from the island. If we travel far enough, it might not even be able to tell you anything!”

She slowly turns to you, expression settling back into neutrality. Not the normal sort, their resting blankness that they seem to carry everywhere they go, but the more purposeful kind. The one that they try to hide behind, the one that you can’t even begin to decipher.

”Yeah, maybe,” she says, tilting her head so her hat casts her face in shadow. “Maybe not.”

“Only way to find out is to leave then, right?” you ask, trying to hide the desperation in your voice. “We can always figure it out together, and you know it’s not like we can’t come back! We don’t have to go far at first either. Poteria maybe? I’ve heard their plays are really good, could be just like this! Could be better, even!”

The Artificer shakes your hand, and you find yourself gasping down an anxious breath, suddenly made aware of just how fast you had been talking without pausing for breath. She meets your stare evenly, and then, slowly, they take an exaggerated breath.

Innnn and ouuuut.

It takes a few tries, but you finally catch onto her rhythm, matching its soothing pace. Her lip twitches up into a crooked and encouraging smile. “I want to go to Poteria with you,” they tell you, matter of factly. “I want to see new plays. I want to try new foods. I want to meet new people.”

The loud blow of a trumpet kicking off the first song of the night, interrupting your conversation. Both of your heads swivel up in time to see the dancers begin to swing around the arena, their long dresses overlapping each other into choreographed movements that make them look like a rolling tide. The choir starts in a harmonized hum, voice a low thrum against a chorus of wood instruments.

”I’m scared,” the Artificer admits, honesty seeming easier now that you’re not looking at each other. She doesn’t elaborate further than that though, and you don’t press, letting the words hang in the air between you for a long pause. “Give me until I graduate University to be less scared?”

”Ok,” you breathe in response, your turn to have your voice be nothing more than a whisper. “I can do that. I can wait for you.”

”…Thank you,” she says. “⍟✵.”

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

(You obtained a MEMORY OF FESTIVAL)

(Were Poterian plays any better? Do you have an answer now?)

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

The inside of Bonnie and Petronille’s house is exactly what Mirabelle expected. It’s a warm and cozy space, with wooden floors covered in beautifully woven rugs. The air smells like flour and salt, windows all thrown open and blowing in warm wind from the sea. Shouting echoes in from outside, the loud, cacophonous blend of ship horns blaring at all sorts of different octaves and flooding the room with ambient noise.

Figurines of knights, little tiny cars with dings and chips in the wood, and a stuffed bear with a mysteriously charred ear explode out from a toy box in the corner of the room. Every single one of them lies down collecting dust, even though they’re spread out in messy, haphazard patterns that have to hurt when accidentally stepped on. Untouched there like Bonnie had only left home for a few hours rather than several months.

There are a couple of large Change God statues by the door, in view of the couch where she sits next to Siffrin. It looks like the statues themselves are premade, but the residents of the home have obviously put their own finishing touches on their round, circular faces.

The one on the right has lots of clumsily drawn eyeballs on it, clearly carved in by a child’s inexperienced hand. Each one is a different shape and size, their lines wobbly and inconsistent, filling the space with little dots that remind her of something she can’t quite place.

The one of the left looks more thought out, planned in the way the one of the right wasn’t. It’s got cat-like eyes, slit shaped pupils with small concentric rings swirling around them. Its mouth is open wide, revealing sharp pointed teeth drawn in a crooked smile. It looks a little more dangerous than what Mirabelle would imagine of the Change God, but well, it wouldn’t be the same religion if there wasn’t a ton of room for personal interpretation.

About half an hour ago, Isabeau and Madame Odile had ventured back into town, the first having been nearly shoved out the door by Bonnie, in order to brave the crowds for a missing ingredient for the party’s dinner, and the latter having followed afterward, claiming she wanted some fresh air. Bonnie and Petronille had seemed to take that at face value, but Mirabelle had her suspicions. She saw the weird, in-the-know look Isabeau had given Madame, and it could mean but one thing. There’s a secret quest afoot!

Mirabelle’s already planning to interrogate the crab out of Isabeau in their next moment alone. Partly out of curiosity as to what they were doing, yes, but also somewhat out of worry.

Because Isabeau hadn’t looked happy that Madame wanted to tag along. His face had screwed up with worry, face pinched tightly as he sucked in a breath, clearly about to say something until he caught her eye. They had what could only be called a telepathic battle of wills, Isabeau with his stern, disappointed look on one side and Madame with her calm, expressionless face on the other, the only indication of her emotions being a single raised eyebrow, as if to say, ‘Really now? You want to do this here?’

Isabeau’s eyes darted to Siffrin, for a brief blink and you miss it moment, and then he sighed, quickly giving up. He turned back to everyone else, slipping on a familiar bright smile and waving as he walked out of the door. Madame’s own lips slanted up in a wry smile at her victory, and she nodded her goodbye to them, then directly addressed Bonnie and asked them to not burn the place down while they were gone.

It was such a normal, non-notable exit that Mirabelle wasn’t sure if she imagined the tension. But when she turned to ask Siffrin about it, they were watching the newly closed door with such a tense and startled expression it was as though he expected one of them to pop right back and strike them dead. 

That had been all the confirmation she had needed. There were about three things she was absolutely certain of. First, Madame was dragging Isabeau on a secret quest. Second, the secret quest was about Siffrin. And third, Siffrin had no better clues as to what they could be doing than Mirabelle did.

So now, all that’s left is to wait for them to return. In the meantime, Petronille and Bonnie have retired to the kitchen to start dinner, what is apparently going to be a huge, celebratory feast. She can hear them clanging around in there, pattering steps and clashing pots and pans. They chitter away happily, clearly catching up on everything in more detail now that they’re in person, rather than communicating through sparse letters.

“--and there was this sound like ‘ki-kash!’” Bonnie recounts loudly, their voice bouncing back and forth down the hall. “And the King was like, ‘Oh nooo….I’m being frroooozzzeeennn…..’ And then he deflated, like a big mean balloon losing all its air. Za thinks it’s cuz he lost all his craft? It was so cool though, oh, and then, and then, we--”

This leaves Mirabelle and her feelings buddy alone in the living room, sitting on the couch together. They don’t speak to each other, or at least they haven’t yet. 

Siffrin’s pulled some chunk of wood out of their seemingly endless pockets and is taking a knife to it, trying to create something new out of something potentially ancient. A thin scratching sound sliding from the blade as they chip away at the block, muttering something so indistinctly under their breath that Mirabelle can’t even guess at what it is.

Mirabelle plays with a loose strand of string sticking out from the couch, the cotton fabric pulling tight with each little tug. She chews on her lips, debating her options.

She should probably talk to Siffrin, she knows. She’s been wanting to since they had their nightmare a couple days ago, waking up to a confused terror on his face that she hadn’t seen since the loops first ended. That odd language rolled so naturally off his tongue, rapid fire words reminding her of the way that she used to see people pray to the Change God when she first began her journey to defeat the King.

They’d kneel in the front of city statues, just like Siffrin had been kneeling after they scrambled to escape the confines of their sleeping bag. Where his hands went to tug on his hair, the citizens of Vaguarde would clasp theirs together, but they rocked back and forth on their knees the same way, the same type of desperate pleas slipping out from in between their teeth.

The comparison makes the words die on Mirabelle’s tongue, makes her not want to press anything until Siffrin decides they want to share.

She should though, because Siffrin’s way more like her than she first expected. He’s introverted and shy, not wanting to bother anybody with their problems, and she knows first hand that those traits make it harder to talk about the things that frighten you. And if the sight of them praying like that scared her from an outsider’s point of view, she could only imagine what it was like experiencing it on the inside.

Maybe…she could come at it sideways though? She doesn’t even know who or what Siffrin was praying to at that moment, let alone what they were praying about. Has Siffrin ever told her what religion they follow? She knows it's not Change, but…

The thoughts get wiggly in her brain, like fumbling with a soap bar that she’s about to drop in the shower. Her jaw tightens, eyes narrowing in concentration as she tries to hold onto them. Something with the stars, right?

“Siffrin,” she says. “Where are you from again?”

Siffrin’s head snaps up from his work, as quick and jerky as though he had slapped them with her hand again rather than her words. His eye is blown wide, mouth working around shock. The knife slips with a hollow screech, blade digging into their thumb, and they wince as they immediately begin bleeding into the wood.

Mirabelle yelps. “Oh no! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says frantically, already scrambling for his injured hand. It’s only when he flinches that she remembers to slow down, telegraphing her movements more clearly as she curls her fingers around theirs, a warm glow emanating as she starts to heal them.

“No no,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I just…I wasn’t expecting you to ask that is all, not so suddenly at least.”

Mirabelle finishes her craft, then slowly starts pulling her hands away, hesitating at their words. “‘So suddenly’?” she echoes, tilting her head.

Siffrin tenses, like he had abruptly realized he wasn’t supposed to say that last bit out loud. Their cheeks go dark, a thin flush against their pasty skin. “It’s just,” they start, flustered, then pause to tuck their knife back into its sheath along his hip in a nervous movement. “It's…a sore subject. That’s all.” 

A memory worms its way back into her head, from when they had been talking on the rooftop back in Dormont. “Is it because the King was from there too?”

If Mirabelle thought his eye couldn’t get any bigger, she was clearly mistaken, as now it looks like Siffrin’s other eyeball is just a nudge away from falling out of his head. They blink at her, like they’re struggling to look at a bright object. “You remember that?”

Mirabelle squints at him, head tilting curiously. “Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, but continues on before they can give her a proper response. “Your home is important to you, right? And if it’s…if it’s a sore spot just because the King was from there, I don’t want that to keep you from telling me about it.”

Something about her words seems to strike Siffrin oddly, his expression blanking out into an unreadable nothingness. He studies her for a long minute, and she tries to stare resolutely back at them, as if a glance alone can let him know she means it.

Eventually, Siffrin sighs and looks away, eye drifting down to the block in their hand. They roll it between their fingers, the smooth wood running clean against the palms of their gloves. “I don’t remember much of my childhood,” they admit softly. “Just…bits and pieces, and…only occasionally.”

“Oh,” Mirabelle says, with an anxiety the likes of stepping into a minefield. “Do you…was it because it was bad?”

Siffrin huffs out a humorless laugh, hiding their mouth underneath their free hand. She can see the way his lips have twitched up into that reflexive fake smile he does sometimes, the one that doesn’t reach their eye. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you remember then?”

Siffrin goes silent. She watches them take several of their deep breaths, chest moving up and down as he steadies himself. She’s about to apologize, to realize how rude and assumptious of a question that was, but he starts to speak again before she can.

“Not as much as I’d like,” he says, voice quiet. “It’s easier when…things are familiar or they remind me of stuff. Like the festival…we had a similar festival back home.”

They glance up at Mirabelle, as though looking for her permission to continue. She’s nearly on the edge of her seat at this point, a nervous churn in her guts pushing her forward. She lifts one of the hands she has curled in her lap, gesturing for them to go on.

Siffrin nods. “It was…a really big show. Everyone would come to the capital and we’d…watch…a performance.” He seems to be struggling for every single word, grimacing through the entire speech. “There was a…big circular theater, I don’t know what you’d call it in Vaugardian, but it helped you get a good look at the dancers from any angle. They wore these huge robes, all made of the same material so when you watched them dance from up above, they looked like a big ocean.”

Mirabelle struggles to imagine the scene. She never left Dormont much before the King’s reign and by the time she made it around the country, most of the coastal cities were too dangerous to visit. Babouche is the first time she’s really seen the ocean, but still... “That sounds…really beautiful.”

“It was,” Siffrin agrees, with no hesitation. He’s looking out into the distance now, staring somewhere far beyond the confines of this room. His expression has loosened, eye lighting up like something just occurred to him.

“The last one I went to,” he recalls abruptly, “me and my sister wound up showing up late, so we were going to have to go all the way up to the very top of the stands, since the seats next to our parents had gotten taken. I was really upset though, cause up there you can’t really see the intricacies of the dance moves themselves or hear the music as cleanly.

“But before we got more than a couple rows up, my sister just pulled on me to stop. They didn’t even say anything! Just started pulling me down one of the aisle without a word. Everyone was yelling at us for blocking their view and making them get up, but she didn’t pay any attention to them or to me trying to get them to go back.”

“Wh-Why did they do that?”

Siffrin grins, turning back towards her. “She Knew about a secret entrance to one of the maintenance halls, pulled me right in and shut the door behind us! There was a little window in there and everything, it was probably the coolest seat in the entire theater.”

Now that, Mirabelle can picture clearly. It's easy to shrink Siffrin down in her brain, see him perched up on his tiptoes, both eyes still intact and filled with stars as he looks out onto a performance. Their little mouth hanging open in a slack jawed surprised smile. This mysterious sibling would be right next to them, probably also on their tiptoes if Siffrin’s short height was a family trait. Maybe they’d be smiling too, or maybe they’d have a hat, pulled too far over their face to even tell.

“Oh, that sounds like so much fun!” Mirabelle exclaims, beaming and clapping her hands together. “I don’t think you ever told me you had a sister before though Siffrin, I figured you were an only child just like me.”

Siffrin’s face spasms violently, that playful expression on their face cracking right down the middle. “My what?” he breathes, voice barely audible.

Mirabelle freezes, suddenly wrong footed. A pressure starts to form in the middle of her forehead, and she winces, bringing up a hand to rub at her temple. “Your um…your sister?” she repeats. “You were…telling me about your sister.”

“I don’t--” Siffrin says, then freezes, looking down at their hands which are now shaking violently. The wood block slips from his grip, bouncing its way across the floor. “I don’t have a…My sister. They…They were supposed to come with me…why didn’t she?” He starts to hyperventilate. “Why didn’t she--?!”

Mirabelle’s heart lurches, sending her whole body forward with the force of it as she reaches out for Siffrin. They’re curling into a ball at the same moment, fingers going for their hair and digging into their scalp. Behind them, the window slams shut with a wooden thunk, sending the room into a disturbing quiet. She can’t even hear Bonnie or Petronille anymore.

“Siffrin?” she says, laying a hand on his trembling shoulder. “Siffrin! It’s ok, I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s going to be ok!”

Siffrin whimpers in response, shaking his head furiously, his eye squeezed tightly shut. The pressure in Mirabelle’s head increases dangerously, and she can feel something dripping down from her nose, an iron taste hitting her tongue a second later. Blood.

There’s an echoing crack from near the door, startling and sudden enough that it sweeps Mirabelle’s attention away from the panicking Siffrin and over to the noise. The Change God statues still sit where she first noticed them, but there’s something different about them now.

The right one, with all its eyes, has now shifted its gaze. Rather than every pupil staring out in random, haphazard directions; they’re all pointed at her, staring blankly. Large cracks surround the face, breaking into its clay cloak like it's trying to tilt its head.

The left one’s face has split entirely open, a large crater slashing down its slanted mouth and turning it into more of a grimace than a smile. Its cat-like eyes have also moved to look at her, and a chill runs down her spine at its accusing glare.

Her mouth works open and closed in shock, hands shaking. She’s never seen anything like this before, her blessing from the Change God was a lie, but this certainly feels like some sort of divine intervention. 

Or like something out of one of her horror novels.

Mirabelle turns to Siffrin, a million questions racing through her mind. ‘Are you ok?’ ‘What’s happening?’ ‘Did you see that? Did you hear that?’ ‘Did you do that?’ ‘What’s going on?’

Every single one dies on her tongue at the sight of them though. They’ve untucked themself, sitting there politely like nothing ever happened in the first place and staring at her blankly, the only evidence of their panic attack is their mussed up hair and the half finished wood carving laying at his feet. Awareness flickers back on behind his eye like someone hitting the switch on a trap.

He takes notice of her faster than he does himself, face dropping into worry immediately. Now he’s reaching out for her, rather than the other way around, and she is grateful when she’s able to grab onto his hand like a lifeline without him flinching. 

“Mira?” he asks, oh, so present again. “Are you ok? Your nose is bleeding.”

Chapter Text

It is recognized by the scientific community at large that the birth of a God is directly tied to the faith of its worshippers. Leading Ka Buan theologist, Myung Han, explains that most Gods begin as a concept, which is given form through Craft, such as the creation of a sculpture or monument dedicated to that concept. These Gods then grow more powerful through a combination of prayer, tradition, and the construction of places of worship. Ka Bua’s shrines, Vaugarde’s Houses, Mwudu’s toranas; these all serve as the birthplace, shelter, and powerhouse of the Gods.

“It’s a symbiotic relationship,” Han writes. “Gods are named in order to celebrate and augment a cultural niche, rather than the other way around. The people shape the Gods, so once a God is no longer providing for its people, whether that is fulfilling a spiritual need, a physical obligation, or a symbolic stand in, they will simply fade away and experience what is essentially a ‘death’.”

It was at one time believed that there were no exceptions to this rule, that a God could not exist without a follower. However, how then would this world be created? What birthed the mountains, the sea, and the sky? What crafted the first human being? 

In all my years of searching, there is only one faith that I have found that answers these questions. This religion has a relatively small following; a single island with a population of roughly one hundred thousand. Its people don’t often travel, and it is rarer still that any of its scholars or ‘favored’ leave the confines of the island throughout the course of their entire lives.

Their scholarly texts are heavily regulated when lent to non-Artificers, who are the cultural equivalent of Vaugarde’s Housemaidens. This, combined with the fact that the information contained in them requires advanced knowledge of Craft in general to understand, means that most of what can be gleaned must be supplemented by heavy speculation.

This paper is the result of six years of research, and within it I will use a combination of the Island’s foundational theories that are available to me and studies of its inhabitants’ religious practices, in order to prove the existence of Primordial Gods, beginning with the Primordial Originator. Or, as it is better known by the residents of the island, the Universe…

—Excerpt from “The Primordial Gods and the Plane Beyond”
by Vaugardian theologist, Oriel Dubois

Isabeau plucks another fruit out of the wooden bin, eyeing it critically as the shopkeeper taps their foot beside him. “And you’re sure this hasn’t come into contact with any pineapple?” he asks again.

“For the utmost time, sir,” the shopkeeper sighs, sounding absolutely exasperated. “We don’t grow pineapple on my family’s farm, so there’s absolutely no way any of my merchandise has come into contact with any. Now, would you like to buy that?”

Isabeau grimaces, apologizes, and hands over the coin to buy the ingredients he grabbed for Bonnie. He knows he’s being a lot, but well, Siffrin told them that he was allergic to pineapple! And when m’dame Odile asked how allergic, he got that dark look in his eye that told everyone all they needed to know.

Speaking of m’dame Odile, she seems to be wrapping up whatever she’s doing at the stall adjacent to him. 

It’s exactly where he’d expect her to head, a tucked away stall that more resembles a portable library than a miniature shop. Small, easy to transport shelves lined with all books of all different sizes, conditions, and bindings fill the little tent. They appear to be sorted out by subject, pieces of paper with labels taped on the top of each shelf. It’s got a cozy feel to it, complete with a small reading nook in the corner of it with a chair that reminds Isabeau of one his grandmother owned and a small till on an end table next to it.

It looks like M’dame Odile has struck up a trade, rather than paying for whatever book she wants outright. She’s carefully holding out her own book, gripping it tightly on each corner like she suspects it might come to life and snap at her, and offers it to the bookkeeper who’s sitting in the chair.

It takes him a moment to place the book as the atlas she showed him a couple days ago, the one that gave him a gnarly headache and more questions than answers.

The bookkeeper smiles as she takes it from her, a delicate hand running across the six pointed star on the cover. The woman’s expression goes wistful, nostalgic, and it’s then that Isabeau notes that she looks a lot like Sif. Her hair is the same bone white, tied back in a long braid that’s interspersed with flowers of all different shades. She has darker skin, but the same flat nose that they do, same rounded face shape.

Oh! She must be from the island then! Just like Sif, and probably like that person he saw earlier that…that…

Who was that again? He narrows his eyes in thought, free hand coming up to his mouth. There was definitely someone earlier who he thought also looked kind of like Sif, but he can’t remember where he saw them or what they were doing. It makes sense, he guesses, with all the people around it’s easy to let a detail like that slip, but…for some reason, it’s rubbing him the wrong way.

The bookkeeper leans over to the shelf next to her, fingers dancing over the spines until she finds what she’s looking for and plucks out a new, even bigger tome. She blows a thin layer of dust off the cover and wipes it clean with her sleeve, before holding it out to Odile.

M’dame takes it from her, flipping through the pages and stopping at a few seemingly random ones to skim. Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, as she snaps it closed in a decisive motion and gives the bookkeeper a razor sharp smile.

Isabeau, being nosey and also done with the assigned task that Bonnie gave him, slips over to listen to the tail end of the interaction.

“...I hope it helps you some!” the bookkeeper cheers. “Stars, it’s been a very long time since someone’s came asking for literature about the Universe, but I’m glad I had this still hidden away. I had honestly forgotten about it until you asked.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” m’dame says, as cool as a cucumber as she tucks the book under her arm. “Still, thank you again for your time and your patience. I know from experience that that’s not an easy line of questioning.”

“Oh, don’t even fret!” the bookkeeper says, waving her off easily. “It’s worth the headache to talk about sometimes, even if I…” A sudden, startled look overcomes the woman as her sentence petters off. “I…what were we talking about?”

M’dame’s face pinches tightly, in that way that it does when she’s faced with comforting someone but has no idea how to even go about it. She hums, uncharacteristically uncertain, and taps the book in her arm twice. “I was only thanking you again for the book.”

The bookkeeper’s expression quickly shifts, moving rapidly away from her confused fear, and smoothing back into a pleasant smile. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all!” she says. “I hope it helps you out with your research!”

M’dame slowly nods, taking a step back from the bookkeeper as though her memory troubles might be contagious. She notices Isabeau a second later, head turning in his direction with a crow-like tilt. “Oh, Isabeau,” she says, then glances down to the bag in his hand, raising an eyebrow. “Find everything alright?”

“Yep!” Isabeau exclaims, popping the ‘p’ as he victoriously holds the bag up. “Everything Bonnie requested is right in here!” His eyes drift down to her new book, and he drops his boisterous air somewhat. “And you? Find everything you were looking for?”

M’dame nods, lifting up the book to show to Isabeau. ‘The Primordial Gods and the Plane Beyond’, reads the dust jacket. A small globe is pictured underneath the title, surrounded by little dots that Isabeau thinks are supposed to be stars?

Odile stows the book away again before he can get a better look at it, now choosing to stuff it away into her bag. “Best prevent the headache for now,” she says, then scowls. “Expressions only Know how tedious it's going to be to read through actual text about the Island, what, with a basic atlas being so difficult.”

That atlas sure didn’t look basic to Isabeau, but he keeps his mouth shut about it. His smarts always laid more in the math and science realm anyway, so what did he know? He turns to a different line of questioning instead.

“The Primordial Gods?” he asks, racking his brain for anything he might remember about them and coming up close to blank. This festival is definitely for the Sea God, but as for the rest of them… “Aren’t those dead Gods? They don’t have any followers, not really…right?”

M’dame Odile shakes her head, turning and starting at a brisk pace back towards Bonnie and Petronille’s house that has Isabeau stumbling to catch up. 

“That’s what I believed as well,” she tells him, “until I recalled something that the King said in our last confrontation. He spoke of the ‘power of the Universe’, if you remember?”

Isabeau has to strain for it, but he vaguely does. The King towering over them, hands outstretched in angry fists as he raved and ranted. His words had been cruel, most pointedly targeted at Siffrin even as the rest of them joined the fight. Change, he practically ignored them outright until Mira froze him in time!

However, there’s one fatal flaw in Isabeau’s recall of that moment, and that also was, of course, Sif themself. 

It had been impossible not to watch them over his shoulder, despite the literally huge threat in front of them. They had just looked so small and shrunken in on themself at that moment, skin dull and pasty, eye blown wide with one huge, dilated pupil. Shocked to see them there after snapping at all of them, but also, so heartbreakingly hopeful, like they were waking up into what could be the best dream they ever had.

Which is why Isabeau thinks he can remember their reaction to what the King was saying better than the words themselves. The way Siffrin’s jaw had worked as the King spoke, the whisper that he didn’t even seem to be cognizant enough to realize he was speaking.

‘It leads,’ Siffrin had muttered on repeat, voice so hoarse that at times they were only mouthing it. ‘It leads, it leads’.

“Vaguely?” Isabeau answers honestly. “It was the thing that was giving him the ability to do Time Craft, right? At least, that’s what he was implying.”

M’dame Odile jerks her head in a nod. “Precisely,” she says. “Though, it wasn’t technically giving him the ability to use Time Craft, only the energy required to do so.”

Isabeau scrunches his nose in confusion. “Isn't that the same thing?”

“No, not exactly,” Odile says. “In theory, everyone could do Time Craft. It's only that we don’t have access to any rituals or hand symbols that would allow us to do so. The research just isn’t there yet.”

“And, well, there’s also the fact that it would normally require enough energy to kill someone if they tried, right?”

Odile snorts, “Yes, there’s also the fact that it would normally require enough energy to kill someone if they tried.”

They’re approaching Bambouche’s House of Change now, the large sculpture of the Change God peacefully keeping an eye on everything. People are more clustered together here, forcing Isabeau to keep closer on m’dame Odile’s heels if they want to stay together. A small band has assembled on the steps of the House, a cacophony of sounds stirring together a jolly tune and accompanied by some very loud bagpipes.

He can’t slow down, and can’t catch m’dame’s attention over the noise either, so there’s no real stopping to watch the performance even if he wanted to. He gives the group a quick glance over though, and is surprised to find another person who looks like they might’ve been from the Island playing a lute.

Their fingers dance across the strings, a cheerful smile on their face. Their bright, darkless hair is cropped short, eyes sharp and alert. They wear a simple black outfit and leather boots, a spot of dark amid a sea of different shades of fabric.

Isabeau hesitates for a moment, almost tripping over someone as his steps stutter. The person glares at him, tugging her dress up as she turns away, but he can’t focus on that now. Not now that a steady strain of dread is coursing through him, an eerie foreboding that makes his heart beat faster and his fingertips go numb.

He can’t figure out where it’s coming from at first, even as his eyes drift over to the empty space on the stairs, underneath one of the Primordial God’s banners. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s seen three islanders besides Siffrin in one day? That’s not too weird though, probably, considering that Bambouche is really close to the Island…right? Is he remembering that right?

Ugh, his head is starting to ache again.

He struggles to hold onto his train of thought though, his anxiety ticking up as the seconds pass. He stumbles again, hand reaching up to clutch at his forehead. There’s a sense of pressure, one that he’s not sure is just in his head or not.

It’s then that M’dame Odile seems to notice something is amiss, stopping so abruptly that he crashes into her. He lurches back a couple steps, but she doesn’t even flinch, eyes narrowing as she gives him a once over. “Isabeau?” she asks. “Is something the matter?”

”N-no,” Isabeau stutters out, rubbing at his temples. “It’s just my head, it—“

The band cuts off suddenly, one instrument dropping at a time from the chorus, and replaced by worried shouting. Isabeau’s head snaps in their direction to find that the lute player has passed out. Their instrument clinks as it tumbles down the stairs, landing at the bottom of them with a sickening, wooden snap.

The person playing the bagpipes throws down his instrument, kneeling next to their bandmate with one finger already going to their pulse. He shoots a look down at the crowd, eyes frantic. “Does anyone know any healing craft!?”

The crowd has gone still and silent, all the celebration dying without a trace left behind. The shock and concern hangs thickly above them, only broken apart by a Housemaiden charging forward towards the steps, lifting up her dress as she bounds up them.

She kneels down next to the Islander, waving a glowing hand over them with a shape that Isabeau knows is for diagnostics. She glances up at the person who was playing the bagpipes, and they start talking to each other in a rushed whisper that seems to spread across the crowd.

”Isabeau.”

Isabeau pulls his eyes away from the scene to look at m’dame Odile, only to find she isn’t looking back at him. Her gaze is instead focused out towards the sea, towards a little chunk of land to the North that Isabeau isn’t sure he’s ever seen before? Wait a minute, is that the—?

”Something is very wrong,” Odile says, right before everything gets much worse.

A shade that Isabeau has only seen once before, one that’s not light, or dark, or anything at all, shoots up from Island to the North of Vaugarde like the tail end of a firework. It explodes with an echoing boom of thunder and spreads out through the sky above it, amid a swirl of angry, dark clouds that churn like a livid sea.

A horrible, sweet smelling pressure ripples through the air, as though it was a gust of wind passing over all of Babouche. The sounds of cracking continue, one after another, as the many faces of the Change God break open all throughout the city. Every single one, from the largest statues to the tiniest clay figurines lining the balconies, split like someone had taken a hammer and chisel to them.

The statue’s face in the fountain seems to entirely rearrange itself. Its peaceful smile has vanished, its closed eyes now open wide in an unnerving stare. Concentric circles line its pupils as it peers out into the crowd, a large crack split right through the middle of its marble head, inky liquid spilling out from the seams of its cloak.

Someone in the crowd screams, and then everyone in the crowd seems to be screaming. Isabeau sees a couple more figures drop, passing out like puppets with their strings cut. His heart gallops against his ribs, each beat a near physical pain as he glances around frantically.

He needs to help, he needs to—!

M’dame Odile yanks on his arm, jerking him back to reality. “We need to get back to the others!” she yells over the crowd. Her voice is steady, but she’s gone pale and her fingers shake around Isabeau’s wrist. “Immediately!”

The implications hit Isabeau so hard that he nearly falls backward. If this is something having to do with the Island, then…then Sif…?!

”Ri-Right!” Isabeau shouts, and then takes lead, using his bulkier form to help them muscle their way through the panicked crowd. Behind him, he can hear the Housemaiden shouting, trying to get everyone to calm down. He glances over his shoulder at her, then down at Odile who meets his stare with a grim look. “What’s happening?!”

“I believe, Isabeau,” Odile calls back, a dangerous glint in her eyes, “that we are seeing the side effects of at least a decade-long information embargo lifting!” 

Isabeau feels his heart dropping down to his feet, the feeling of dread multiplying on top of itself. He opens his mouth to curse, speak, or ask more questions he doesn’t know, but Odile cuts him off with the shake of her head.

”Less talking,” she orders, clearly already out of breath and grimacing as another person in the crowd manages to bump into her. “More running!”

❂ ✪ 𖣔 ✪ ❂

Nestled in between two large branches of the town’s Favor Tree, you yawn so hard that your jaw cracks. You blink up at the moon groggily, squinting at its hazy light while you’re still half asleep. “You know,” you call down to your sister, flipping yourself over to look at her, “when you pulled me out of bed, I thought we’d at least do something kind of exciting.”

The Artificer even doesn’t bother to respond, too focused on putting the final touches on some runes she’s etched into the earth with the tip of her finger, long, precise strokes cut into the dirt. They lean back for a brief moment, studying their work with a critical eye, and then shake their head.

“The last time I pulled us out of bed, you helped me rob the Boulangerie and we got away scot free,“ you continue from your spot above her. ”We feasted on pulla for days! Like we were Kings!”

The Artificer wipes away half of their work, mud sticking to their palm as they go back to rewriting whatever they had originally put down. You watch her as she does, your untrained eyes glossing over the repeating gibberish. You think you can see the Artificer’s labyrinth in there, a Time symbol drawn underneath another symbol made up of concentric circles, and some words in Vaugardian that are harder to make out in the little light that there is.

”It was less of me deciding to help you rob the Boulangerie, and more that you were going to do it with or without me,” the Artificer says, finally standing up and brushing the dirt off her hands with her cloak. “I am simply benevolent enough to want you to escape punishment for your actions.”

”Because you want things to blackmail me with later?”

”Exactly,” the Artificer confirms, without a hint of hesitation or regret. They tilt their head back and meet your stare, their eyes glinting in the light of the full moon. “Would you really be out here with me otherwise?”

You scoff in mock offense, sitting upright and bringing a dramatic hand to your chest as you turn up your nose. “Of course, I would!” you say. “I would be a horrible big brother if I didn’t come and make sure you didn’t get hurt doing…whatever it is you’re doing.”

You’re only half teasing, to be honest. You and your sister both have a penchant for getting into trouble, sure, but you do a lot better at getting out of it. You have a quick hand, a faster tongue, and enough common sense to not go messing with the wills of the Universe that you don’t understand; all of which your sister lacks in spades.

The Artificer raises an eyebrow in response, a minute twitch to their expression before they look away from you again.

You roll your eyes, noiselessly hopping down from your spot in the tree and landing next to the Artificer. You crouch down, examining the etchings, and find they still don’t make any more sense to you now that you can read them more clearly.

“So, are you finally going to explain to me what you’ve got planned here?” you ask. “Also,” you reach out to tap one of the Vaguardian words, “when did you find time to start learning a new-?”

The Artificer pushes you over before you get the chance to realize what’s going on and brace yourself. You fall onto your side in the dirt with a wet squelch, mud splashing on your cheek and earth staining your white cloak a variety of different shades. You feel like time is lagging when you look up to find them glaring at you, lowering their arm.

”Don’t touch that please,” they say, voice neutral and tone overly polite, which is how you know you’ve really gotten on their nerves. You grin, latching onto the weakness like a shark who’s caught the scent of blood.

”Ooooh, am I going to mess up your nerdy equations?” you ask. “What kind of weird Craft experiment do you have in mind this time anyway?” 

You wait until they’ve opened their mouth to respond to you, with the clear, earnest intent of answering your question, before striking.

You grab their wrist and pull, and they shriek, tumbling down into the dirt with you. Their longer, matted hair gets caked with mud as she lands flat on her back, and as she sits up it drips from the ends of it like water droplets. She blinks at you in surprise, face frozen and mouth parted open, and you cheekily smile right back.

”…Got something on your face,” you say eventually, reaching out with a wet, dirty hand. You cup her cheek in your palm, gently for a moment, before smearing more mud across her face with your thumb.

They grimace, batting away at your hand. “You’re evil,” she tells you, looking down at her dirty cloak. Her frown deepens, and they lift up their mostly clean collar to wipe their cheek.

You grin. ”Just playing my part,” you say, then turn more serious as you look back over to the etchings, miraculously untouched from your rough housing. ”So really, what are you planning on doing here?”

The Artificer follows your gaze, their back straightening. You can see the way they retreat into their own head, maybe to think of the easiest way to explain the theory behind what they’re doing to you, but more likely to check their own work before they do. They move their eyes to you, fixing you with one of their usual intense stares.

It might be unnerving to anyone else, the way they hone in on you with their full attention and intent. You used to get in fights with kids twice your size for calling her creepy, and you’ve overheard conversations between your parents and other adults about it too. She Knows things way more easily than any other kids your age, even other favored kids, and, for reasons you’re sure people don’t really want to reflect on, that makes her threatening. 

You’ve been on the other end of this look enough times though, that it has become something of a comfort. You know their tells for when they ‘commune with the Universe’ or whatever, and this fully present, fully aware look isn’t one of them.

Honestly, it's something of a relief, to have someone out there that sees you clearly. That is willing to give you their undivided attention without having to work for it.

”What is a God?” she asks abruptly, knocking you out of your sappy musings.

You blink and tilt your head, your face scrunching up in confusion. “Is that a trick question?” you say, answering her question with one of your own. 

You don’t think she’d tease you, especially when it comes to explaining the work she’s obviously put so much time into, but. Well. You did just ruin her cloak. Some vengeance would be justified.

She shakes her head though, harsh enough that mud flies off of her darkless curls. “No, it’s the underlying basis of this work,” she says, so direct and technical that the words almost sound cryptic. “No powerful Craft works without the help of a God, so first we must isolate it as a variable and define what a God is.”

Wow, this is already starting to go over your head. Still, you should probably do your best to at least try to follow along.

“Welllll,” you say, stretching out the word until you can get the rest of the sentence together. “A God is a divine being that was born from the Universe, to have domain over its basic elements.” You lift up a hand, and start ticking each one off on your fingers. “Earth, Sea, and Sky… Space, Moon, and Constellations. Fate, Memory, and…Time, right? Nine in total.”

The Artificer nods. “Correct,” they say, and you feel a bit of pride well up in you for knowing. “However, those are the Primordial Gods. I’m more referring the other Gods, the man made ones.”

Your nose scrunches in distaste. “You mean the false ones?”

They give you a bland look, efficiently chiding you without even saying a word. “Haven’t even left the island, and yet you’re committing blasphemy so easily? There are places on this Earth where you would be tried and executed for saying such a thing.”

”Hey, it’s not my fault that they worship false Gods,” you scoff. “Don’t you think they should get with the program and start prioritizing worshipping the thing that, you know, actually made them?”

”It’s not that simple,” your sister says, offense creeping into her dull tone on behalf of all these cultures that you’re apparently disrespecting. “Gods are created by the people, by their values. They are of the Universe in the same way you and I are, but in a way they are even closer to its domain. They might not feel as we do, might not breathe the air as we do, or even exist on this plane, but that doesn’t mean they are false .”

“So what are they then?”

The Artificer’s eyes shine, a dangerous glint appearing in them. “Batteries. Hundreds to thousands of years of Craft energy stored in a divine form.”

You can only stare at them, dumbstruck. “Who’s being blasphemous now?”

They scoff, lips ticking up in a thin smile. “It isn’t blasphemy, simply the truth,” they say. “In the same way we are flesh and blood, they are faith and power.”

“But is ‘batteries’ ,” you start, putting the word in air quotes, “really the best word choice there?”

“It’s probably the easiest and most digestible summary of their purpose,” your sister says. “They are the faith of generations of people, Crafted into shape by hope and belief. Perhaps they started as some small thought, some simple concept where a Primordial God could not fill the role a civilization needed.”

The Artificer stands up again, nose wrinkling at her dirty cloak. They gather the fabric from up between their hands and begin to wring it out as they continue speaking. “As beings made of Craft, these Gods can enhance the power of their followers Craft and allow them to create things they wouldn’t be able to make on their own…blessings, curses, and the like.”

“Wishes?”

The Artificer hums and looks up at the stars. You follow her gaze, tilting your head back just in time to see a shooting star blaze past.

“No,” the Artificer says, their sharp stare snapping back down to you after a considerable pause. “I believe the Universe would be the only God capable of generating enough energy to assist in crafting a wish, or at the very least, crafting an effective one. There’s strong evidence that a powerful wish can warp reality due to the Universe’s influence over other Primordial Gods’ domains. After all, by governing all these laws of nature, it holds the entire world’s faith even without the need to be worshipped or believed in.”

Ok, that’s way too much technical jargon. You raise your hand, like a child in a classroom, and the gleam in your sister’s eyes softens with fondness.

“Yes?” she asks. “Question from the class?”

“Yeah, uh, was just wondering if you could explain that less like you're talking to a practicing Craftonomist and more like you’re talking to a stupid baby?”

“You’re not a stupid baby,” the Artificer says sternly, “you’re following along and asking better questions than most people would be in your position. This is very advanced theological theory, overlapped with newly developing Craftonomy, which you have proven to have no interest in studying.”

You frown, bringing a hand to your chest in mock hurt. “Hey. Now that’s just rude.”

”Again, it’s only the truth,” they say. “Your interest lies in other fields of study, of written word and language, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” 

No matter what others may tell you, she doesn’t add, but the words hang in the air all the same.

You feel your cheeks heat up, embarrassed both at the idea of your insecurities being so plainly seen and the fact that someone as oblivious and deadpan as your sister is reassuring you. You clear your throat, tucking your chin into your cloak and letting your eyes drift back the writings in the dirt.

”Just…” you stumble over the word, tongue gone clumsy in your mouth. “Just…explain what we’re doing here. Please?”

You feel the Artificer’s eyes boring holes into you, like with their stare alone they can dig the thoughts out of your head. Eventually, you hear them sigh as they walk over to stand in front of their work, their tiny shoes appearing in the corner of your vision.

”If a man made God is a battery…” the Artificer starts, words hesitant as she thinks them over. 

You finally look up, study their face as it scrunches up in thought. She stares somewhere out into the middle distance, like she’s trying to read cue cards that are slightly out of range. They’ve never been quite as good at metaphor as you, so it’s kind of endearing to see her trying this hard.

“If a man made God is a battery,” she repeats, more confidently, “charged by the belief of its followers, only to later use that power to fuel their followers’ Craft, thus ensuring that their followers continue to worship them, then that is a closed circuit, yes? A natural cycle that benefits both the Gods and those who worship them.”

“Yes?” you say, unsure of where they’re going with this. There’s a pit forming in your stomach though, a tiny knot of dread that you don’t know the origin of, and it’s making you slightly nauseous.

“But what if you’re trying to perform a Craft that affects a domain of a Primordial God? A Craft that a person normally would never have the energy to do, and can’t be fueled by a minor deity’s blessing alone?”

“Then you…can’t?” you say, but it comes out as more of a question than a certainty. “Primordial Gods can’t give blessings, can they?”

“No,” the Artificer confirms with a shake of her head. “Perhaps there are rituals that would allow us to draw from them in the same way we borrow Wish Craft from the Universe, but any theory on the subject is faulty and full of assumptions at best and riddled with holes at its worst.”

“Ok, so that’s a case closed then,” is what you say. But you think you’re starting to see where this is going, and you already know off the bat that whatever your sister’s planning here is a verifiable Bad Idea.

Sure enough, the light in the Artificer’s eyes goes sharp as they look down at their writings and you can see their fingers twitch underneath their cloak. “Maybe not,” they say. 

She drops down to her knees, palms splayed on either side of their work. “We’re eons away from finding the correct rituals, but perhaps we can jump start the process by working our way up the chain.”

As their eyes move back up to you, you find yourself flinching. There’s an intensity to her gaze there that only pops up when she’s about to do something really dumb and doesn’t realize it, an excitement that bubbles behind her words despite the even monotone she’s always speaks in.

“If we continue our circuit analogy, imagine that the circuit between a Primordial God and an Artificer is always open,” she explains, almost breathlessly. “However, by introducing the power of a minor deity, I believe that circuit can be closed and the minor deity’s power will function as essentially a ‘switch’ that grants the Artificer enough energy to perform Craft that’s never been done on this physical plane.”

“Hey…this is starting to sound—“

”Think about it,” the Artificer says, cutting you off as though she hadn’t heard you speak in the first place. Honestly, with how laser focused they are, that might not be too far off. 

They stand again and cross over to where you’re sitting in the mud in brisk steps, holding out a hand to help you up with a distant look in their eye. “If we could influence Time, we could exponentially increase our crop output or slow down the course of diseases in someone’s body. If we could control the cycles of the Moon, we could most likely harass more lunar energy than we could ever use. Sea travel could be—“

You grab the Artificer’s hand, pulling on them harshly. Not harsh enough to pull them down with you, but enough to tug them out of their little speech. They snap back into awareness, blinking at you as though they’re trying to clear stars out of their vision. The air smells vaguely sweet, burning sugar stark and vile on your tongue.

”Hey,” you say again, leveling her with a serious look. “Slow. Down.” You take a deep breath, innnn and ouuuut. 

It takes a couple tries before they can manage to follow your lead. Their shaky, frantic breaths rattling around their throat. They stare down at you, the glint in their eyes dissipating and dimming down into more of their natural, muted curiosity.

“Shouldn’t you be talking to the Astroreverand about this first?” you ask.

The hand in yours tightens its grip as their eyes dart down to their feet, doing a great job of conveying guilt without moving a muscle in their face. The realization hits you abruptly.

“Oh stars,” you hear yourself curse faintly. “You already asked, didn't you? And they vetoed your research? That’s why we’re out here in the middle of the night, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the Artificer answers honestly, without any hesitation. “They said any truly physical application might prove too dangerous to put into practice, and that some theories best remain just that.”

The air seems to still, even as the forest encircling you rustles in an unfelt wind. There’s a slight pressure in the atmosphere, barely noticeable but present enough to recognize. The Universe stares at you through your sister’s eyes, an unnatural glint of moonlight sliding across her face through the gaps of leaves in the favor tree. You sharply inhale as their grip on your hand tightens like a vice. 

”This…I need to do this though,” they say after a moment. “I don’t know why yet, but…“

”The Universe leads?” you ask. The first half of the mantra tastes bitter, sounds cruel even to your own ears, a stark contrast to the lingering sweet air that hangs heavy above you.

The Artificer nods, relief clear in the loosening of their posture. “We can only follow,” she finishes, then, after another moment of thought, “ I can only follow.”

You sigh and pull yourself up with their help, feet squelching in the mud below you. You pull a face at that sound and wipe the dirt off on your hands and onto the front of your cloak, leaving splotches of stains the same color as ink. “Alright,” you huff, hands going to your hips. “Fine. If you haveeeee to do this, I’ll cover for you.”

The Artificer’s mouth jerks into a smile, “Thank yo-“

”BUT,” you interrupt, throwing your hand up to point at them dramatically, finger inches away from their face. “When you get grounded for eternity, don’t come crying to me about it.”

“I can’t get grounded for eternity,” she says, going cross eyed to look at your finger. “I’m going to be an adult at some point, and you can’t ground an adult.”

You don’t grace that with a verbal response, instead poking the tip of her nose with your finger just to watch her grimace. You’d feel bad, but honestly it's your right as a sibling to do so. Especially when she’s dragging you out here to do something this dangerous.

”So!” you say, clapping your hands together with a little flourish before nodding towards the equation in the dirt. “What stupid, reckless thing do you think the Universe is trying to get you to do here?”

The Artificer follows your nod, turning to the equation and in the same movement producing a small ball out of their pocket to present to you. “I’m using that,” they say, jerking their head towards the writings, “to freeze this ball in time for three seconds.”

You jerk your head to stare at them, rendered momentarily mute by the absurdity of the statement. “Excuse me?” you ask, your voice a little shrill. “You’re going straight into doing Time Craft ??”

Your sister nods, as if attempting a craft was commonly theorized to be deadly after even a second of usage was a completely normal thing to do.

You throw your hands up from underneath your cloak, spinning dramatically away from her as you toss your head back to the sky. You lose mouth to mind connection, and just start incoherently trying to put together a sentence that is both full of swears and common sense.

“Stars, this is ridiculous—I mean, you’re going to wind up blinding dead! You know that, right? You have to know—and, and, Time Craft! Is that—The Universe isn’t supposed to just—I mean, Time Craft! Are you joking?”

You turn back to her, and she returns your gaze evenly. Clearly not joking then. She tosses the ball into the air, and it lands back in her hand with a definitive thunk that causes you to wince.

”…Alright,” you say, lowering your hands to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Alright, but you're not holding it for three seconds. One second, that’s it.”

”Two.”

You glare at them from between your fingers. “One.”

”…One and a half?”

” One second,” you repeat firmly. “I’m not budging.”

Your sister shuffles her feet, which is the closest she’ll ever get to pouting, but seems to accept the condition after that. They toss the ball up again, and your eyes trace the path of it up into the air and then back into the palm, cold anticipation bleeds into you like it’s being pumped in through an IV.

“Ready?” the Artificer asks, knowing fully well you aren’t.

You nod anyway, involuntarily tensing, bracing yourself. The air seems to follow your lead, pressure so heavy that it feels like an actual weight has been pressed against your skull. The Universe holds its breath around you, sucking up all the oxygen and hoarding it for itself, leaving your chest rising and falling quickly in shallow breaths.

The Artificer tosses the ball up and it stops in mid air, freezing in place with a lightless glow that seems to radiate out from it. There’s a faint buzzing sound emitting from it, the humming of a pressure that seems to pour forth from the craft itself.

Your heart’s already dropping to your feet from the unnatural sight, the feeling of wrongness near palpable. Then, you hear a sudden crack, like a twig snapping or a bone breaking, and in a flash of light, you see the Artificer hit the ground like she’s been struck.

The ball falls at the same moment, already back to normal, and bounces along the ground like nothing had stopped it in the first place. It gently rolls to a stop next to the equation scrawled into the dirt, which has somehow burst into flames, each etched out line of text and symbol lighting up like they had been traced in gasoline.

”Asteria!” you shout your sister’s name, already running towards her without any conscious input from the rest of your brain. You slide through the mud on your knees, earth squelching beneath you.

She’s laying on the ground on her side, facing away from you, and after a moment of hesitant deliberation, you grab her shoulder with shaking hands, gently turning her toward you so you can look at her face.

Their skin has gone pale, paler than their hair even, and they’re still as a corpse. They’re breathing at least, stars, but it’s shallow and quick, their eyes fluttering open and closed. Her veins are stark against her skin as inky, lightless blood leaks from her nose, the metallic liquid glinting in the light of the fire.

The flaming equation wavers, popping and crackling as it quickly dies down from a roar to a smolder. The pressure leaves with it, sends the world plunging back into a dark stillness, the forest unnaturally and eerily silent. You glance over at the writings to see that the symbol of concentric circles has cracked, right down the middle, a jagged line cutting through the earth and leaving behind a giant crater.

Asteria gasps like they’re surfacing for air, eyes flying open. 

Immediately, all your attention is focused back on her, reaching for their hand to pull it to your chest. Their eyes dart around, gaze unfocused, and take a deep, stuttering breath at the same time you try to take a calm and measured one.

”That’s right,” you say, attempting to keep your tone soothing despite the way your voice shakes. “Just breath, Aster. In…and out…”

In that awful stillness, seconds feel like hours as your breathing falls into sync. Asteria stares at you, almost confused, then lets their gaze drift up to stars. 

The moonlight makes her look like a dream you haven’t quite woken up from. All their shadows are fuzzy, the edges between them and the air seem to smudge and blur together. They take a stuttering inhale, blood sluggishly trickling down the side of her face in a thin, viscous line.

“Did it…” they start roughly, bracing themself to sit up only to have to stop again, interrupted by a nasty coughing fit that racks through their small frame.

“Shusssh, shush, shush,” you hush, squeezing her hand tightly in one of yours and using the other to prevent her from trying to get up again. “Just…It’s going to be ok, but…but, you need to—stay down for right now, ok?”

Asteria shakes her head though, eyes squeezing shut. They swallow thickly, lick their lips, and try again. “Did it…work?” they croak.

You can only stare at her, dumbfounded. You can feel the anxiety and dread that filled you transforming into something else, a new emotion, a new energy, and are surprised to find that you’re getting mad. “That…That doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter whether it worked or not!” you snap, trying not to shake her in case you make something worse. “Aster, you could’ve…you could’ve died! I thought you were going to die! I should’ve never let you —UGH !”

You fling yourself to your feet, taking a couple steps away as you grab onto your hair and tug. “So stupid, I’m so…” you start to mutter, before the sound of your sister moving behind you sends you spinning back toward them.

They grunt as they shove their elbow in the dirt and push themself upright, panting with the exertion of such a simple movement. As they move, you can see a dribble of diluted blood slip down from their eye, mixed with the remains of a tear. They stare at you, all doe eyed and confused, which only serves to make you angrier.

“Promise you won’t do that again,” you demand, sternly pointing at them.

“Wha-?” Asteria starts, trying to tilt their head. They’re clearly unsteady though, and the little movement threatens to send them right back into the dirt, wincing and gripping their head with a free hand. “I-”

“Promise!” you shout, unrelenting as you take a step towards them.

Their eyes manage to find their equation, the dim light of leftover embers flickering out. They blink at it, seeming to hone their attention on the cracked circles. You don’t know what it could mean, but whatever they see there seems to startle them as their voice shakes when they speak again. 

“I promise,” they tell you, the gears of their thoughts almost audible. The dangerous glint in their eye is back, replacing that distant confusion with an intrinsic Knowledge. “I won’t be trying that again any time soon.”

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

(You obtained a MEMORY OF ASTERIA)

(Asteria, unnerving and stubborn. This is how you remember them.)

Chapter Text

Bonnie is whisking pancake batter in the kitchen, loudly recounting their trip back to Bambouche as their sister smiles and nods in all the right places, when the world starts to go all apop-co-lip-tic again.

There’s a series of loud cracking sounds from outside, and a sudden light pours into the room from the room that’s not light, dark, or any shade in between. It reflects violently off all the metallic surfaces of the room, and brushes across Nille’s face like a slathering of paint. Someone screams, followed by lots of frantic shouting. The smell of sweet tinged salt floods the room, more overpowering than any of the food they were making.

Nille blinks at the window in a daze, her hands hovering over a pot of boiling water where she was pushing some vegetables in from the cutting board. “What the crab…?” she mutters, the veggies falling into the pot with a soft ‘plunk plunk plunk’.

Bonnie knows this song and dance though, and feels a bigger surge of annoyance than they do of fear. ”Not again!” they shout, glaring out the window as the light fades. “I just got home! I was making pancakes!”

Nille looks over at them in surprise. “Bonnie, you’ve seen somethin’ like this before?” she asks, but they’ve already set their bowl down and are marching out of the room. “Wa-Wait! Bonnie!!” They hear her scrambling to douse the fire, pot moving off the stove.

“Frin!!” they yell, storming into the living room. “Are you trying to blow the world up again? I thought we told you that you didn’t hafta be scared of getting stuck in a time loop anymore!”

Belle and Frin both look up from the couch where they’re sitting, Belle hurriedly wiping away at her nose with her gloves. “Bo-Bonnie!!” she says, throwing a concerned look over to them and Nille’s Change God statues. “Is everything ok?”

Bonnie crosses their arms, gesturing with their head towards the window. “No!” they say. “There’s that weird shade outside, the one that Frin made when they were sick and hungry.” They glare at Frin, huffing. “If you’re hungry, I can just give you a snack! We have plenty in the fridge.”

“I…” Frin curls into themself, bringing their knees up to their chest on the couch as they glance out the window. Their eye goes wide, and they shake their head a few times. “I-I’m not doing anything though?”

Bonnie rolls their eyes. “Yeah, ok,” they say. “Last time I checked, you were the only one I’ve ever met who can do all that weird headachey stuff.” They reach out, clumsily patting Frin’s knee in what’s meant to be a comforting gesture. “It’s ok if you’re not trying to do it on purpose, but let’s figure out what’s going on, alright?”

Frin just stares at them, lost and confused, while Belle stands up off the couch and moves over to the window. She brushes back the curtain, looking outward. “Oh Change,” she says, hand coming up to cover her mouth.

Nille comes into the room next, looking harried. “What’s going on?” she asks Mirabelle, walking over to meet her at the window as she runs a stressed hand through her hair. “Bonnie said this happened before?”

Before Mirabelle gets the chance to answer, the front door slams open to reveal Za and Dile, who are nearly tripping over each other to get inside. “Sif!” Za shouts, looking strangely relieved. “You’re awake!”

Frin looks at him weird, lifting up an eyebrow. “Yes?” he says. “I am?”

Dile marches toward Frin, stopping directly in front of them. She reaches out and places a hand on their forehead, face pinched up tight like she sucked on a lemon. She leaves it there for a long second while Frin simply blinks up at her, then clicks her tonuge. She grabs each side of his head, twisting it this way and that as she inspects them, ignoring the way the squeak in her hold, their own hands jerking up to cover hers.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asks. “Any headaches? Unusual drowsiness? Fever?”

“Uhhh,” Frin responds, wide eyed.

“Does Frin need a nap?” Bonnie asks, frowning as they look up at Dile. “Is that why the weird shade is outside again? He can use my bed if he needs to!”

“No!” Dile snaps quickly before reigning herself in, blinking down at Bonnie. “I-I mean. Sorry, no, they do not need a nap. If anything, we need to make sure they stay awake.” She turns to Frin. “Do you understand that Siffrin? Until we understand what’s going on, under no circumstances can you fall asleep.”

Frin squints at her, but gives a hesitant thumbs up in response anyway.

“What’s happenin’ out there?” Nille asks. “I heard a lotta yelling after that weird shade appeared. Is it something dangerous? Do we need to evacuate?”

Bonnie winces, remembering the last time they needed to evacuate when the King started freezing everyone in time. Nille had tried to put on a brave face for them, but they knew she was scared, just like all the other adults in the city. Grim faced parents shuffling their kids out of their homes, people taking boats and sailing away, or walking through the gates with only the clothes on their backs and not much else.

“I don’t think evacuating will help this time,” Dile says. “It appears as though…” she regards Frin carefully, clearly thinking over her words, “... certain residents of Vaguarde are passing out all throughout the city. That is primarily what all the shouting has been about, it appears as though emergency services are trying to tackle the problem as efficiently as they can.”

“Certain residents?” Belle asks, letting the curtain drop. “Are they travelers like Siffrin?”

Dile shoots Belle a warning look, before trying to cover it up and make her face neutral again. She sighs, “Something like that, yes.”

Za slips over next to Frin, tucking into himself so he looks far smaller than he actually is. “Sure you’re alright buddy?” Bonnie hears him whisper.

Frin pauses, honestly looking a little frightened by the way everyone’s looking at them, but slowly nods anyway.

“Boniface,” Dile says, catching their attention, though when they look up at her, they find she’s focused on Frin. “Will you keep an eye on Siffrin momentarily? Isabeau and I need to catch Mirabelle and Petronille up quickly on somethings that might be relevant to what’s happening outside.”

“What?!” Bonnie shouts, curling their hands into tiny fists at their sides. “I wanna know what’s going on too!”

“Bonbon,” Za says, frowning at them. “I know, and we’ll tell you as soon as we know what’s going on, but right now, this is a grown up conversation.”

“Why’s Frin not going to talk with you too then?” Bonnie points out, gesturing towards Frin as he squirms on the couch. “They’re an adult too!”

Za winces, covering his mouth up with his knuckles. “Well…” he says. “That’s because—“

“Is this about the Island?” Frin asks suddenly, voice barely anything more than a whisper.

Every head in the room swivels toward them, and they flinch, pulling their knees even closer to their chest as their eye ping pongs around the room. Bonnie notes the way their hands shake. “Is it?” he repeats.

“Yes,” Dile says, after a moment of really tense silence. “It is. How long have you known…?”

Frin shakes their head. “It comes and goes,” they say. “It’s like…it’s supposed to be there, but something keeps on taking away? O-or, like it’s not supposed to be there and something’s giving it back. I…uh, realized it during the loops, there was a diary in the library and…” They glare out into the middle distance, grimacing and putting a hand to their temple. “Isabeau said it was like trying to remember your first steps, and I think that’s pretty close, but…something just happened, didn’t it?”

Dile takes a deep breath, then clears her throat, eyes trailing down to her feet. “Yes,” she confirms. “It appears as though whatever Craft was used to hide it from view has unraveled, at least somewhat. Isabeau and I were both able to recognize it, though I still can’t recall its name. Can any of you?”

Everyone looks at each other and then shakes their heads.

“That Island disappeared from public consciousness like a decade ago though,” Nille says consideringly, putting her hands on her hips. “Why’s it coming back all of a sudden?”

“Is it because we defeated the King maybe?” Belle asks, looking toward Frin. “He was from there too, wasn’t he?”

Frin frowns. “Yeah,” they say, voice fragile. “He was.”

Za puts a hand on Frin’s shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly and graciously ignoring the little wince they give before leaning into the touch. “But the King’s frozen, right? There’s no way he could have anything to do with this.”

“Perhaps,” Dile says, “but I also think we shouldn’t be too hasty to eliminate potentials.”

“Well, whatever happened,” Mirabelle says, clasping her hands together and nodding towards the door, “it did something really weird to the Change God statues, just like at the House in Dormont.”

Bonnie angles their head, tilting to try to figure out what Belle is talking about, and feels their stomach drop when the many eyes of the face they carved look back.

Each one is narrow and accusing, dozens of pupils glaring out at their little group. As attention is drawn to it, its head cracks, sharp edges breaking into the rounded clay of its cloak as the face leans forward, studying all of them.

“Uhhh.” Bonnie points at the statue and then looks up at Dile. “Is it just me, or did anyone else see that just move?”

Frin whimpers, tucking their face into their cloak and covering their eyes, their body wracked with shivers. It’s then that Bonnie suddenly remembers that they’re really afraid of ghosts and spooky stuff. 

He’s never admitted it, but Bonnie’s smart, they’ve noticed how he’s opted out of talking to Mirabelle about her horror books everytime and would practically run away from camp if someone tried to tell scary stories over the fire.

A bubble of anger climbs its way up Bonnie’s throat. Change, Frin just keeps getting the short end of the stick, don’t they? Well, Bonnie’s been brave for them before and it helped fix things, so they’ll just have to do it again.

They sit next to Frin on the couch, putting their hand back on their knee. “It’s ok Frin,” they say, determination and frustration keeping their voice steady. “We won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Frin doesn’t look up.

Za smiles at them though, soft and encouraging. “Bonbon’s right, Sif,” he says, squeezing their shoulder again. “We’ll keep you safe.”

Dile steps closer to Nille’s Change God statue, its stare just as harsh as it looks back at her. She leans in towards it, reaching out and tapping the clay with her knuckles.

“It’s cracked, but not as bad as the one’s in Dormont were,” she notes. “Those ones had their features entirely demolished, but these just appeared warped.”

“Well, the King was trying to stop anything from Changing ever again,” Za says, “so could the way they break be symbolic? It’s not like we’ve seen anything freezing in time yet, right?”

“Haha…” Mirabelle laughs weakly, before wincing. “Please don’t say ‘yet’,” she says, “I don't even want to think about a ‘yet’.”

“No, no,” Dile says, “I believe Isabeau might be onto something here. The way this Craft feels is different from the pressure the King exuded. Whatever’s lifting the information embargo on the Island might be using similar methods to the King, but I don’t think it’s fooling around with time to do so.”

“So what is it fooling around with?” Nille asks.

Dile opens her mouth, then snaps it shut again, brows furrowing tightly together as she thinks. She turns her back to Nille’s Change God statue, which cracks further in response.

“Maybe it’s messing with memory?” Za throws out. “It could be that—“

He keeps talking, but Bonnie is no longer listening. They think they spot it first, the way that the Change God statue’s face ripples and wipes itself clean like someone dusting off a chalkboard. Five small points of pressure appear in the place, a grey hand pushing itself through the statues blank features, reaching for Dile.

“Hey!” they shout at it, interrupting whatever Za is saying. “Stop that!”

Dile blinks at them, then turns around to see what they’re looking at and leaps back when she notices the hand, letting out an uncharacteristic shriek. “What in the seven hells—?”

The fingers flex, the wrist twisting. The eyes of Bonnie’s statue rumble as they all turn towards Frin, the clay cracking like burning bread.

“Found you…found you…you, ” a soft, echoey voice says, seemingly coming from everywhere. “Sorry…sorry…sorry. Don’t want to hurt you…to hurt you…hurt you...”

Next to Bonnie, Frin slumps. They feel their tension ease as their head falls further into their cloak, hands dropping to reveal that their eye has slipped shut.

The hand beckons towards them, like it’s trying to lure him closer. “I won’t let you leave…won’t let you leave…let you leave…”

“Sif?!” Za cries, shaking their shoulder. “Whoooa, hey! Come on, can’t fall asleep now!”

“Frin!” Bonnie shouts, standing up on the plush cushions of the couch. They grab Frin’s other shoulder and lean right in close to their face, stark panic rushing through their veins. “Frin! Stay awake!”

Frin makes a grumbly noise, slowly opening his eye into a narrow slit. He tilts his head at Bonnie, eyebrows pinched together, looking confused in a way that reminds Bonnie of the time they got hit in the head with a baseball at school and got a con-cuss-ion. They hadn’t been able to think straight for hours afterwards, thoughts going all garbled in their brain.

“Frin?” they call out to him again, more hesitantly this time. “Are you ok?”

Frin shakes their head once, and then again, as if trying to clear it. They stare at Bonnie, eye falling in and out of focus like they’re struggling to see them correctly. They’re looking progressively sicker, like they’re about to puke. “I’m…I’m sorry, but…” he says, words slurring together. “What’s…your name again?”

Bonnie’s whole body goes cold, like someone just threw a bucket of ice water over top of them. Their eyes bug out, grip loosening on Frin’s shoulder. “Wha—?”

There’s another loud crack, and everyone’s attention swivels to the Change God statues. The hand that had been aimless grasping at air clutches itself into a fist, before violently yanking itself back into the statue’s face, ripples spreading out in some concentric circles from the center of its now completely blank features.

Frin lets out an airy breath, before their eye closes and their head falls forward, entirely asleep.

The room is deathly quiet, everyone glancing around with differing amounts of shock. Bonnie just stares at Frin, feeling tears welling up behind their eyes as their breath hitches in their throat.

He…forgot Bonnie’s name? Bonnie knew they had a bad memory, sure, but they were best friends. Weird headachey stuff couldn’t take that away, could it?

Dile shakes her head, launching herself into action again. “Isabeau,” she says, voice strained. “We have to get them to the House, that’s where they were taking all the other Islanders. Perhaps they’ll know something that we don’t.”

Za snaps his jaw shut from where it had been hanging open, smacking himself on both cheeks in an attempt to focus. “Right,” he says, moving around the couch and reaching towards Frin.

“Be…be careful with them, ok?” Bonnie says, the words coming out as shaky as they feel. “I think they’re sick, so you can’t drop them. That might make it worse.”

Za smiles at them tightly. “I won’t Bonbon,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

He picks Frin up off the couch, and their head rolls backwards from where he cradles their neck, whole body limp in his arms. They don't look quite as bad as they did when they lost their eye, but it's a close comparison. Their skin is pale, sweat dripping down their brow in glistening little lines, however, their breath stays even and expression just slightly troubled, like they’re having some sort of nightmare they can’t wake up from.

When they get outside, the streets are flooded with a lot of people, who are not partying so much any more as they are panicking. There are Defenders everywhere, trying to get things in order, but there’s just too many people for that to be quick or easy. The sounds of music and cheering are gone, replaced by the staticy voices of Defenders giving directions through microphones and hushed, unsettled whispers as people let themselves be herded around.

They pass by a group gathered at the edge of the docks, staring out at the island to the North like frozen statues, their faces painted in the glow of that weird shade. The island itself looks intimidating, swirls of dark clouds whirling around it like whip cream on a cupcake, if whip cream could be scary. Bonnie shivers at the sight of it.

It’s lucky they don’t live too far from the House, otherwise getting Frin help might be a lot harder. Za takes full advantage of his bulk to get them there, parting the crowd with determined and heavy steps as everyone else trails behind.

Nille holds onto Bonnie’s hand so tight it almost hurts so they don’t get lost in the throng of dazed party goers. They let themself be led, too short to see entirely where they’re going through all the people, until they reach the bottom of the stairs to the House.

There’s a broken instrument splayed out on the tiled mosaic, laying down sad and forgotten. Its metal strings curl up like long, scary fingers, and the gentle sea wind brushing against them makes them look like they’re gesturing for Bonnie to come over, the same way the hand in the Change God statue did. The wood looks surreal and angry, soaked in the unnatural shade and violently splintered in all directions.

Nille pulls them up a step before they can take more than a second to look at it, and they hurry along to follow, their boots making a proper ruckus as they climb up toward the House. There are other groups posted along the concrete steps, all in different stages of miserable waiting. Some have their heads in their hands, hunched over themselves, while others pace the lengths of the steps, back and forth, restless. 

It almost seems like the Housemaidens are prepared for their arrival, as one comes out to greet the whole party, her face stern and composed. She takes one look at Frin in Za’s arms and heaves out a great big sigh, before leaning back into the door and yelling something that Bonnie can’t entirely make out. It sounds like ‘something something stretcher’ though, which is probably not a good thing.

“So,” she says, addressing them as she comes fully back out. “Another one, eh?” She gives Frin a critical once over, walking right up into Za’s space. Bonnie notices Za tighten his grip, pulling Frin closer to his chest, and the Housemaiden does too if the raised eyebrow says anything. “Mind if I run a diagnostic Craft real quick?”

Za seems to realize real quick that he’s being unreasonable, cheeks heating up as he gently holds Siffrin out to her. “Please,” he says, more softly than Bonnie’s ever heard him.

The Housemaiden gives a curt nod, before reaching out with glowing palms. She runs them over Siffrin’s body, pausing over their head and their heart, before pulling away and tutting. “Same symptoms…” she mutters, bringing up her hand to bite her fingernails like Belle does, her expression dark. “How long have they been out?”

”Fifteen minutes at most,” Dile answers when no one else does. She looks fine, Bonnie notes, her eyes sharp and voice steady. However, when their eyes drift down to her hands, they find them shaking.

The Housemaiden nods again. “Well,” she says, then pauses, chewing on her words. “As of this moment, I can’t give you a proper diagnosis, nor any concrete treatment plans. We’ll take them from here, however,” she says, gesturing to the two Housemaidens coming out the door with the stretcher. 

“We’ll be keeping an eye on their vitals, and send updates along with any changes,” she continues. “We don’t have any extra space in the House right now to accommodate you, but you’re welcome to wait on the steps in the interim.”

Bonnie’s heart kick starts in their chest, watching as Za hesitates to put Siffrin down. Their eyes flicker over every adults face; Dile’s cold, closed off expression, Belle’s nervous jitters and bitten nails, Za’s fear and sadness stark across his face, and finally up at their sister, who looks uncertain and warily at the Housemaiden. Nobody’s gonna just…let them take Frin away, are they?

”Alright,” Dile agrees, after a long pause, stepping forward to give Za a pointed nudge. He looks at her, almost surprised, and then resigned, taking a big, deep breath before lowering Frin onto the stretcher.

“Wait…what?!” Bonnie shouts, jerking their hand out of their sister’s in order to run up beside the stretcher. They look up at Dile, horrified and angry. “We can’t just let them take him! He’ll be scared if he wakes up without at least one of us there!”

Belle makes a stifled, heartbroken sound, reaching up to hide her face as Bonnie turns to her. Za puts a hand on their shoulder, crouching down next to them and turning them towards him so they’re eye to eye.

“Bonbon,” he says gravely, in his defender voice so Bonnie knows he’s really serious. “These Housemaidens can help Sif better than we can right now, it’s…” He bites his lip, weighing the words. “It’s like how it was with their eye, remember? We had to leave them with the Housemaidens then too.”

”Yeah, but this is different!” Bonnie argues, pointing at Frin who is still dozing through all their shouting. “They’re not injured! They’re just sleeping! And—and…They forgot my name before they fell asleep! What if they forget other things too when they wake up and no one’s there to remind them! They have a bad memory!!”

Dile huffs, crossing her arms and staring conflicted at Frin’s sleeping form. She gently reaches down and brushes Frin’s hair back, revealing the peaceful look on their face. She takes a stuttery breath. 

“It’s for the best,” she tells Bonnie, without looking at them. “They’re not the only one suffering under this ailment right now, being in a place with others so their symptoms can be more easily monitored and compared…it’s the most beneficial route for everyone now. We’d simply just get in the way.”

”Yeah, but—!” Bonnie says, glancing between all Za, Mira, and Dile, desperately trying to get them to understand. “But—!”

Nille shoulders forward, approaching the Housemaiden who checked on Frin. She’s using her whole height, standing up straight in that way that says she means business. Bonnie’s only seen her use it a few times, usually when she’s about to give an earful to a traveling trader who’s trying to scam her at work, and they get a small, anxious thrill seeing it now.

“Listen up,” Nille says, and jerks her thumb over her shoulder, pointing directly at Mira, who responds with a tiny squeak. “ That adorable looking, five foot three Housemaiden over there is one of the people who saved this entire crabbing country from the King.”

The Housemaiden’s eyes widen as she looks over at Mira, recognition flashing across her face. “I—“

”And that person on the stretcher,” Nille continues over her, “is another. Now, I’m no medical doctor, but I’m figurin‘ your patients’ illness has something to do with that world ending cloud over yonder.” She turns and points out to the sea.

Everyone’s gaze follows her finger, including Bonnie’s, as they look out at the island. The pitch black water batters angrily at the supports of the docks, the boats tied to them being tossed around like play toys. Storm clouds billow out over the island itself, creeping over towards Vaugarde in tiny tendrils. The weird shade flicks throughout them, flashes of lightning that groan and grumble.

”Now,” Nille says, putting both her hands on her hips as she gets ready to deliver the decisive blow. “Who’s the best candidate to figure out how to save all these people other than a group that already saved the country? Are you really gonna deny them the chance to do it a second time?”

❂ ✪ 𖣔 ✪ ❂

At the winter’s end, when the warrior’s constellation has first started peaking its way back into the sky on the eastern horizon, you find yourself once more staring down the evening of Saint Zenith’s Night.

Your whole family is gathered at the temple; aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, extended cousins, aunts and uncles once or twice removed. There are people you’ve talked to maybe once, and people you’ve never spoken to at all. The whole village is out for the event, and so occasionally you catch a glimpse of someone you know talking to someone you don’t, whether that be from your own family or from one of the five other families living in your community.

Most of the crowd has finished mingling though, and are currently finding their ways into the rows of pews that line the sides of the stone building. Above, the glass roof glimmers, stars washing the whole room in an ethereal glow. The lanterns have been blown out for the festival, leaving the air far colder than it usually is whenever you visit for rare sermons.

It’s not the first ceremony for Saint Zenith that you’ve ever attended. Your mom’s parents are avidly religious, and they make sure to drag the family to every service they can, hoping to pass their beliefs down to the younger generations. They say stuff like, ‘More and more kids are losing faith in the Universe and throwing themselves into science!’, ‘All things knee-ces-itate balance! Knowledge without tradition is useless!’ or ‘The Universe leads, we can only follow!’

The whole shebang is a bit stuffy and old person-y for your taste, but you like the way your granddad tells stories of the Universe. When he reads books about legends and myths of old, he puts on funny voices and acts out the big scenes for you. Once, when sharing the story of the sacred dog, he even taught you how to make shadow puppets.

Normally, you’d be gunning to find a seat next to him, but this time you’ll actually be going onto the stage! You’ll be a part of the festival! The Astroreverend will be calling on everyone old enough now, and you’ll go up, and they’ll let you burn your wishbone, and that’s supposed to give you the Universe’s favor so you can ask it for help better.

Your cousin Pollux had gotten to go up last year, even though you were in the same grade, and you had burned with jealousy the entire time. You want the Universe to favor you too! It’s no fair that you’ve had to wait till you’re nine to get your wishbone.

Tonight’s the night though. You’re currently tucked in one of the back corners of the temple, surrounded by all the other children about to get their blessings. Your mom is back here too, one of the few parents who are, and she’s fussing over the creases in your sister’s robes, trying to smooth them out.

“This fabric is so terrible,” your mother huffs, running her hands down the lengths of Asteria’s arms. The stiff, glittery fabrics crinkles under her touch. “You’d think they'd have at least updated it once in the last fifty years!”

Asteria’s expression is as neutral as ever, but you can tell they’re starting to get uncomfortable with all the attention. Call it twin telepathy or whatever, but you can’t help but wince watching the subtle way their body flinches when your mom yanks down on the front of their robes.

Time to interrupt the scene.

“Mooommmmm,” you whine dramatically, walking over and gently shoving her away from Asteria. “You’ve gotta go back to your seat! They’re never gonna start if you don’t sit down!”

Your mom stumbles upright, hands stuttering off Asteria’s robes as she takes a couple steps back. Success!

She blinks down at you, almost looking confused, before huffing in amusement. “Aww, alright, alright,” she says, using one of her now free hands to ruffle your hair as the other settles on her hip. “I’ll go, impatient one.”

An upset little squawk escapes you, as you reach up to push her hand off and then scramble to fix your hair. It’s kind of a lost cause no matter what, but she’s not allowed to make it worse! Not when you’re about to be on stage !!

“Hey,” your mom says. She slips into her serious tone, which immediately catches your attention as you look up at her from under your bangs. She points at you sternly, “Mind your sister. And you—“

Asteria jolts as your mom’s attention shifts onto them, her finger jabbing in their direction. They had clearly already gotten distracted by all the people, probably had been the second mom’s attention moved off them. They look around and then hesitantly point at themself as well, as if to ask ‘ Me??’, and mom nods.

“Stay with your brother,” she orders. “They’ll keep an eye out for you until you can meet back up with us outside when the ceremony is over. Now-“ she claps her hands, serious face clearing away to make room for more genuine cheer. “Are you both ready? Both excited?”

You grin, bouncing up and down on your toes. “Yes!” you shout, and your mom smiles back, putting her index finger over her mouth. “Yesyesyesyes,” you chant quieter, unfazed, “I’m gonna get the biggest wishbone! And the flames from it are going to be like whoosh !!”

You throw your arms up in the air to imitate just how high the flames are going to go. You’re one of the Universe’s favorites, your granddad always tells you, so you know your blessing’s going to be crazy cool.

Asteria, meanwhile, just nods that same polite nod that she always does. “I’m excited,” she says, her breathy voice little more than a whisper.

You can tell she means it, even though it doesn’t sound like she does. You don’t think your mom can though, cause her face goes all wobbly for a second before she catches herself and is all smiles again.

A sudden sound captures your attention, and you turn to find the Astroreverend has taken their place in front of the altar. They grunt as they heft a large wooden bucket on a small end table, the bones inside of it rustling around like clattering teeth in the cold. You can see the shards of white slipping over the rim, lines of runes delicately burnt into their tissue.

The Astroreverend wipes a hand across their brow, flicking the sweat away with a huff as they turn to the audience. They smile charmingly and throw their arms out in a wide gesture, revealing the ornate patterns and gems stitched on their sleeves as if they’re a bird showing off their wings.

“Welcome disciples of the cosmos, worshipers of the infinite, followers of the Universe,” they start.

“It leads. It leads. It leads,” the response ripples through the crowd, like a stone dropped in the middle of a placid lake. 

It takes you a minute to catch up and say it too, copying your mom, but your sister stays completely silent. You don’t think anyone really notices but you, you know your mom would really chew them out if she did. They turn to you, brows furrowing and tilting their head in confusion. 

You don’t know what they're confused about! It’s just tradition. You shrug at them, and they stare at you for another long second, before shaking their head and looking back up to the stage. You follow their lead when the Astroreverend speaks again.

“Can those who are about to be blessed form orderly lines at the bottom of the stage?” they say, gesturing towards the little stairs. “Six rows of three please.”

“You’re both going to do great up there,” your mom whispers, leaning over as she puts each hand at the base of you and your sister’s spines to gently shepherd you forward. “Just remember to let the Universe guide you.”

Asteria’s hand drops towards yours immediately, fingers flexed open. You grab it without hesitation, the movement as natural as breathing, walking side by side. Inseparable as always.

You get into the same positions that the adults directed you to during rehearsals, and nudge Asteria a couple inches to the left so she’s perfectly in line with all the kids behind her. The order is alphabetical, so she’ll be going up on stage first and you’ll be immediately afterwards.

You’re practically vibrating with excitement, and it seems like all the other kids are too. You meet eyes with Betel standing next to you, the nice, quiet kid who sits beside you during maths, and they smile at you, big and bright, as they tuck their hair behind their ear. You smile back.

Or well, you’re about to, but their gaze drifts away from you before you can, moving to something behind you. Their smile turns into a grimace, and their hand drops back down to their side in a quick, tense motion.

You frown, giving them a confused look before looking to your left to try and figure out what their problem is.

Asteria stares back, interested and unblinking. Her face is neutral, head tilted curiously in a way that makes the shadows move starkly across her face. They seem to realize they’re missing some sort of social cue, their eyes belatedly darting over to you as if to confirm the fact before evenly meeting Betel’s again.

After a long moment, while all the adults are still finally settling down, Asteria tries to smile. 

You know it's what they’re going for, but they’ve always been super bad about smiling on command, so it looks more like she’s just baring her teeth. Her eyes stay flat, though the glint in them is somewhat hopeful, like they’re looking for some sort of acknowledgement that they’ve gotten this person thing correct.

Betel doesn’t seem to take any of that into account though, as they suddenly go pale in the dim room, turning wide eyes to their feet as they shuffle in place. You glare at them and puff out your cheeks, rocketing into annoyance at the speed of light. Asteria’s trying to be nice! And they’re getting all weird about it!

You’re opening your mouth to say something to them, but Asteria’s hand latches to your arm in a tight vice. You spin your glare over to them, but they don’t even flinch under the harsh stare. They just shake their head.

’Not worth it,’ their look says, loud and clear.

Now you’re opening your mouth to snap at them , but you think better of it with your jaw half unlocked. You shut it again with a click. ‘It’s not fair!’ you try your best to beam at them with your twin telepathy, scowling furiously. ‘They’re being weird!’

Asteria shrugs halfheartedly, just shaking their head again. They don’t look it, don’t appear to be anything but passively neutral, but you know, without needing to be told, that this kind of stuff makes them sad. And it’s your job as the big brother to look out for them! They’re not allowed to be sad on your watch!!

Her eyes are boring into you now though, and you know drawing attention to you guys by pushing the issue will just make her more upset. So all you can do is cross your arms and pout, mood thoroughly soured.

”Starchild Asteria!” the Astroreverand calls, looking over at you all with a big grin. They hold their hand out in a welcoming gesture, motioning her up. “Are you ready to come and greet the Universe?”

Asteria immediately tense up beside you, going ridge as a rock as the entire crowd’s attention moves onto them. It seems like they didn’t account for being the first main attraction tonight, despite the multiple rehearsals you’ve done, and they look up warily at the Astroreverand, not moving.

The Astroreverand doesn’t seem put off though, and the smile on their face even softens. They’ve always been nice to Asteria, nicer than all the other adults you’ve met besides your parents. They seem to take her oddities more in stride, and let her just sit and read her own books during sermons rather than forcing her to listen like the rest of you.

It’s probably solely that fact that gets her moving before you have to prod her into doing so. She walks woodenly up the steps, face stern, and looks more like she’s walking to her own execution than a celebration. They stubbornly refuse to meet anyone’s eyes as they step in front of the bucket of bones, staring down into it like it holds the secrets of the Universe.

Which, really, you guess it kind of does!

The Astroreverand goes to place a comforting hand on Asteria’s shoulder, but seems to realize at the last second they shouldn’t. Instead, they reach out and tap the bucket. It gives a little wooden thunk that reverberates through the eerie quiet, and jolts Asteria into attention, spine straightening.

“Your oath, Asteria?” the Astroreverand softly reminds her.

Asteria squints at them, then gives a sweeping look to the crowd, before settling back onto you. Her stare is piercing and questioning at the same time, and her jaw works around the words you’ve been rehearsing. You can see the way they're trying to force them past their lips, breath coming out quicker under all the attention.

You wince, motioning for your sister to take a deep breath. Innnn. And ouuuut.

They give a slight nod as they take in a shuttering gasp, but that seems to be all they need to get their speech started. “I stand now at the precipice of favor, and here is where I shall not waver. Etched into the remains of worshippers past, using their bones, this is the Wish I craft,” they chant.

They dip their hand into the bucket and hesitate there. You can see the sweat beading down their forehead, the nervous little twitch they give before they yank a bone out and hold it up to the audience.

It’s a relatively large one, though it’s splintered at both ends so it's impossible to tell what part of the body it might’ve come from. The runes etched into it seem to glow in the dim light of the temple, simple lines representing the different Primordial Gods. Asteria gently runs her finger across the marks, her face lighting up in interest as she studies them.

Meanwhile, the Astroreverand turns their attention to the altar in front of them. They make a hand symbol that you only sort of recognize, their open palm pointed up to the ceiling as they wiggle their fingers and lift their hand. A fire crackles to life in response, gentle flames wisping around in the ceramic dish.

They step away, and Asteria warily takes their place. She jerkily raises the wishbone over the altar, her tiny knuckles the same darkless shade as the bone she’s clutching hard in her hand. “I…I…” she starts, wide, nervous eyes darting around the crowd.

“Upon my…” the Astroreverand prompts, their gentle voice barely loud enough for you to hear over the crackling flames.

Asteria swallows harshly. “Upon…Upon my birthright, I reach out to the Saints of Night. Universe guide me with your ancient light, I open myself to what you wish me to Know and enact your Will as though it is my own, you have taken lead and I can only follow. So mote it be.”

”So mote it be,” the audience echos.

Your sister’s hands spasm as she releases her iron grip on the wishbone, and it slips seamlessly into the flames, disappearing in a curl of angry, flickering shades. Flakes of sparks rise from the ashes and the audience seems to hold its breath as the fire dims for a moment, and then suddenly erupts in a pillar of roaring flames, so tall that they nearly brush the glass ceiling, reaching for the night sky above.

The temple lights up so bright that you have to squint to make out your sister, the glow emanating from the flames painting their face into a hazy shape, their features blurred and smeared. There’s fear in their body language though, as they take half a step back, posture tense like they’re preparing themself to run.

The tower of flames crackles, twisting and sputtering, starting to disperse and die down. Even still, resting in the altar, the heart of the fire burns brightly, wisping back and forth like waves lapping at the shore. In the center of it, there’s a small ball of heat, lit up in a livid shade you’ve never seen before.

Then, as suddenly as it occurred, the fire douses itself with a whoosh of hot air that rushes into every corner of the temple, leaving only smoldering ash in the altar. The air smells of sweet smoke, reminding you of burned incense or melting caramel.

The audience is dead silent, the room smothered in what feels like a blanket of unease. Even the Astroreverand seems put off, their robes askew and hands twitching at their side. They stare at Asteria in shock, looking like they’ve never seen her before.

Your sister looks out into the middle distance, eyes glossy and face vacant, though her stare remains as intense as it ever does. She stays like that for a long moment before wincing and stumbling backwards, hands coming up to clutch and pull at her hair as though she’s in pain.

Your heart jerks in your chest and your feet are moving before you consciously give them permission too. “Aster!” you cry, taking the steps two at a time. The sound of your feet thudding against the wood ricochets through the silent room like thunder.

They peek up at you from between their fingers, dazed, confused, and frightened. The expression looks unnatural on their face, makes you feel like you’re peeking behind a curtain of their thoughts that you’re not supposed to be, and that thought scares you enough that you immediately hate the look on principle.

They reach out for you at the same moment you’re reaching for them, grabbing each other’s hands as you nearly tackle them to the floor with your momentum. Normally you’d be worried about looking silly in front of the crowd, but you’re too concerned to even remember there are people besides you and Asteria in the temple right now.

You grip their hand tight, like they might drift away if you let them go, and with your free hand reach up to feel for their temperature, the way your mom does when either of you is sick.

She blinks at you, face covered in soot, and from this distance, you can see that her eyebrows got singed in the fire. She’s not running hot, doesn’t have any immediate fever it feels like, but they’re definitely disorientated. She squeezes your hand back after a moment, the touch seeming to ground her some.

”I’m ok…” she croaks, her gaze sharpening by the second. There’s something new in the glint of their eyes though, something almost ethereal about the way the light reflects off of them. “I’m ok, don’t worry.”

You frown at her harshly. You’re the big brother here! It’s your job to worry! Especially when…when…well you’re not entirely sure what just happened, but it certainly looked like something to worry about.

The Astroreverand appears to finally catch up to the situation, their own eyes wide as they walk over next to the two of you. They crouch down to your height level, resting on the heels of their feet in a pose that can’t be comfortable in that fancy robe of theirs. They very carefully avoid touching Asteria, but clasp a shaky hand on your shoulder as they look seriously between the two of you.

”It’s going to be alright, no need to fret,” they say, addressing you first. “Asteria’s fine, the Universe just…had a big, important message for them, that’s all.”

“But…why wouldn’t it just tell it to you then? If it’s that big and important?” you ask, confused. “And why would it give it to them at a wishbone ceremony? Wishbone fires are normally like ’ pewww’,” you make a small gesture with your hands, showing how big the fires normally are. “But that was like, a bonfire sized fire or something!”

The Astroreverand chuckles, a little smile finding its way onto their face despite how serious they looked a second ago. “I’m not sure, I’ve never seen a fire that big either,” they say, before giving your sister a meaningful look. “Do you Know, Asteria?”

They put emphasis on the word Know, the way they do during sermons or the way your grandparents do sometimes. You know it's important, something about how the Universe speaks to its followers, not with words, but with Knowledge, but you’ve also never had to think about it much outside of religious spaces and tarot readings.

Asteria winces again, rubbing their temple with the hand that’s not holding yours. “It was a lot,” they say, their voice nothing but a quiet, breathy whisper. “I can’t…I can’t…”

And to your continued horror, your sister’s eyes start filling with tears. They drip down her cheeks in delicate lines, her face twitching in discomfort. “I can’t remember!” she cries, anguished. “It’s all gone!”

The Astroreverand grimaces, hand raising up in an aborted motion to wipe Asteria’s face before thinking better of it. You take up the job in their stead, lifting your free hand to brush their tears away, the little droplets clinging to your fingers.

”It’s ok Aster,” you say, in a small, trembling voice. “You’ll remember, you’re smart. Don’t be sad.”

The Astroreverand shoots you a grateful smile, gently patting your shoulder before releasing it. “They’re right, Asteria,” they say, standing up. “It’ll come back in time. For now, why don’t you go sit on the other set of stairs off of the stage? We’ll give your brother their blessing and then they can come sit with you, ok?”

A course of dread runs through you, cold spreading through your body as your stomach does a sudden flip. You had been so excited for your blessing, but not anymore. Sure, you’ve never seen that big of a reaction when someone’s thrown a wishbone into the altar before, and Asteria’s never been super normal either, so this might just be a them thing, but…

You’re also their brother, and that’s got to me something right? The Universe crafted you together; your brains, bodies, and blood.

“I don’t-I don’t want my blessing any more,” you tell the Astroreverand, dragging your sister with you as you take a quick step back.

The Astrorevrand blinks at you, caught off guard, but their expression quickly morphs into a kind sort of pity. You recognize it as the type that adults make at Asteria when she does something they think is weird, and it makes you want to snap at the Astrorevrand. It makes you want to run.

You glance at Asteria to find them already looking back at you, face suddenly as blank as a sheet of paper. Their eyes are intent though, serious despite the glistening tear tracks and puffy cheeks, and you can tell they know exactly how you’re feeling. Or maybe they Know? You’re not sure, you don’t even entirely understand what it means or how important it is yet, but your breath is picking up in your chest, each one a painful little gasp.

You can feel the crowd watching you, their silence piercing through you like scissor craft and sending cold chills up your spine. You wonder what your family is doing, what they’re thinking. You wonder why your parents haven’t stood up to try and help you. Aren’t they supposed to help you?

Asteria squeezes your hand tight enough to pull you back into yourself, bringing your mind back to the stage. “…I know that was scary,” the Astroreverand is saying when your ears decide to stop feeling like they’re underwater, “but you just have to trust the Universe. It leads and we can only follow.”

You take another step back, shaking your head slowly. “Nu-uh…no…no no no,” you say, retreating further with every word. Asteria carefully follows, matching you step for step, like she’s entirely aware of what you’re about to do. “I don’t…I don’t want it any more. Sorry.”

Before the Astroreverand can say anything else, you’re ambling off the stage, Asteria right on your heels. Surprised gasps echo throughout the crowd, and you finally hear your mom’s worried bark of your name over the din. People start standing up, but you ignore them, weaving through the pews and out the front door of the temple into the night.

You don’t stop running, even when you get out, and Asteria doesn’t try to make you. The only noise between you is the sound of your feet, crunching down on dried up leaves, your harsh breaths, and the thick, uncomfortable fabric of your robes crinkling as it snags on twigs and brambles.

It’s only when Asteria starts lagging behind you do you slow, her level of stamina is nowhere close to yours. Plus, you think, it’s probably not great to be putting her through the ringer after whatever just happened in the temple.

Sure enough, when you finally come to a halt, she hunches over on herself, hands on her knees as she gasps for air. A surge of guilt runs through you, and you gently rub circles on their back while they collect themself. Sweat trickles down their brow, cheeks a darker shade than they’re meant to be.

”Sorry Aster,” you say, voice tiny and thin. “I…I shouldn’t have made you run like that.”

”No,” Asteria spits into the grass. “It’s fine. It’s what was always going to happen, I think?”

You blink at her, tilting your head. “What…was always going to happen?” you echo. “What do you mean by that?”

Asteria glances up at you, moonlight glinting sharp across their eyes as they seem to think over her words. “I saw it,” she finally admits. “Us running away. They’re sending some adults to look for us now, but if we hide here, no one will find us.”

There’s a long moment of quiet as you take that in, jaw working around aborted sentences of what you want to say. “Is that really the ‘big, important message’ the Astroreverand was talking about?” you ask incredulously. “It hurt your head to tell you that we would run away?”

You’re surprised by the anger that churns inside you at the idea. The Universe shouldn’t be hurting its followers though! And why would it tell Aster that you were supposed to run away instead of you? You were the one doing all the running!

Asteria shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t…just that,” she says hesitantly, gnawing on her lip. “There was…a lot more, I just…It was too much, I couldn’t…I couldn’t hold onto it like it wanted me to. I don’t think the human brain was made to think that many thoughts at once.”

“It wanted you to have a lot of thoughts at once?” you ask, frown deepening. “Did it know it would make you all confused and scared like that? That’s mean!”

”I…” Asteria trails off, squinting at the ground like they might find the answers carved into the dirt. “I don’t think it…wants like a person does? It was different. It was…cold.”

You grimace, remembering the way they stumbled back and collapsed in themself after they got whatever vision they got, like a star forming in front of the altar. “Well, I don’t like the Universe any more, I don’t think,” you huff, crossing your arms. “Not if it’s going to hurt you like that.”

Asteria gives you a serious once over, straightening up and wiping the last bit of spit off her mouth. ”That’s ok,” she says, strangely certain. “I don’t think it’s human enough to be mad about something like that. You’re following its will regardless.”

You blink. “Is…is not getting my blessing what it wanted then?”

Asteria thinks about this for a moment, tilting her head as though she’s listening really hard for a noise you can’t hear. Her eyes go vacant for a moment, before snapping back into focus like awareness was a ping pong ball that slammed into her. She shakes her head.

“No,” she finally answers, holding out her hand towards yours. You latch onto it without thinking, gripping her cold and clammy hand with your own sweaty palm. “As of now, the Universe has nowhere concrete to lead you. You can do as you want, return for your blessing or not, and it will find you later either way.”

“...Is it leading you somewhere though?” you ask, chewing on your lip. “Somewhere different?”

Your sister looks up at you, sharp and discerning before going softer than you’ve seen her all night. “No,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Don’t worry, the Universe could never lead me to somewhere that you couldn’t follow.”

Relief courses through you, almost overwhelming in its intensity. The rest of the night is catching up to you, you think, and you can feel your heart slamming against your rib cage now, feel the sweat dripping down your forehead. You close your eyes and try to take a deep breath. Innn. And ouuuut.

When you open your eyes again, you jolt, finding Asteria staring intently back at you. Her eyes are piercing, glinting in the light of the moon with an unnatural brightness. An owl flies by overhead, sending a rush of shadow that momentarily drapes over the two of you and makes the leaves rustle like a whispering audience.

“I would never allow it,” she finishes, the words more fact than promise.

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

(You obtained a MEMORY OF SAINT ZENITH)

(Of brain, body, and blood; isn’t that right brother?)

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

The Housemaidens of Bambouche are kind enough to dedicate one of their own rooms entirely to Siffrin. Mirabelle can tell it's someone’s bedroom, most likely one of the Housemaidens who’s running around trying to help with the influx of patients. Even now, Mirabelle can hear them bustling around, rapid footsteps passing back and forth behind the closed door until someone eventually peeks their head in to check on Siffrin’s condition or ask them if they need anything, only to leave again seconds later.

Not that his condition has changed. They’re laid down on the mattress, tucked underneath floral sheets. They look peaceful, breath even and face entirely at rest. If it wasn’t for the way they collapsed, Mirabelle might even just think that they were having a nice nap.

Everyone else is perched in different spots within the room. Her and Isabeau are sitting side by side, chairs pulled up right next to Siffrin’s bed as they clasp their hands together for comfort. Isabeau can’t seem to take his eyes off of Siffrin, staring at them like he might be able to wake them up with brain power alone. Mirabelle brings her free hand up to bite at her nails and no one stops her, the main person who usually does is currently unconscious after all.

Madame is tucked into a corner, sitting on an uncomfortable looking chair that had been brought in for her. She glares at the book in her hands, eyes scanning through the pages. At random, she’ll hold her spot on one page, flip through until she reaches another, skim through that, mutter something under her breath, and then go back to her previous page, looking more frustrated than before. Bonnie’s perched beside her feet, their knees pulled up to their chest and head miserably pressed against them.

Petronille, meanwhile, paces the room, studying it. Mirabelle has learned very quickly that she seems to have a lot of restless, cautious energy, and while normally she would chide her for snooping through someone else’s things, she currently can’t bring herself to care. She watches out of the corner of her eye as Petronille picks up a small figurine of the Change God, rolling it around in her hands with a sharp frown.

The Traveler shifts on the bed, drawing Mirabelle’s attention back to them. She feels Isabeau hold his breath beside her as their nose twitches, face scrunching up cutely as they sigh and twist their head. Their hair is a mess of tangles, silvery threads with black tips nothing more than a disheveled mop.

Unsurprisingly, the movement doesn’t wake them up, and Isabeau stutters out his exhale. He falls back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

Mirabelle shoots him a pitying look, before glancing back over to the Traveler. She leans forward and uses a shaky hand to brush a stray curl out of their eye, tucking it behind their ear. Honestly, if they’re going to be asleep for much longer, it’d probably be best to sit them up and braid it back. Otherwise, it might hurt the Traveler to have to comb through it when they wake up!

…Wait a second.

The…The Traveler?

Well, yes, of course, this is the Traveler laying on the bed in front of her. They’ve known each other for long enough, been friends long enough, that she’ll never forget them, but…A person can’t just be a title can they? There’s another name! She’s called them by another name before!

Dread fills her stomach, hitting her right in the gut like she had swallowed a rotting peach pit peach. She scrambles for the memory of the Traveler’s name, but it keeps slipping away from her every time she reaches for it. Her breath hitches in her throat.

Beside her, Isabeau squeezes her hand. “Mira?” he asks, leaning into her vision with a concerned frown. “Is something wrong?”

She brings a trembling hand over her mouth, eyes wide enough that tears start beading in the corners of them without her permission. “Can you all remember the Traveler’s name?” she asks, horror leaking into her tone.

Everyone looks at her with different degrees of confusion, scrunched faces and pinched together eyebrows. Madame seems to realize who she’s referring to the quickest though, eyes darting between Mirabelle and the Traveler before widening in shock.

”Gems alive,” Madame swears.

Bonnie stands up next, crossing their tiny arms as they glare at the unconscious Traveler. “Don’t be dumb Belle,” they say, annoyed. “Of course, we remember his name. It’s…” They trail off suddenly, expression blanking out, before rapidly shifting to concern. “It’s…”

Isabeau pales, looking abruptly nauseous. “Oh Change,” he whispers, bringing a hand up to his mouth. “Oh Change, oh Change, oh Change.”

Petronille, back to Mirabelle, puts down the Change God statue she’s holding with a definitive ‘thunk’, and Bonnie shouts, “Frin!” The name escapes them like a popped balloon, a burst of air, relief, and realization. “Their name is Siffrin!”

No one relaxes, despite the knowledge easily sliding back into its correct slot in Mirabelle’s mind. Siffrin, Siffrin, Siffrin , she thinks on a loop, like she’s trying to remember the answer for a test, chewing on her nail and pulling back the skin until she tastes blood.

There’s a long moment of silence, only broken when Madame starts flipping through her book with a newfound energy. “Gems alive,” she mutters. “There has to be something …”

”M’dame, what’s happening?” Isabeau asks, his expression deadly serious as he turns to her. “Have you found anything that might explain…well, anything?”

Madame sighs, letting the book fall into her lap as she massages the bridge of her nose. “Not nearly as much as I would like through skimming alone,” she confesses. “This is an extremely dense text, mainly describing the religious practices of the Island as they’ve been observed by a Vaguardian researcher. And if we thought the rituals of Wish Craft were complex, they are nothing compared to what goes on behind the scenes. Multiple Gods, hundreds of Saints, concepts I can barely understand, let alone hold onto with whatever forsaken memory mischief is happening.”

”Is there anything about the Island’s practices and memory in general?” Petronille asks, nodding towards Isabeau. “That’s what you were saying earlier, right? That the Change God statues might be breakin’ differently because whatever’s happening is messing around with something besides Time.”

”Well, the Islanders do worship a God of Memory,” Odile says, flipping through the book until she gets to a certain page before showing it off to all of them. It depicts a loom, with a half woven tapestry weaved into its strings, the bottom of a person’s jaw facing right barely visible in the wool. “However, as far as the author of this book is aware, the Islanders don’t have rituals established to contact it.”

”Could the Memory God itself be trying to get people to remember the Island then?” Mirabelle asks. “Maybe it doesn’t like being forgotten?”

”Yes, but why wait until now though?” Odile retorts, looking up at her sharply. “Why not start unraveling whatever Craft affected the Island immediately?”

”Hmmm, maybe…” Isabeau says, rubbing his chin and closing his eyes. “Maybe it wasn’t strong enough then? Or maybe something needed to happen first?”

“Maybe someone figured out how to get in contact with it and ask for help!” Mirabelle chimes in.

“Yeah, but, even more important than all of that,” Petronille says, crossing her arms, “if a Memory God is gettin’ involved, why is everyone forgetting things?”

The room goes silent, and Mirabelle gets the sense that everyone is remembering the same thing she is. Siffrin’s face, so confused, as he looked at Bonnie and asked what their name was. She clasps her hands together in her lap, staring at them without seeing.

Odile clears her throat, and when Mirabelle glances up, she finds her looking grim, but even more worrying than that, she also looks nervous . Mirabelle can’t think of a time of a time where she’s seen Madame anxious or uncertain about anything, not during all their travels to save Vaugarde and defeat the King.

Change, even when Siffrin was having their wish craft induced meltdown, she barely seemed to bat an eye! Sure, she was confused, she was angry, but she was never lost . She knew what needed to be done, and she was more than willing to do it.

“I,” she says, then stops, pursing her lips. She takes a shaky breath in, then huffs it out, lifting a hand to cover her mouth before glancing over at Siffrin, laid out on the infirmary bed next to her. “I…I’m not certain.”

“The answer has to be in that book though, doesn’t it?” Isabeau asks, desperate. “If it’s a God that’s doing it, then a book about the Gods has to have some kind of answer, right?”

“Yes, well there’s only so fast that I can read, Isabeau,” Odile snaps, glaring at him. “It doesn’t help that half the book is conjecture, put together from makeshift facts that the author was able to glean from studying a group of people, rather than directly interacting with their religious or academic texts.”

“So what does that mean for us?” Petronille asks. “How do we figure out what’s going on?”

“It means that with all the current former residents of the Island that we know of being under the effect of this sleeping sickness,” Odile says, words heavy with the finality of them, “finding someone who knows what’s happening or even who more about the Island than we do at this point would require a miracle.”

“yea, that’s right!” a tiny, high pitch voice calls, startling everyone in the room. “it would take a miracle…just like me!! (*ﾟ▽ﾟ)ﾉ”

Mirabelle quickly looks around, finding everyone looking just as confused as she feels. “Ummm,” she hesitates. “That wasn’t…One of you wasn’t doing a funny voice there, were you?”

Four heads shake simultaneously, while Siffrin stays quiet, pale, and unmoving on their bed, dead asleep.

“over here, over here!” the tiny voice continues.

Mirabelle follows the sound of the voice, feels the others eyes trailing after hers, over to the little Change God figurine perched on the bedside table. It’s crafted to sway gently, rocking back and forth. Oddly enough, its face isn’t broken like the rest of the figures they had passed in the House, it’s cheerful smile and open eyes beaming at them.

It kind of reminds her of what she intended for her Change God figure to look like, and she winces, remembering its clumsily drawn face.

However, any embarrassment she feels is immediately dashed away, replaced by shock as she watches the Change God figurine start walking across the table. Her jaw drops as it teeters over, stubby legs taking unpracticed steps until it reaches the edge.

It pauses for a brief moment, leaning back before leaping onto the bed, landing right on Siffrin’s chest and forcing them to let out a jagged puff of air in the middle of their even, sleeping breaths. The whole room cries out in alarm at the impact, and Mirabelle nearly trips over her skirt as she launches herself out of the chair, grabbing the figurine and yanking them away from Siffrin with both hands.

The little figurine doesn’t seem put off by her manhandling of it, if anything it seems pleased. The normally inanimate face of the Change God statues rolls around in its socket, like a little marble ball rather than the clay she knows all figurines in the Houses are made of. Its expression shifts into an excited grin.

“mirabelle!!” it shouts, zealously cheerful. “hi again! ( ◠‿◠ )”

“O-Oh?” Mirabelle nervously stutters, looking around the room to try to get an indication of how she’s supposed to react to this little Change God figurine knowing her name. It is completely unsurprising, but entirely disappointing, when everyone just looks back at her, slack jawed and bug eyed. “Hello to you too, I guess?”

“Again?” Odile questions, the quickest to snap back into reason. Mirabelle can practically see the gears start moving in her head. “What do you mean, again?"

“well, it’s more like a ‘nice to meet you’,” the figurine continues, not acknowledging Odile at all. “since a certain SOMEONE went and erased the timeline where we first met (￣^￣)”

“Erased…the timeline…” Mirabelle says slowly, staring at the figurine in wonder. The only person she knows who could’ve done that is Siffrin, but that timeline had been a closed loop as far as she was aware, so who could she have met—?

Siffrin’s hesitant expression comes back to her abruptly, sitting side by side on a bench right after the loops had been broken. His blunt tone as he told her that they had…had…

”No…This can’t be?! You’re—“

“ahh, let’s not do a repeat of dialogue here,” the little figurine says, almost sounding annoyed. “but yea, that’s right, it’s me ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶ THE CHANGE GOD. ╰(*´︶`*)╯”

Its face morphs with each shift of its expression, clay features inhumanly smearing across its face to make different cutesy eyes and sweet smiles. It waves its arms excitedly in Mirabelle’s hands, flapping around like a small, easily excited toddler.

Madame Odile rises out of her seat slowly, Petronille and Bonnie close behind as they circle around Mirabelle’s chair to all get a closer look at the figure. She cocks her head like a crow, inspecting the little figure with a critical gaze. “Your appearance doesn’t match the description of any Expressions I’ve ever heard of,” she says.

”duh, that’s because i’m not an EXPRESSION !” the Change God insists. “and this isn’t my true form either, if you could see that you’d be like-“ the figure's face morphs into a clear mockery of Odile, her bangs hanging down and narrow eyes wide in fake surprise, “-whoooa!! Σ('◉⌓◉’)”

Odile grimaces, offense clear on her face as she opens her mouth to snap, but Petronille interrupts before she can, leaning in close to look the figure up and down. “So why are you like this then?” she asks. “And why here?”

”well…” the Change God wiggles out of Mirabelle’s hands, hopping over to the edge of the bed again. It bashfully tucks its hands behind its back, wiggling its hips. “you see…someone’s messing everything up behind the scenes, and i’m hiding from them here (；ω；) i know mirabelle will keep me safe!”

“Keep you safe?” Mirabelle asks, tilting her head in confusion. “But what could hurt you if you’re a God?”

“lots of things! other Gods, our followers dying off, being forgotten, becoming fact,” the Change God lists off, far too joyful and casually for the disturbing nature of the topic. “in this case tho…it’s just some human person, taking advantage of all the things they Know to access the other planes! and so i really want them gone! preferably before they kill me (T-T)”

“Kill you?!” Mirabelle shrieks, at the same moment Madame asks, much more calmly, “Do you know who this person is?”

“oh yea, of course i know who they are ٩( ᐛ )و” the Change God says with a cute little shrug. “i’m not going to tell you tho, sorry not sorry!”

“And why not?” Madame Odile says, her gaze sharpening as she takes to her full height, back straightening out. She looms over the Change God, judgmentally peering down at it from the rims of her glasses. “Wouldn’t that information be beneficial for us to have?”

“yea, maybe,” the Change God agrees with a noncommittal hum. “but i’m still the Change God! my entire existence depends on figuring stuff out yourselves! it’s no good for i just GIVE you all the answers (−＿−;)”

“What about guesses?” Isabeau asks, raising his hand like he’s in class. “If we guess the answer would you tell us if it’s correct?”

“Is it a resident of the Island to the North of Vaugarde?” Odile asks, without pause. “Are they utilizing the power of Wish Craft to do this?”

Mirabelle looks up at Odile, eyes wide and one hand hovering above her mouth. She hadn’t considered Wish Craft! But honestly, as she thinks about that weird, headache inducing shade, the only other time she ever saw it was when Siffrin’s wish was falling apart.

“Wait…” she says, realization dawning on her as she whirls back to the little Change God. “Is this failed Wish Craft? Cause of the broken shade?”

The Change God aggressively shakes its head. “*buzzer noise* hey hey, no guesses! i just told you i’m not gonna tell you, so save your breath! (ꐦ ಠ皿ಠ )”

“Why not ?” Madame growls, hands twitching as though she’s fighting the urge to wring the figurine’s neck. “I swear to the Expression of Slaughter, God or not, if you are knowingly withholding information that could help us save Siffrin, I will—!”

“M’dame!” Isabeau interrupts, grimacing and throwing a pointed glance over to Bonnie.

Everyone’s eyes drift over to their youngest party member, who stares defiantly back at each of them. Their tiny hands are curled into fist by their sides, mouth twisted as tiny tears beading into the corners of their eyes.

“Oh, Bonnie,” Petronille says softly, kneeling down next to them as she reaches out to soothe them.

Bonnie shakes their head though, jerking away from her. “No!” they snap, voice watery, as they point at the Change God figurine. “Dile’s right! If you’ve got the power to help Frin, then you gotta do it! If you know how to wake him up, you gotta tell us!”

The Change God hesitates, before giving a dramatic sigh. “listen,” it says, its tone suddenly lapsing into seriousness. “i’m already going against, like, five of my own personal principles to even do this much. i can’t help you with your mortal struggles, i can’t give you favor or even help with blessings most of the time. mostly because i don’t want to yea, but also because, that’s not what the people who made me needed me to do, you see?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Mirabelle sees Madame Odile glances back at the book she left on her chair before looking back at the Change God, bringing her hand up to her mouth in thought.

“but!” the Change God shouts, continuing as it raises up its tiny hand with dramatic flourish. “mirabelle needs my help now, for real for real! ＼\٩(๑`^´๑)۶//／ so i’m gonna do what i can!”

Mirabelle blanches, bringing a hand up to her mouth to chew on her nails. “Are you…” she starts, then pauses, grimacing as pulls loose away from her finger with her teeth. “Are you going to give me a blessing?”

“whaattttt? σ(゜◆゜;)” The Change God laughs, “no, absolutely not lol. blessings are totally not my style! it’s not like i’m strong enough to give my favorites any sort of fancy smancy extra power ups or anything. for all my followers, all that power has to come from within or whatever.”

“So, how are you going to help us then?” Petronille asks, wrapping her arm around Bonnie and drawing them closer to her. Her brow pinches as she brushes their tears away, side eyeing the figurine as she does. “Can you wake Siffrin up?”

“nope!” the Change God answers cheerfully. “can’t do that! can’t do much for anyone besides mirabelle, actually, and all i’m doing there is giving her a free pass to go in this guy's head!” It spins around in a graceful circle on the bed, before coming to a stop pointing towards Siffrin like its arms are the needle on a spin the wheel contest. “from there, it’s all up to you mirabelle! (੭ु˙꒳˙)੭ु⁾⁾*✭”

Mirabelle feels herself pale further, dread bubbling up in her stomach like a lit caldron. Sure, she saved the country, but that was only because of her friends! There was one late night where Madame even confessed that it probably wouldn’t have been possible to defeat the King without Siffrin’s wish, and now-!

Before she can catastrophize too far, she feels Isabeau squeeze her hand as he shifts next to her, leaning into the corner of her vision to give the Change God a nervous look. “Wait…go into Sif’s head? Is that going to hurt them?!”

“oh no, you don’t have to worry about that ∩(︶▽︶)∩” the Change God says, waving off the concern with a flap of its hand. “all the people asleep here aren’t actually really ‘here’, if you know what i mean. they’re not using their brains for much, so me sending mirabelle’s consciousness into one of them is just like ɿ(｡･ɜ･)ɾ …i don’t know…like pushing her through a doorway?”

“Are you trying to say then,” Madame says, so sharply that it draws everyone’s eyes to her, “that the collective consciousness of the Island’s former residents have been pulled from this plane of existence?”

The Change God meets her glare evenly, having the audacity to even give a little shrug in response. “yea, i guess.”

“That would take an extreme amount of power though!” Madame Odile shouts, steadily growing more flustered than Mirabelle has ever seen her. “Theories on the other planes are few and far between at best, their mere existence was questionable until a few decades ago, and now you’re expecting me to believe that someone has not only cracked the code on how to get into one, but has also seemingly drug along a sizeable portion of the population?”

“exactly!” the Change God cheers, throwing up its little hands and waving them around. “now you’re getting it! (ﾉﾟ▽ﾟ)ﾉ”

Madame’s face flushes, cheeks rapidly darkening as her lips curl into a snarl. However, the same moment she opens her mouth to snap, Siffrin sits upright on the bed.

Mirabelle gasps. Bonnie launches themself forward, out of their sister’s arms, and scrambles onto the bed, sending the Change God figurine toppling off the edge and into Mirabelle’s lap. “Frin!” they cry, reaching out for them. “Are you awake?”

Isabeau is the next to stand, yanking Bonnie off the bed. “Whooooa, hey there,” he says. “We don’t want to overwhelm them right off the bat, do we Bonbon?” The relief is palpable in his voice, the hope, and Mirabelle can see the start of a smile on his face.

She should be feeling the same of course, she should be overjoyed. However, instead, all she gets is a dose of unease that she can’t pinpoint the cause of. She takes a deep breath that tastes overwhelmingly sweet, like licking the bottom of a pot with burnt caramel inside.

Siffrin’s eye slowly opens, and it takes a few long blinks to keep it that way. Their face is blank, their hollow stare glossing over each of them individually, before finally coming to rest on Mirabelle.

Her breath hitches in her throat.

Their pupil is lined with concentric circles, billowing out from his iris in little waves. It’s a shade lighter than it normally is, and seems to glint strangely in the light of the room’s lanterns. Their head more so drops than tilts, falling sideways in a violent movement of curiosity, eye drifting down to the Change God figurine that’s currently trying to hide itself in the fabric of Mirabelle’s skirt.

“Little God,” he says, in a voice that isn’t his own. The words are wispy and quiet, but with how silent the room has gotten, they may as well have been dropped in like a conversational grenade.

The Change God squeaks, giving up on burying itself and instead choosing to peek its little head out from behind a ruffle. “y-yes? :(；ﾞﾟ'ωﾟ'):”

Siffrin frowns, gaze turning towards their hands resting in their lap. They bring one up, gingerly brushing their fingers against the edge of their eye patch. “It’s bold of you to come here of all places,” he says. His voice is devoid of emotion, cold and clinical in a way that Mirabelle’s never heard from them before. “Though also wise, I suppose. I can’t channel your energy from here even if I wanted to.”

“w-well!” the Change God says, puffing itself up. “i am a pretty wise God, after all! ((´∀`;)) an-and, also a benevolent one too! so if you just…stop whatever it is you’re trying to do here, i’ll just…let ch’a go, alright?!”

Siffrin mouth spasms, ticking up in a razor sharp grin before smoothing out again. “You are more than aware that I can’t do that.”

“What are you two talking about?” Isabeau asks, still holding up a limp Bonnie. “Sif, are you ok?”

“Isabeau,” Madame Odile says sharply, taking a couple steps back without taking her eyes off of Siffrin. She fumbles behind her, grabbing the book off of her chair, and starts getting into the position for a paper craft attack, legs spread and fingers spread across the cover. “I don’t believe that is actually Siffrin.”

Siffrin, or whatever is piloting him at the moment, slowly turns their head towards Odile, eyeing her with interest. “Astute observation,” they say, not put off at all by the implied danger. “I apologize, overtaking this body, no matter how momentarily, wasn’t my intention. I only need to finish my conversation with the God of Change and then I will leave.”

“Wait,” Bonnie says, squirming their way out of Isabeau’s arms and landing on the floor with a soft thud. They look between Madame Odile and Siffrin, face scrunched up in confusion. “What do you mean, they’re not actually Siffrin?”

“Oh Change,” Mirabelle whispers, covering her mouth with her hand. “Are you the hand that came through the Change God statue? Is this a ‘Tales of Hallowed Ground and Broken Bones’ possession scenario?”

The thing quickly glances over at her, wearing Siffrin’s familiar scowl. “Oh come on,” they say, a bit of annoyance actually creeping into their tone. “It’s clearly not like that book as I, for one, am not absolutely incoherent, and for another, haven’t started attempting to murder you off the bat. I’d like to think that this is probably more akin to the plot of ‘Chaos Gate’.”

“Oh,” Mirabelle breaths, a jolt of shock running down her spine. Rarely does anyone even recognize the names of the horror book she reads, let alone cite the story back to her and come up with another example that has similar tropes. She shuffles through her mental database, looking for the book they’re referring to. “So…you’re a God speaking through Siffrin?”

The thing hums. “Not quite,” they say, “but that answer is probably the closest we will get to the truth.”

“Why ‘the closest we’ll get to the truth’?” Odile asks, tone sharp. Her hands stay steady on her book, the musty tint of paper craft mixing with the sweetness of the room, the hum of craft buzzing in the air. “Why not give us the actual truth?”

“I don’t believe we’ll have the time for that,” the thing tells her, turning Siffrin’s head back towards the Change God. “Unless you feel like coming back and speeding things along?”

“nope! (; ･`д･´)⁾” the Change God squeaks, frantically shaking its little head. “nah-uh, no thank you!”

“I didn’t think so,” the thing says easily. “Then, for now, you can think of me as a temporary God.”

“Ok, so asking what you are is just gonna get us going round in circles then, got it,” Petronille says before anyone else can speak up, as she puts a firm, protective hand on Bonnie’s shoulder. “What about asking who? Or what do you want?”

The thing hums again, bringing one of Siffrin’s hands up to his face to tap his cheek as they think. Their inhuman eye goes distant, as if they’re seeing something the rest of them are not, peering behind some metaphysical curtain.

“Those are easy enough questions, I suppose, and I don’t believe the answers should be too painful to you any more,” they say after a long moment. “…You may call me Asteria.”

A sudden sharp, stinging pain echoing through the front of Mirabelle’s mind. Everyone else in the room winces as well, as if they’ve all felt the same thing, and Madame Odile even drops her fighting stance to put a hand on her temple.

“As for what I want,” Asteria continues, as though they hadn’t even noticed, “that’s slightly more complicated. In the most altruistic sense, I only want to put the Island back on the map. However, I Know my wish is more personal than that.”

“So, you are using Wish Craft then,” Madame says, recovering quickest and latching onto the word like a shark smelling blood.

“Of course,” Asteria says, nodding. “This would all be impossible without it.”

“So, what’s your wish then?” Isabeau asks next, eyes narrowing. “Was it for everyone to remember the Island?”

“No, that wish would never work by itself,” Asteria says. They tick Siffrin’s lips up into a wistful smile, and his hands clasp together in their lap, gently, like they’re holding someone else’s hand other than their own. 

“No,” Asteria says again, softer this time. “The wording of my wish was far more simple.”

“So what is happening to the Island then?” Odile asks. “And why all the theatrics? Why are the former residents falling asleep? What’s with the world ending light show?”

Asteria tilts their head in the direction of the Change God, an unnatural, intrigued glint sparking across their eye as they look at it. “That would be the doing of the God of Change actually,” they say. “This would all be much easier if they stopped fighting me on this.”

“*gasp!* ∑(ﾟДﾟ)” the Change God says, with a sharp intake of air. “oh no! you are not going to blame this on me! not when you’re the one hunting me down and stealing my powers!”

Asteria glares at it, another look of annoyance crossing Siffrin’s features. “I already told you,” they say, exasperated, “I’m only borrowing your energy to access the Primordial God of Memory. I don’t want any of your ‘powers of Change’.” They put the words in air quotes, scoffing them out like they’re something derogatory.

“and i already told you that that could kill me!” the Change God snaps back.

“Alright alright,” Isabeau says, lifting both hands placatingly. “Everybody calm down. There has to be some way to work this all out, doesn’t there? We’ve got seven heads in one room, there’s got to be a solution we can find that’s less dangerous than whatever this is and where no one has to get hurt.”

“Oh,” Asteria asks, rolling Siffrin’s head towards Isabeau with a small dangerous smirk. “And what do you suggest?”

Isabeau blinks, looking at Siffrin like he’s in awe for a moment, before his face flushes a darker shade. “Uh…well…you could, um. Tell us exactly how you’re doing what you’re doing maybe? And what the goal is? And uh…maybe give Sif his body back while you’re at it??”

“Yeah!” Bonnie shouts, pointing at Asteria. “Give Frin back already, you…you…you body snatcher!”

Asteria looks Bonnie up and down consideringly. “I would if I could,” they say, “but even I don’t Know the exact mechanics of how I’m doing all this.”

“Excuse me?” Odile asks, going pale. “You’re messing with a volatile and dangerous Craft, chasing down a God, and taking control over one of our friend’s bodies to puppet it around without knowing what you’re doing?”

“Oh, I know what I’m doing,” Asteria says. “I just don’t Know how the actual Craftonomy is working in the background, though I have my theories.” An excitement bubbles behind the words, like this is something they’ve been eager to talk to someone about, and they start speaking faster. “It’s basis is in work I’ve done before, taking control of the power of man made Gods in order to reach the unreachable. Before, however, I was missing one vital component: the utilization of Wish Craft and the favor of the Universe itself.”

“The Universe?” Mirabelle asks, face scrunching as she tries to recall where she’s heard that word before. Something about…a religion maybe? Is it…the Island’s religion?

“Yes,” Asteria says, before Mirabelle can dwell too long on the sudden ache in her head. “The Universe leads and I follow, so as I will, the Universe assists. The path is laid out and we are rapidly approaching the end.”

“but the path can always be Changed!” the Change God argues, taking an angry step forward on Mirabelle’s lap, teetering dangerously. “my domain is the future itself, its endless possibilities! the free will of the people! (˚☐˚ )/ are you really going to risk destroying me on the off chance that it gets you what you want?”

Asteria tucks Siffrin’s head down, a familiar gesture where they hide their mouth beneath their cloak. The shadows deepen on their face, the light in the room seems to dim as the pressure in Mirabelle’s head increases. The air smells intensely of sugar, strong enough that she almost chokes on it.

“I’ve done my grieving,” Asteria says darkly. “I’m through with hesitating, I’m through with planning, I’m through with feeling empty. I want my brother.” They start reaching out towards the Change God, slow and precise like a predator closing in on wounded prey, their eye glowing in the newfound darkness, the circles almost seeming to spin inside of it. “ And you’re going to help me get him back.”  

“wuh-oh!” the Change God shouts, face morphing into horror as it launches itself backwards. “mirabelle, that’s your cue!! good luck, bye bye now! i love you!!! (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡ *beams you away*”

“Wha-?!” Mirabelle starts, mouth falling open in shock as the little Change God figurine raises both its hands to the sky. The world spasms, her vision flooding with a flash of bright, near clinical light that she can see nothing through, and then, everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

❂Approximately one month ago❂

Asteria is never sure how to describe what it feels like to be followed so closely by the Universe. The way it nips at their heels, hijacks their will, puppets them to the exact positions it wants them to be in.

Normally Artificers have the opposite problem, chasing after their elusive God and trying to figure out what it wants. They use all sorts of divining techniques, from tarot readings and crystal balls to star charts and changing seasons, to even get a glimpse behind the curtain, an ounce of understanding and purpose.

That’s how it’s supposed to be after all, how the saying goes. ‘The Universe leads, we can only follow.’

For Asteria, however, it feels less like following and more like being dragged along by her ankles.

They had tried to explain it to their brother once, when they were far younger and frightened by their newfound favor. They described the way it wrapped itself around her, its cold hands covering her eyes as it flooded her with Knowledge she could barely grasp, let alone hold onto. How scary it was, to come to somewhere with no recollection of how she got there, blinking away the afterimages of profiles and item descriptions.

He had listened intently, a concerned crease between his eyebrows. When Asteria’s words had petered out, unable to fully convey herself, he latched onto her hand, squeezing it tightly.

“I’m sorry the Universe is so mean to you,” they said, striking at the core of what she was saying with terrifying accuracy.

No one else on the Island would dare to say something so blasphemous, just repeating the same hollow reassurances in a broken loop. The Universe is infinite, they say, in its compassion, in its understanding, in its Knowledge. Let it show you, Asteria, let it teach you, let it love you.

Let it lead you.

Asteria’s brother had been different though, her polar opposite. Where the Universe had poked and prodded at her, it left them completely alone. She thinks she was jealous of that once, at least, until she lost them entirely.

Her world snaps back into focus abruptly, the freezing cold hands of the divine loosening their grip on her. She blinks, a kaleidoscope of different blurry shades jamming into her vision like an ice pick through their eyes. They reach up, grimacing as they cover their face.

They take a deep, steadying breath. Innn. And ouuut.

The ground beneath their feet is soft and unstable, shifting as a whistling wind brushes past her. They hear the sound of the ocean moving near them, pushing out to the shore before retreating again. The air is salt tinged, and they taste it on the tongue alongside the familiar sugary sweet that seems to follow them everywhere they go.

They let their hands drop again, squinting against the light of the midday sun. Miles and miles of sea stretching out in all directions. There’s a shimmering veil where the Wish Craft barrier begins, faint but visible. It ripples and distorts the air, the way heat does when it escapes the ground on blistering summer days.

Through the barrier, she can faintly see the hilly shapes that make up Vaugarde. It seems closer now than back when she was a child, but arguably far more out of reach. There’s a faint text hovering above the land mass, a gift of Knowledge from the Universe itself.

Vaugarde, the country’s profile reads. Home to the Change God and its worshippers. Cannot currently be physically traveled to.

”Thanks,” Asteria mutters dryly, massaging their temple with one of their knuckles. “That’s very helpful.”

It’s been a while since the Universe guided her somewhere so forcefully. While it’s become more and more normal over the years to feel that curious, insistent pull on the back of their mind, they’ve also got better at understanding what it wants without such direct influence.

They’re trying to retrace their steps and figure out how much time they’ve lost, when the shuffle of footsteps behind her alerts her of another presence. They glance over their shoulder to find a woman approaching them. 

She’s tall, her thick, curly hair a medium shade of gray. She tucks a strand of it behind her ear, revealing a dangling earring that ends in a small teardrop shaped jewel. The strap of a large portfolio bag is draped across her chest, and Asteria can see rolled up pieces of paper sticking out from the unzipped portions of it. She’s adorned with symbols of the Change God; a broach, a necklace, pins on her bag, rings on her fingers. 

A devout Vaugardian, it seems, trapped here on the island with the rest of them.

She doesn’t waver at Asteria’s curious, unblinking stare, resolutely looking back. The quiet drags on for a long moment, and Asteria studies the way her hand tightens on the strap of her bag, her knuckles a stark white.

“Excuse me,” the woman finally says, taking another step forward. “You’re an Artificer, right? I think I’ve seen you around the University before.”

Asteria nods slowly, her fingers drifting up to try to find the brim of her hat in order to show the woman her star pedant. When the movement comes up empty, she realizes she must have left it back in her room.

“That is correct,” she says instead, which is followed by another long pause where she watches the woman bite at her lip. There’s an awkward feeling in the air that Asteria can’t identify the cause of. “…What did you want?”

The woman flinches at their bluntness, but presses on anyway. “Well…I was just hoping that you knew if there had been any recent developments on breaking the Island Wish?”

Asteria frowns. “The University has been publishing star chart readings and tarot spread data on the town’s bulletin boards for years now,” they say. “Any and all updates that are available to the public have been posted there.”

“Yes, well,” the woman says, shifting her weight from foot to foot, “the thing is…I’m still not…super fluent in Lumish? Conversationally, I’m fine, but when it comes to science stuff? It wasn’t even my strongest subject in Vaugardian, I have no hope of reading about it in a whole other language.”

“Ah,” Asteria says eloquently.

They turn over their words in their head, running the calculations on how to best explain without worrying the woman.

The University has been calling upon her more recently, asking for her help. Apparently, the Universe is going quiet for most Artificers, even though in her head it’s louder than ever.

Tarot readings are going awry, the results of them jumbled, confusing, and filled with mixed messages. The stars have shifted, constellations sliding out of the sky like raindrops running down window panes. One morning, when she went to go check the crystal balls, she found one of them cracked, split right down the middle.

The God seems to be preparing for something big, something on the same scale as the Island Wish that was implanted ten years ago.

The Astrorevrand has been hounding them for weeks. Did Asteria Know something? Had she seen something? Could she tell them?

The answer to all these questions was a troubling no. They have no better idea of what the future might bring than they did when they were a teenager and their lack of Knowledge cost them their brother.

She realizes she’s been staring at the woman for too long without answering, however, watching her squirm with a gaze that’s curious and unblinking. 

They cock their head, turning their back to the ocean to face her more fully. “ Would it be easier to understand if I speak Vaugardian? ” they ask.

The woman starts, brushing her curl behind her ear again as the wind pushes it out of place. “Oh Change!” she says, switching languages herself. “Yes, please! If you know how to explain it in Vaugardian, that would be amazing!”

She sounds so relieved to hear her native tongue. Asteria thinks about how isolated she must feel, stuck here the way she is, and balls their hand into a fist by their side, nails digging crescents into their palm.

“The stars are slipping out of place,” Asteria says, unwilling to acknowledge or name any feelings bubbling up inside her. “When constellations stop lining up, it means that someone is potentially using large amounts of Wish Craft or, at the very least, preparing too. As no one has attempted such a thing here since the Island Wish, the only possible conclusion whatever is occurring is taking place off the island.”

“Off the island?” the woman asks. “Where off the island?”

“We’ve been trying to pinpoint that, using the…um…” Asteria pauses, unsure about how to explain this one in Vaugardian. “…predictions the Universe has given us through divination. The most likely location as we can figure out is Vaugarde.”

The woman pales. “Vaugarde?” she repeats quietly.

Asteria nods, uncertain. “Yes, Vaugarde,” they say. “We are trying to work backwards and figure out what the Wish might be, but it will most likely be impossible until the Universe gives us the Knowledge. We have no way of asking around over there after all.”

“Oh Change,” the woman whispers. She wobbles where she stands, a tremor running through her legs before she collapses onto her knees in the sand with a muted thump. “Oh Change, oh Change, no.”

Asteria watches the woman closely, unsure of what to do. It appears like she’s gone distant, wrapped up in a grief that they can recognize.

They don’t know where their brother is either after all. Vaugarde is the most likely place he wound up, it would be the closest to row their boat to. Would he stay there though? Could whatever Wish Craft at work be affecting him now?

Maybe. If they’re still alive.

Asteria shakes the thought from her head. No, her brother is alive. They have to be. She would know if they were dead, she would Know.

The woman stays kneeling on the lightless sand, still mumbling something that sounds like a prayer.

Asteria glances towards Vaugarde, a heavy sense of foreboding stirring within her. The clinical interest of the Universe nudges at the edge of her awareness, the text above the country becoming more tangible and stark across the murky grey sky.

It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming , the God chants to her in a voiceless hymn. Just wait, stay here.

Asteria turns back to the woman, watching her with a blank expression on their face, head tilted slightly. They take a cautious step forward, then another. They don’t sit down in the sand, the idea of it getting in their cloak sounds miserable, so they simply loom over the kneeling woman, waiting to get her attention. 

Their shadow stretches across her in the light of midday, as though it’s trying to hide her from the watchful eyes of the sun. When she finally seems to notice them, she shakes her head before looking up to meet their gaze. The dull sheen of tears gather in the corner of her eyes, her hands shaking as they hover uselessly in front of her.

Asteria shifts awkwardly, her expression stuck in its neutrality as she tries to think of what to say. She opens her mouth, closes it, then tries again.

”My brother wished to travel the world over,” she settles on finally, the words barely more than a breath. It feels dangerous to bring him up, but also somehow right to do so. The Universe hums in approval, the scent of sugar brushed in with the shifting tides. “Vaugarde was one of the first places they wanted to stop.”

“Oh?” the woman asks shakily.

Asteria nods. “I was supposed to leave with him,” she says, switching back into her native tongue as she gestures to the shimmering veil behind her. “I never got the chance to do so.”

”Oh…Are they…?”

”Gone,” Asteria affirms.

”I’m so sorry,” the woman says, looking like she genuinely means it. Her face scrunches up in pity, a single tear sliding down her cheeks. 

Asteria attention drifts down to the ground, avoiding further eye contact. They watch as the grains of sand rush past their feet, the breeze pushing them around in little clusters of stars that glitter in the light. The ocean fills the silence, the roar of the God that stirs deep beneath its waters.

”What is life like out there?” Asteria asks finally. “Off the island.”

The woman hums, and Asteria sees her wiping away her tears in the corner of their vision. “It isn’t much different from here, honestly,” she says. “People are people wherever you go. Their roots might give them different upbringings and different values, but everyone is unique, you know?”

Asteria nods even though she doesn’t really know. It’s not like she’s attempted to get close to many people over the course of her life. “You are from Vaugarde, yes? What is it like to have roots there?“

They sense more than see the woman’s demeanor shift, moving from grief into nostalgia. “Oh, it was beautiful there,” she tells Asteria. “There was so much freedom! Ability to go wherever you wanted, see whatever you wanted, dress however you wanted, be whoever you wanted! And the ability to Change what you want at any time! I don’t think I would’ve wanted to grow up anywhere else.”

Asteria scrunches their nose, disturbed by trying to imagine it. “That sounds…” they hesitate, searching for something polite to say, “…chaotic.”

The woman laughs. “You’re not entirely wrong,” she says. “There was some order to it though, traditions that have held up for generations. I can see how the overall practice might be unappealing to you as an Artificer though.”

“The Universe leads,” Asteria recites, nodding sagely, “and it moves slowly, following the laws of nature. From what I’ve learned of the Change belief, it seems to try and defy that.”

”Ah ah, if you’re looking for a philosophical debate, I’m probably not your best go for that,” the woman tuts. “I was never a Housemaiden, just a simple traveling artist.”

”If you loved your religion and your country so much, why not devote yourself to them then?“ Asteria asks, tilting her head curiously. “Why leave?”

The woman’s eyes narrow as she thinks, shifting as she slowly stands up and readjusts her bag on her shoulder. “Well,” she starts, “I grew up in a town called Dormont, right smack dab in the middle of Vaugarde! It was nice, but it was a really tiny town. I knew everyone there and had explored every inch of it by the time I was, like, ten.”

Asteria thinks of her brother, always dragging them around their town looking for new adventures. How, as they got older, the light seemed to dim a little in his eyes, growing bored with the repetitiveness of it all.

”But then,” the woman continues, a wistful smile lighting up her face like a sunbeam, “one day, my family all took a trip to a city on the coast! And it was amazing. Everyone there had so much energy and zest for life, especially the sailors. They told such cool stories about all the places they had been, and in that moment, I decided I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to take a sketchbook, travel the world, and record everything I saw and did.”

”And so you did it? You left, just like that?”

”Just like that,” the woman says with a nod. “I went all over before winding up in Lumikerta. Ka Bue, Mwudu, Rashand, the Eastern Deserts, you name it!”

”But now you’re trapped here.”

The woman’s pride dims. “Yes,” she agrees. “Now I’m trapped here.”

Asteria feels a pang of guilt for dampening the mood and winces. She doesn’t apologize though, can’t bring herself to do so when she’s only telling the truth.

They look over their shoulder instead, feeling the woman’s gaze follow, and they both stare at the barrier for a long moment. It remains unchanging, its oily sheen smearing across the sky.

The woman clears her throat, and Asteria turns back to her, watching as she brings her hands to the back of her neck. She unclasped her necklace, pulling away the silvery chain and presenting its large Change pedant to Asteria. It sways back and forth in the gentle breeze like a pendulum.

”Here,” she says, gesturing for Asteria to hold out their hand. “As a thanks for listening to me.”

Their fingers twitch by their side and, slowly, they lift up their hand, palm splayed out. The woman gently places the necklace down with a kind smile.

As she pulls away, Asteria thumbs the Change God’s symbol, feeling the circular ridges that have carved into the slick metal. It feels cold and weighty in their hands, and they can’t help but get the sudden feeling of being watched.

She can’t dwell on the sensation for long though, as a sudden burst of wind blows over the coast, bringing in the sudden scent of hot sugar, so strong that it burns the inside of her nose and overwhelms any other odors.

Here, here, here! the Universe cries out joyfully. Broken, failing, rotting! 

The ground beneath their feet shakes. Across the sea, the sky that spans over the country of Vaugarde cracks open like an egg. A familiar, violent shade spills out from the fissure, a shade Asteria’s only seen once before, and it fills the void as though the Universe itself was pouring it out to hold together the empty space.

“Oh Change!” the woman shouts, stumbling back a step. Her face lights up with the strange shade, washing out her features and making her look nearly unnatural. “What is that?”

Asteria drinks in the sight, still as a statue and entirely unblinking. Possibilities shuffle through her mind, calculations and theories that she’s sorting through as fast as she can.

This is Craft, most certainly, but what kind? Wish Craft? Something adjacent? Something just as ancient and unfathomable as the wish that still currently surrounds the island?

The sand under their feet vibrates with anticipation. The waves glitter with a hint of the livid shade, reflecting off their darkless foam, like light hitting shards of broken glass.

There’s a sudden movement in the center of the storm, some mountain sized structure shifting under the cover of darkness like it’s a hungry beast. Its fingers flex, revealing the hand attached to it, silently cutting through the sea of silently watching stars.

Asteria hears a voice speaking over the hum of static in the air, each syllable breathing a puff of sugary sweetness through her thoughts. The words don’t come in the Universe’s familiar voiceless drawl though, nor with its intent or its ethereal energy. 

No, this is a voice they Know. One that has deepened with age but still speaks in that same brittle tone, desperate to be understood but terrified of being heard.

“EVERYONE GOING THEIR SEPARATE WAYS…EVERYONE GOING HOME…THIS IS NOT WHAT I WISHED FOR!!!”

Asteria's face goes slack with shock, hand dropping to her side. The pedant slides from her palm, only holding onto her hand by the chain wrapping itself around her index finger. She mouths her brother’s name, not able to get enough of a breath to put any power behind it.

The end of the world as they know it lasts only a moment longer, before the light flickers and dissipates in a starburst pattern. Gray clouds roll over the country, as if embarrassingly trying to cover up the mess of the world itself breaking apart. 

The pressure eases, like the Universe has finally stopped to catch its breath. The scent of sugar in the air remains unrelenting, however, burning its way down Asteria’s throat and chewing at her from the inside out.

A hand lands on Asteria’s shoulder, startling them, and they turn to face whoever it is, wide eyed, stumbling backward. Their breath catches, each exhalation a quick, painful, panicked puff of air.

“Sorry!” the Vaugardian woman yelps, lifting both her hands up. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just—“ She glances over Asteria’s shoulder, at Vaugarde, lip trembling. 

“What was that?” she repeats, quiet and unsteady.

Asteria’s mouth opens and shuts like a dying fish, unable to formulate any thoughts besides those of her brother. Their voice echoes through her head, so familiar, and more importantly, so alive.

But he had sounded frightened, they realize, a cold sinking feeling following the immediate relief. He had sounded like he was in pain, and from here, what could Asteria do about it?

A glint of something catches Asteria’s attention, and they glance down to find the Change pedant dangling down from their finger still, swaying back and forth in the sweet scented wind.

She rolls it up into her hand again, more intently studying it. Each divot in its metal representing another layer of existence, the interconnection of the planes layered atop one another.

Cannot currently be physically traveled to, she thinks, remembering Vaugarde’s profile. What if she didn’t travel physically though? What if she took the route of the Gods? 

Could traveling on another plane mean she bypasses the need to pass through the barrier of Island Wish in its entirety? Could it maybe even let her access the God maintaining the barrier?

The most important question though, was how would she be able to manage any of that? It would require an intense amount of energy. More so than Wish Craft could supply on its own, even if she poured all the favor she had into the rituals.

A gentle rustling sound echoes near them, jerking them from their thoughts. They turn to find an owl perched on one of the fallen logs embedded in the sand. It cocks its head curiously at her, an unnatural glint in its wide, dark eyes, the leftover bits of the violent shade lingering in the reflection of its pupils. A mouse hangs out from its beak, limp and injured, but still clinging to life.

Finally, the Universe whispers as its voiceless presence starts to retreat, you’ll be able to go home!!!

Asteria watches as the bird rears back, before taking flight once more. It soars right over head, covering them momentarily in shadow as it passes. She stares after it, even once it disappears into the tree line, her turbulent thoughts racing.

The Change God’s pedant feels heavier in their hand than it did a moment ago, and they shoot it a quick glance before they meet the woman’s eyes again. Their stare is distant, cold, and unrelenting, enough so that the woman freezes underneath it like a bug pinned into place.

“What’s going on?” she asks again, voice wavering as she brings a hand up to clutch at the strap of her bag. “Do you…do you, you know… Know?”

Asteria cocks their head, and the same ethereal gleam that had been in the owl's stare flickers in their own. “I believe,” they say carefully, speaking in a measured calm, “that was a message from the divine, alerting us to the beginning of the end.”

“The…the beginning of the end?” she asks, grip going white knuckled on her bag.

“Don’t fret,” Asteria comforts, though their tone has lost any of the warmth that might’ve sounded reassuring. “Your part in this ends here. All that’s left to do now is wait.”

With that matter settled, they brush past her and begin trudging back towards town, ignoring the strangled noise the woman makes. It’s unimportant now.

They have work to do.

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

It’s early evening on the island and you’re walking down to its beaches, right on the edge of the familiar farmland that leads into your small town. You’d been unceremoniously banished from your house after you had hit all the grownups annoyance threshold; alternating from bothering your mama as she tried to make dinner, to your dad while he poured over his manuscripts, and finally making your way to your mom as she worked on Crafting some new tools for the farmhands.

Your mom always seemed to have the most patience, and it wasn’t until you almost touched burning iron that she finally saw fit to throw you out. She looked up from her work, pointing at your sister with a trademark stern expression, and then jerked her thumb towards the door. “Go,” she ordered. “Both of you, get out, get some air, and be back before the sun’s fully set.”

You counted this as a win, if only because it got Asteria to finally glance up from that gigantic book they had been reading, perched on one of the stools near the unlit fireplace. It was thicker than your head and heavier than a hammer, some research about crafting that had the Artificer’s seal on it.

They’ve been obsessed with it recently, almost unable to be pulled away for more than a second. Sometimes you’ll talk to them, and they won’t even look up! Your parents are having the same issue, you think, coaxing her into eating and taking breaks.

From what you can guess, it's a collection of Wish Craft research, which would make sense with the seal on the cover. But that would also mean the material was way above anything you two were learning in school right now. And while you know the Astroreverend’s been giving them private lessons since the Universe granted her favor, you didn’t think she’d be ahead enough to get loans from the University already. 

Normally, you’d get them to explain it to you, but the topic is so nuanced and intricate that you think anything they tell you would go right over your head.

You’ll take what you can get of her company though. Walking side by side down to the shores, a matching set, little specks of white hidden in the growing darkness. Styled the same, wearing the same cloaks, lovingly designed lengths of fabric draped down to your knees and crafted to grow alongside you. 

Your mama’s mentioned maybe getting you a pair of matching hats for your birthday, celebrating the fact that you’re one step closer to enrolling in University. Aster’s already shown some distaste for the idea though, so don’t mention it but you secretly hope your sister doesn’t wear theirs. It’d be nice to have something that was just your own.

The sun is the size of a fingernail now, resting on the edge of the horizon line, and its fading burn turns the lightless sand in front of you into glitter. The air is sweet, the ever present wind mixing together the scent of salt, oranges, and summer heat to an almost overpowering point.

You perk up at the sight of the ocean, at the line of boats that stretches out on the edge of the water. You spot your family’s fishing boat immediately, the tiniest one out of the collection of sea vessels. You tug a silent Asteria along behind you as you start making your way towards them.

She’s been quiet on the walk, quieter than she normally is when it’s just the two of you even. You can practically hear the way the gears are turning in their brain, their body physically here but mind somewhere else.

You don’t mind though. At the very least, it doesn’t seem like the Universe is trying to insert itself into your time together, that familiar burnt caramel smell noticeably absent.

Asteria comes to a sudden stop, planting her feet in the sand, and causing you to jerk backwards when you try to keep walking, clumsily stumbling over yourself not to lose your balance.

”Hey!” you cry, spinning around to grab onto her arm with both of your hands. “What are you doing? Why’d you stop?”

“That island,” Asteria says abruptly, looking over your shoulder. She points out across the sea with the hand not entwined with yours, her voice quiet and flat as she just barely breathes the words out. “What’s it called?”

You follow their gaze, looking out into the distance. Jutting out from the ocean, miles away and barely visible through the clouds, a silhouette of a country presses dimly against the evening sky. There’s not much interesting about it, other than the fact that it’s a world away from the island you’re currently standing on.

“That’s Vaugarde, I think?” you say. “It’s not an island though, it’s a country that’s part of a con-tea-net.”

“A con-tea-net?”

“It’s like a big island, rather than a little one like ours,” you say, tugging your hand out of hers in order to try to show just how big it could be with just the span of your arms. “It’s got a bunch of different countries on it too.”

Asteria turns this over for a minute, then nods. “…Do you think the stars would look different over there?” she asks hesitantly.

You blink, lowering your hands. You take a step towards your sister, and lean over until she can see you in her peripherals. She staunchly doesn’t look at you, and you grin, circling around her like a shark that’s caught the scent of blood.

”Why do you ask?“ you say impishly, reaching out and poking their cheek once you're on their other side, taking great pleasure in the way they grimace. “Do you… GASP!!!” You shout the word rather than perform the action.

Asteria glowers at you.

”Is my sister—my devout, routine loving, star child of a sister—!” You lower your voice conspiratorially for the most dramatic effect, “…thinking about going on a pilgrimage?”

”No,” Asteria replies, matter of fact, as they bat your hand away from their face. “But you want to leave. So I should be ready, right?”

You stare at them, quizzically tilting your head. “…I thought you said you didn’t want to leave home?”

Asteria turns to you, finally meeting your eyes with a bland but intense look that just screams ‘Uh…DUH!!!’. It’s so startling that it almost forces a laugh out of you, but you cut it off before it becomes more than a sharp inhale.

They sigh, and you can’t help like you’ve missed something critical. You don’t have time to pick it apart or get upset over it though, as they are already crouching down, picking up a stray stick. They draw a squiggly circle in the lightless sand, then tap it three times.

“This is our home,” she says, “And this—“

They draw another circle. Then give it two dots for eyes, a crooked grin that’s a bit slanted, and an odd outline of edges and curves that are trying to imitate hair. They add a triangle for a cloak, and give it feet for good measure.

“—this is my home.” Asteria looks up at you, the fading sunlight glinting in their eyes. “Do you understand?”

You feel your face heat up, cheeks darkening as you tuck your chin into your cloak. It’s not like Asteria to be overly sentimental, and the suddenness of it catches you off guard. They must have been dwelling on this for a while now, and the idea of that warms you to the core as much as it weighs on you for not noticing before.

“I get it,” you say eventually, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. You swallow thickly, holding out your hand to her to help her up. She takes it, still gripping onto the stick with her other hand.

You both stop looking at each other, instead staring out at the unchanging, unknown landscape of Vaugarde. 

The sun has fully set now, and the continent is slowly but surely losing its shape, fading into the lightlessness of the night. The sea fills the empty space, waves gently gliding across smooth sand with a soft roar. The two of your hands are still locked together. You can feel sweat dripping down your wrist, but her palm remains cool and dry.

“Hey,” you say when you find your voice again. You feel your sister turn to look at you, but can’t bring yourself to meet the intensity of their gaze. If you did, you wouldn’t be able to say this.

“You’re…” You start, then stop, wet your lips and try again. “…You’re my home too.”

Asteria hums in response, in a way you can’t read anything into. If they’re just acknowledging you, feel relieved, or are entirely disbelieving, you’d never be able to guess. You feel their eyes drift away from you again. “Where the Universe leads,” they say, so soft it’s barely audible.

You grimace at the mention of the God, pointedly not finishing the familiar prayer.

”Come on,” you say, subdued, tugging Asteria’s hand as you nod your head towards the tree line. You don’t want to be on the beach any more, the sight of Vaugarde is making your stomach queasy and uncomfortable. “We should start heading back. Dinner’s probably ready.”

You can feel Asteria’s Knowing look, burning itself into the side of your head. She doesn’t call you out on it though. “Alright,” she quietly agrees.

She crouches down to put the stick back in the sand, right next to her drawings. You stare at the crude picture of yourself for another long moment, the little grin Asteria depicted you with, before she stands and you start to lead her away, abandoning the memory of the drawings to be erased by wind and time.

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

(You obtained a MEMORY OF HOME)

❂ ✪ ☾ ✪ ❂

By this point, Loop considers themself an unwilling participant to their own continued existence. 

Their life so far has been one long, cosmic joke anyway. A set up for a punch line they couldn’t predict, one that the Universe is whispering to some other God at a fancy cocktail party it hosted solely to celebrate their misfortune. Honestly, is it truly a surprise that they can’t even die correctly at this point? 

They don’t even get the pleasure of slowly slipping into consciousness again either. Instead it slams directly into them like an oncoming train. Every part of them hurts in unfamiliar ways, leaving them feeling more alienated from their body since they first became a star.

Sensation returns to their newfound limbs in jagged, jerk steps. Their fingers twitch at their sides, but everything else feels far too heavy to move. A dull thudding loops in their chest, a painful growing pressure, like something’s clawing at their ribs in an attempt to escape.

It takes a long, uncomfortable second to realize it's the feeling of their beating heart, the struggle of their lungs. They gag, gasping for air they forgot they needed to breathe and choking on it when it’s all too much.

They try to open their eyes, squinting as bursts of fuzzy shades explode into their vision.

When their eyes adjust, they can see that wherever they are, it’s darker than the night sky, emptied out. It’s reminiscent of the place the Universe sent them to grant their wish, that hollow in between, devoid of people.

There’s a sense of pressure here that wasn’t present when they made their own wish though, an uncanny energy that buzzes through the air like static. The sharp scent of sugar fills the nothing, like this alternate plane had been set up adjacent to a bakery. It feels distinctly separated from space and time however, like it’s not truly of this reality, simply running parallel to the laws of nature.

Loop pushes themself up slowly, each movement taking a near Herculean effort. Their elbows dig in the solid nothingness below them, grating against their skin like concrete, but after a bit of flailing they manage to get upright.

They groan, running a hand down their face as a sudden, sharp pain echoing through every thought. Stars, it feels like someone took a hammer to their skull…

…their face? Their skull? They don’t…They don’t have those any more. They…

Both their hands scramble up to explore their face, trembling fingers lingering over features that they’re no longer supposed to have. The bridge of a nose, the ridge of a cheekbone, the sharp edges of teeth hidden behind their lips. They feel the dip of two, exposed eye sockets, though they still can’t see out of the left one.

Loop’s breath hitches without their consent, gasping like some startled house husband in a Vaugardian comedy. They rip their hands away from their face as though the skin had burned them, and then are struck mute once more as they get a good look at their own calloused palms. Scars etch their way into darkless skin, nicks from their own knife that they can’t remember getting.

They had grown so used to the void their body had become, that empty, hollow space crafted in the shape of a person, that now seeing their own skin is off putting. They glance down at their body to find their old cloak has been returned to them, the fabric clean but tattered from wear and tear.

They run a finger across the stitching, the same back stitching that had been on their stardust’s cloak. Function over form, isn’t that what the Fighter said? Perhaps this is the Universe’s sick gift to them after forcing them back into this troublesome flesh prison. After all, as a star they had been all form and show, with little actual function or agency of their own. Flashy, distracting, helpful. But like this…

Well, they’re nothing more than a useless copy now, and what function does that have?

Loop’s vision blurs, and for a brief moment they panic about losing their last good eye. They lift up a hand to delicately touch the skin underneath it, and when it comes back damp, they realize that they are simply having the normal, bodily reaction of crying during a breakdown.

They stare at the little drops of tears on their fingers, blinking dumbly at them in a way that just causes more to stream down their face. They hiccup and it burns, their throat burns like they had swallowed flames, and didn't they? Isn’t a star nothing but fire, condensed?

They hiccup again, and then suddenly break into a laughing fit at the absurdity of it all. That burns too, each hitch of desperate, manic laughter rubbing against the sides of their esophagus like a match.

They keep laughing though. It’s all they can do. Obviously, the first thing their body gives them, as a new, reborn, fully fledged human being, are tears.

Stupid little Siffrins, always so fragile. Always so eager to break things, even besides themselves! Stardust might’ve broken the stage to give the Universe a show, but Loop had broken the cast first. They banished both themself and their whole party into some realm of nonexistence, where only they came out on the other side.

And all because they couldn’t be vulnerable enough with them for it to make a difference! Couldn’t perfect their lines in time!

Their laughter shifts into sobs, which somehow hurt even worse. Each choked out gasp is laced with a hoarse yell that rattles around the empty space, each stuttering breath is punched out with a wheeze.

Their face is all puffy and hot, tear tracks burning their way down their cheeks. Snot drips out of their nose, and they reach one aching hand up to wipe it away, then wince at the slimy, grossness of it.

Ugh. They forgot how horribly disgusting having a physical form was, even outside of the constant death, rinse, repeat cycles they caught up in their loops.

Loop is debating whether they want to stand up and try to get their bearings, or lay back down and test their newfound body’s ability to starve, when the pressure in the air bubbles up, distant lights moving like ripples on water. Someone new just entered space, a foreign body that shouldn’t be here, doesn’t belong.

They don’t know how they Know this, but they do. It feels similar to the information they had access to as their stardust’s sponsor, intrinsically linked to the unchanging Dormont as they were. The Knowledge beamed into their mind, flickering images of profiled or the in between spaces that they navigated to help stardust loop to whenever they wanted.

They assume it was the Universe’s influence that gave them the ability, the power to ‘help themself’. A show of favor, yes, it just would’ve been nice if it had given it to them in their own blinding timeline.

A gentle chime rings out, followed by a current of warm light that rushes out in a wide arc underneath them. It sends an electric tide of static up their arms and legs, like they had been sitting on them wrong. They scramble upright at the shock, legs as unsteady as a newborn fawn, and have to pinwheel their arms just to keep balanced.

Another chime comes, and its hollow ring is echoed by an ache in Loop’s chest, right where their star used to be. They look down at themself to find their torso fainting glowing beneath their cloak, and a flash of panic hits them, heart leaping as anxiety cuts into them like a wound that’s been reopened.

They start ripping away at the pins of their cloak, fighting to get it open with shaking fingers. They have to know what’s underneath it, have to know what’s burning them. Because, their chest, it burns, it burns, it burns, and they can’t get in a solid breath to save their life, or what little of one they have left.

They ignore the continued ringing of non-existent bells, in a non-existent place, hesitantly shuffling around and falteringly getting closer. Right now, nothing matters more to Loop than seeing the state of their body, making sure nothing’s wrong with it. And isn’t that ironic? For all their gripes about being alive, they’re still scared of something being wrong with them.

As if there isn’t already, haha!!!

They finally manage to get their cloak open, and immediately rip the front of their shirt up in a desperate motion. Their breath catches in their inflamed throat.

The skin of their torso is lightless and opaque. They can see their ribs, wrapping around from their spine and attaching to their sternum. They watch as their lungs inflate and deflate with each shallow, nervous breath. The flesh gradients back to normal just above their belly button, and they can just barely see the tops of their organs there.

The strangest thing of it all though, is their shining heart. It glows beneath their lungs, like a star hidden behind clouds. The four pointed scar that used to make up their chest lies over top of it, their heart the center point. Lightless blood clearly pumps through it, but the organ itself is too bright to make out.

Loop feels like they’re going to puke. They don’t think they can, they haven’t eaten in…what feels like years. Their body does give it a valiant effort though, as they hunch over and dry heave, sweat beading down their brow. Stars, could this possibly get any worse?

The rings of light have picked up speed over the course of their self exploration, ripples racing underneath their feet in quick succession. Whatever’s causing them is nearly on top of Loop now, but they can’t worry about that, not now. The trembling hand not holding up their shirt reaches up towards their heart. Not when—

“Siffrin?!”

Loop startles so hard that they nearly trip and fall flat on their face, tugging their shirt back down in a harsh, jerky motion that strains the fabric. Their head snaps back, staring over their shoulder in horror at the familiar face looking back at them.

The Housemaiden stands a few feet away, looking just as appalled to see Loop as they are to see her. Her hands hover over her mouth, eyes wide as they dart across their features. They’re helpless to do anything but study her in return, jaw hanging open.

She’s styled in a way Loop has never seen before, hair pulled back into a tight, curly bun. Her outfit is a lightless, sleeveless top and a grey skirt that’s draped down to her knees. She wears a belt tied around her waist, and pinned to it are her rapier and two familiar Change God broaches, teardrop jewels falling from the symbols and still dinging faintly in the silence. She keeps on her standard boots, black tights, and darkless gloves that wrap around her middle finger and reach her elbows.

Loop can see her profile, fuzzily appearing behind her. It’s bare bones; just her name and pronouns, her craft types, and a short blurb is all they get to work with, the same as with their stardust. They squint to try to make out the words. 

Mirabelle: A pilgrimaging Housemaiden originally from the town of Dormont, it reads. One of the five Saviors of Vaugarde who defeated the King.

The silence stretches on, long and taut like a rubber band pulled to snapping. Loop’s heart hums in their chest, a ball of nervous heat, and pulls their cloak tighter around themself. They feel the sudden, desperate need to cover themself up and hide, ashamed of the inhuman thing they’ve become.

This seems to jolt the Housemaiden back into gear. She takes a hurried step towards them, worry etching itself into the lines of her face, which in turn sends Loop stumbling back a step themself. Gentle chimes follow the harsh movements, rippling out from both their feet in glittery waves that disappear when they clash against each other.

The Housemaiden hesitates. Slows down. Keeps a wary eye on Loop, as though they’re some kind of injured animal ensnared in a trap, ready to lash out at any second. Like she’s got the bright and noble idea of trying to help them, even when they’re more likely to just injure them both in the process.

If she had more common sense, she wouldn’t even make an attempt. Can she not see that Loop is wrong? A disgusting mistake of existence? They’re not Siffrin anymore, can’t be, and, deep down, shouldn’t she at least be able to recognize that?

She’s on top of them before they can fully react, slowed down as they are by their overwhelming panic. She leans into their space, hand half reaching towards them, and her soft face and kind eyes are too much for Loop. She’s not allowed to look at them like that, not when she thinks she’s looking at someone else.

They stumble back, hands covering their eyes, a stupid child playing make believe that if they can’t see the monsters, the monsters can’t see them either. But in this case they're the monster though, aren’t they? The monster of their own story, a fun piece of exposition. The ghost that haunted the narrative, only to end as a footnote.

Their breath hitches in their throat, and their eyes feel sore again, and oh stars, they’re not really about to start crying again, are they?

Loop feels the Housemaiden standing in front of them, and flinches when her hands gently wrap around their wrists. She doesn’t let up though, because she knows they don’t really mind touch now. That they crave it. Even if they didn’t tell her, even if it was stardust, it doesn’t change the truth of it.

She pulls their hands away from their face, meeting their eyes with a concerned frown and her brows pinched tightly together. “Siffrin,” she repeats. “It’s ok. Breathe with me?”

They know she’s only worried because she doesn’t know who they are yet, doesn’t know what they are. Still though, something in Loop loosens at the gentleness in her tone, easing an ache they hadn’t known was there. They stare at her, wide eyed and dazed, but follow her lead as she takes a deep breath, iiiiiin. And ouuuuuut.

Loop takes the pause to study the Housemaiden closer, so similar yet so different from the one they knew. She holds herself with a kind of confidence that they had never seen on her before, spine straight and hands steady around their wrist. There’s an ease there, despite the tension of the situation, and they realize that if she’s defeated the King, it also must mean she’s medicated again.

This was a future that Loop had barred from their own Mirabelle. All for the sake of a stupid, blinding wish.

What a disgusting monster they are.

Loop is jostled out of another spiral by the gentle feeling of the Housemaiden’s thumb brushing underneath their left eye, as she shifts her grip from their wrists in order to cup their cheeks.

Their hands fly up to grab onto her wrists, startling her in return. She blinks at them, before her face shifts into something soft and concerned. Her bubbly features are practically hand crafted to be comforting, even as she chews nervously on her lip.

“What…What happened, Siffrin?” she asks. “You…your scar! It’s gone! And-and…your hair, it’s—”

“My…hair?” they echo, words rusty in their dry, painful throat. “What’s wrong…with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, per say!” the Housemaiden quickly reassures, removing the hand from their right cheek so she can comb it through their hair instead. “It’s just longer. And the tips! The tips aren’t dyed any more.”

Loop slowly follows her movement, running their fingers through the same strands of wavy hair that she did.

The Housemaiden’s right, it’s longer than they expected it to be, running all the way down to the middle of their torso. There’s no sign of black dye in its tips either, just a solid river of white draping down from their scalp. They reach up to touch the roots, confirming that their hat has vanished as well.

“I…” Loop says, then swallows harshly. “I’m…not sure, what happened…Where…are we?”

The Housemaiden slowly looks away from them in order to glance around the surroundings, looking left and right, then over their shoulder. Her frown deepens. “I don’t really know myself. The last thing I remember is the Change God sending me here. They called it…another plane, I think? I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean though!”

Loop blinks. “The…Change God…sent you here?”

“Oh!” the Housemaiden exclaims, clasping her hands together. She gives Loop a once over. “Sorry, I forgot you were asleep for all that, but…y-yes! The Change God sent me here! To find you!!!”

She says it so forcefully that Loop immediately knows she’s leaving bits of the story out. They don’t press her on it though, almost unwilling to do so.

“Well…you found me,” Loop says, lifting up their shaky fingers and waving their hands around with a little flourish. “Ta-da. But what do we do next?”

“Well!” the Housemaiden says, then stops. She spins around in a circle, clearly searching for any landmarks, and growing more wary when she doesn’t find any. She brings a hand to her mouth, going to place a nail between her teeth.

“Nails,” Loop chides reflexively.

“Wha-? Oh.” The Housemaiden pulls her hand about from her mouth, giving Loop a bright smile that doesn’t show any of her nerves, filled with affection. “Thank you Siffrin.”

Loop feels their face flush, and they tuck it into their cloak to try and hide it. The Housemaiden notices, because of course she does, but she doesn’t say anything, only hides a laugh behind her hand.

“Well, we should probably try to figure out where we are,” she says. “And probably also some way to get out of here?”

”So…what?” Loop asks. “We pick a direction and start walking in it then?”

The Housemaiden winces, and Loop feels a little mean. She doesn’t dwell though, instead just shrugging her shoulders. “Probably?” she says. “I don’t see much of a better option, do you?”

Loop doesn’t.

They pick a direction, the Housemaiden taking the lead for once as Loop lingers behind, thoughts churning. Another plane, the Housemaiden had said? They’ve heard someone talking about those before, heard them speak about the different layers of reality at length even when they didn’t understand all the technical jargon behind it all. But who had that been…?

The split second memory overlaps with the present. A hand entwined with Loop’s, gently pulling them along a beach with lightless sand. Their back to them, long wavy white hair a mess of wind blown tangles.

“What’s that?” the Housemaiden asks, suddenly stopping, and the memory collapses in Loop’s head, wiped away.

They follow her finger towards where she’s pointed, and their eyes land on a small speck of white in the distance, so small that it’s more the impression of something being there rather than anything definable. Still though, despite it being the first landmark they’ve encountered, Loop can’t help but feel an odd surge of dread.

“I’m not sure,” they say quietly. “Something tells me we don’t want to find out though.”

“Do you think it’s dangerous?” the Housemaiden asks, tilting her head.

Loop starts to nod, then pauses, before shaking their head. “No…Not dangerous, but…” they say, and trail off. The first word that comes to their mind to describe it is ‘familiar’, and that sudden thought scares them more than the presence itself. “Just, come on, let’s try going the other way for now.”

They turn on their heel, expecting the Housemaiden to follow their lead, and then freeze before taking a single step.

There, mirrored out in the distance, is that same speck of white, waiting for them. When Loop glances over their shoulder, it’s back where it was before. They spin in a circle, and the shape follows wherever they land.

”Ooooh, this is just like something out of the ‘Hellish Abyss’,” the Housemaiden whispers fretfully, sweating as she clasps her hands in front of her.

Loop sighs. “Well, it looks like whatever it is, it isn’t going to let us leave without a visit.”

With no other choices but to sit and do nothing, the two of them begin walking towards the speck. It grows bigger far quicker than it should, defying the logic of things like time and space, and providing further evidence to Loop that, wherever they are, it doesn’t abide by the rules they’re used to.

Soon enough, other flickers of light begin joining the white speck, haphazardly scattered through the darkness like tiny stars. They grow in number as they get closer, hundreds of them filling up the space.

It’s only when one gets right overhead, that Loop realizes all of them are people. Suspended in the air, slumped against barriers that don’t obey any laws of gravity. The person above them is out cold, their white hair springing from their hair in crunchy curls, and chest shallowly moving with each breath.

The Housemaiden gasps, rushing forward. She reaches an arm out and stands on her tiptoes, as though she could pull them down with enough effort. She cups her other hand around her mouth to amplify her shout.

“Hey!” she yells. “Are you ok?! Can you hear me? We’re here to help you!”

The person doesn’t even stir.

Loop swallows, coming up behind her and taking a gentle hold of wrist to pull her arm down. 

“Hous-“ they start, and immediately stop, catching themself before her title comes out of their mouth. They take a deep, grounding breath.

“Mirabelle,” they try again, speaking in a quick, low tone so they can move past the way her name feels so wrong to say. “I don’t think they’re going to wake up that easily.”

The Housemaiden frowns, frantic disappointment radiating off of her. She bites her lip, and Loop can see the beginning of tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. “What are we supposed to do then?”

Loop nods towards the white speck, which is now something more of a white blob. “We go figure out what that is first.”

The Housemaiden takes a shaky breath, eyes fluttering as she collects herself. She opens them, and an anger overtakes over her, one that Loop has seen before at any mention of the King. Righteous, and on the behalf of someone other than herself.

“Right!” she agrees, nodding and quickly starting towards the blob with a newfound purpose. “Let’s go!!!”

Loop hurries along after her.

It takes a few more minutes of walking before the shape becomes another person, sitting up in the endless darkness. Unlike the constellations of people decorating the rest of the space, this person is entirely awake, watching them approach with an unrelenting and curious gaze.

Loop’s steps falter. The person’s face is almost an exact replica of their own, each feature a near perfect copy, and they wear the same cloak. Their lightless hair is longer than Loop’s is, far messier too, cascading down their head in tangled waves with a large loose piece hanging right between their eyes. Their pupils are unnatural, made up of concentric circles that ripple into their irises in tiny waves.

Her inhuman eyes bore into Loop, and they squirm underneath the weight, feeling as though she’s looking straight through them. They track the way her hungry gaze moves down to their chest, where their star stays hidden under their cloak, before she looks back up to meet their stare evenly.

Beside Loop, the Housemaiden gasps. “Siffrin?!”

Loop looks up at her instinctively, but she’s not looking at them. They follow her shocked gaze, and feel their own jaw fall open.

There, laying on the person’s lap, is Loop’s stardust. The real Siffrin, fast asleep. They look much the same as the last time Loop saw them, right after trying to murder them but prior to disappearing, though their hair is a tiny bit longer. Their sister softly combs her fingers through it.

“Brother, ” they say, ignoring the Housemaiden entirely. Their voice is little more than a breath, though a choir of other voices repeat them, volume growing as the words echo out from the sleeping bodies around them. It’s faint, but Loop thinks they can even hear the hint of their stardust’s voice beneath it all, though they can’t see his mouth move. “I see you’ve found your way here without me having to come to you. I appreciate that.”

Next to them, the Housemaiden winces, her hands staggering up to cover her ears.

“Asteria,” Loop breathes, memories that have plagued their nonexistence rushing up to greet them. Her name in their mouth feels as familiar as it does foreign. “What are you doing here? What is this place?”

“This is an ancient plane, between that of the Universe and the Earth, ” they tell Loop, and it’s only when the Housemaiden whimpers, curling in on herself, that they realize Asteria’s speaking in the Forgotten language. “Don’t worry, you’re safe here.”

Loop takes an aborted step towards the Housemaiden, hands hovering useless above her shoulders. They look up at their sister, a rivulet of sweat running down their cheek. “Can you…You can speak Vaugardian, right? Can you do that?”

Asteria hums and drops her head, curiously tilting it until she’s able to see the Housemaiden’s face where she’s hunched over. “For you, yes,” she says as she switches languages, accent thick around the words. The strange echoing choir ceases, the silence intensifying without it.

There’s an implied danger there, even through their flat tone. A veiled threat in Asteria’s unnatural gaze that says if Loop wasn’t there, she’d be having far less courtesy.

Unthinkingly, they take a protective step towards the Housemaiden, hand moving for a dagger that isn’t there. Asteria's knowing eyes track the movement, before she huffs and pulls herself upright, gently sifting Siffrin in her lap.

“Umm…” the Housemaiden hums, grimacing as she straightens. Her fingers shake, face pale and pained. “I’m sorry, this seems like a reunion of some sort, and I’m not trying to interrupt but…I’m…really confused!”

“Wow, how interesting Mirabelle!” Loop exclaims, trying to ignore how sour her name tastes as they clap their hands together. “Because I am also very confused. Perhaps this is where you come in my dearest, darling sister?”

“Si-Sister?!” the Housemaiden squeaks.

Asteria’s expression doesn’t even twitch, but somehow Loop can sense the amusement that rolls off of them. “I see the last ten years haven’t changed you after all,” she observes dryly.

“Yes, well,” they say, looking away and refusing to meet her eyes. “There’s only so much you can lose of yourself until all that remains is the role you were crafted to fill.”

They feel Asteria’s eyes boring holes into them, too understanding. And when the Housemaiden leans back into their line of sight, a concerned frown on her face, it’s all too much. They squeeze their eyes shut, balling their hands into fists tightly enough that their chipped nails dig into the flesh of their palms.

“Siffrin…” the Housemaiden says slowly, keeping her voice soft and gentle. “Are you—?”

“Housemaiden Mirabelle,” Asteria interrupts.

“Ah! Yes?!”

Loop takes a deep breath, in and out, composing themself. When they manage to get it together enough to open their eyes, they find all of Asteria’s unnaturally intense attention has turned to the poor Housemaiden. Their gaze is slightly out of focus though, not entirely present.

“A blessed Housemaiden, perhaps not in the way Vaugarde expected, but favored by your God all the same,” they say, enunciating every word like their reading them from a sheet of paper. “You overcame the deluded Kosmoknight through sheer force of will, combined with the love of your faith. Commendable.”

“Oh…well, thank you!” Mirabelle says, looking pleased but also deeply uncomfortable with the praise. “I really couldn’t have done it without my friends though, and honestly…I didn’t even do too much in the end, I just reflected his attack back at him!”

Loop thinks that’s a gross understatement about how much involvement she had in defeating the King. How she started that journey alone and scared, and finished it braver and stronger. How she’s grown and Changed, even in the time that Loop had met her.

This isn’t their Mirabelle though, so they bite their tongue.

Asteria hums. “Regardless,” they say, stroking a hand through stardust’s hair, “it appears your God believes you have the Knowledge and will power to Change fate. I disagree with this assessment, though your presence here does inform me that there are things I have failed to account for.”

The Housemaiden doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that, but Loop does. They roll their eyes. 

“Could you stop trying to be all wise and mysterious?” they ask. “I know the ‘Universe speaks through you’ or whatever, but you sound like a soothsayer about to give a cheesy tarot reading.”

The unnatural glint disappears from Asteria’s eyes, their irises flickering back into their normal matte grey in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment as she turns to pin Loop with annoyed look. 

There’s their sister.

The Housemaiden clasps her hands together, and Loop can see the way she’s struggling not to bite her nails. “Well, if you’re Siffrin’s sister, that means you’re from the Island too, right?” she asks. “Are…Are you being affected by the sleeping sickness? Do you need help?”

The question actually seems to catch Asteria off guard, even if it doesn’t show on her face. After all these years of separation though, it seems like Loop still knows her tells, watching the way her shoulders stiffen.

“Ah,” they say, “it appears you do not recognize me. Understandable.” They tilt their head, giving the Housemaiden a careful once over. “My name is Asteria, we met briefly before you entered this place.”

The Housemaiden sharply inhales. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You’re Asteria?!” she asks incredulously. “You’re…You’re the one breaking all the Change Statues?! And making the weird lights appear over the Island?!”

Asteria’s lip quirks up in a small smirk. “I have some accountability in that, yes,” she says, “though I still maintain the belief that the Change God plays a crucial role in the events transpiring. This would all be much easier if they willingly submitted.”

“You’re hunting them down though?” the Housemaiden says, turning the statement into more of a question. “You…you…you possessed Siffrin’s body to get to them! Like something out of a horror novel!!!”

“You did what?” Loop asks.

“That was unintentional,” Asteria says, brushing the accusation off with the wave of their hand. “And I retreated the second your God transported you here.”

“That doesn’t make it better??? You’re still hunting them down and trying to kill them???”

Asteria huffs at the Housemaiden. “As I told the Change God, I am not trying to kill it.” They speak with an air of exasperation that says they’ve repeated this many times, probably to the poor God themself as they were tracking it down. “I am borrowing its energy.”

She turns to Loop, her hand tightening its grip in stardust’s hair until they wince in their sleep. “I want my brother back. Need my brother back,” she says, speaking more now to them than the Housemaiden. “A selfish desire, yes, but I Know that and accept the responsibility of it.”

Loop’s breath catches in their throat, rendered mute by the intensity of her words. They can’t dwell on it for more than a second though, as she immediately goes back to addressing the Housemaiden.

“The only way for me to accomplish that, is to break the wish that binds the island. And the only way for me to do that, is to amass the power to back my will. Your God functions well for that purpose, like a divine battery.”

“That’s somehow even worse?” Mirabelle says sharply, clasping her hands tighter in front of her chest as if attempting to hold herself together. “That’s so blatantly blasphemous?”

“And yet, this is the path the Universe has been stringing us on all along. The Kosmoknight’s wish led you to my brother, and my brother’s wishes led you to me.”

“Wishes?” the Housemaiden asks, catching the plural. “Siffrin only made one wish though, right?” She glances over at Loop, who refuses to meet her eyes. “To see Bonnie reunite with their sister?”

“No,” Asteria says, looking at Loop intently, unblinking. Her hand resumes its gentle movements through stardust’s hair. “They made two, right brother?”

Loop swallows. “Yeah. I guess,” they say. “If you count me as your brother still.”

For the first time in the conversation, Asteria softens. “I do,” she says Knowingly, in that gentle, comforting way she reserved for them. “Of course I do.”

Her eyes drift back down to their chest, where their star fire heart hides beneath their cloak. “But…your wish, it lingers on inside you,” she continues, “only half fulfilled. That residual Wish Craft…I can use it, I believe. Perhaps, with the Change God’s energy and our powers combined, we can break the Island Wish for good.”

Loop’s new heart thuds harder against their ribs, and they find themselves shocked at how torn they feel. Consumed by a desire to be useful, to sacrifice something of themself again, but also resentful that apparently they’ve been brought back to life to be used by the Universe. 

Again.

“I…” they say, voice faint to their own ears. “I…!!!”

The Housemaiden takes a protective step in front of them, shielding them with her arm as her hand glides smoothly to her rapier.

“Look,” she says, determination flooding her cute little features, “I’m not entirely sure what’s happening, I’m not even sure why there are two Siffrins! But whatever you’re suggesting…it sounds dangerous, like it could hurt them. And if you’re really their sister, you shouldn’t want to do that.”

Asteria’s eyes widen, rearing back as though they had been struck by the Housemaiden’s words. Their hand stills in a jagged motion, tugging itself out of stardust’s hair. 

The pressure of the space becomes overwhelming, the faint scent of sugar that had been lingering during the entire conversation suddenly floods the empty air.

After the initial shock, a storm passes over Asteria’s face. They tilt their head forward, the shadows going heavy across the features till the main thing that’s visible is their eyes, glowing ethereally in the darkness, their concentric irises spinning like a child’s pinwheel.

The Housemaiden doesn’t back down though, even with the growing tension. If anything, she further readies herself for a fight, face tight as she pulls her rapier out from her belt.

“Whoa!” Loop says, holding both hands up placatingly. “Hold on!”

Asteria delicately removes Siffrin’s head from her lap, and stands up in a dangerously fluid motion. They stretch their hand out, fingers splayed open, and in a flash of light, a glowing short sword appears out of the nothing. They catch it by the hilt, before taking a predatory step forward.

“Don’t speak on things that you don’t Know,” they say tightly, words laced with anger. “You have no part in this.”

“Of course I have a part in this!” the Housemaiden says, taking a step back and forcing Loop to move with her. “Siffrin’s my friend!”

Loop blinks at the Housemaiden, hands frozen in front of them. It…They’re not her Siffrin, so it shouldn’t matter to them as much as it does, the way she’s so quick to protect them. She stares down Asteria, wary but unafraid, a newfound confidence brimming through her.

A strange expression flashes across Asteria’s face, her teeth bared. If Loop didn’t know their sister better, they’d say she looked desperate, out of control. They twirl their blade, so the tip is pointing directly at the Housemaiden, their knuckles pale with the tightness of their grip.

“I won’t let you take them from me,” she growls, voice wavering with a fury born of grief, a tone Loop is intimately familiar with. “I won’t let you leave!!!”

Asteria charges, raising the sword up to take a swing at the Housemaiden, who tenses and raises her own rapier to take the blow. Her hand raises up in a scissor sign, the metallic smell of the Craft carving its way through the burning sweetness.

“No!” Loop shouts, horrified.

They have to stop the fight from happening somehow, they can’t just…just…stand here and watch them go at it!

Cursing the Universe and all its curious watchful eyes, so eager to enjoy the show but unwilling to step in except to meddle, Loop flings themself forward. They thoughtlessly wrap both their arms around Mirabelle’s waist and pull her back with a grunt, not even sure what their next step is going to be but unable to even plan for it, as they stupidly trip over their own two feet.

Mirabelle yelps, Asteria freezes, and Loop curses. The two of them go sliding through the darkness, whatever invisible floor was holding them up vanishing beneath them.

As they fall, Loop watches the shape of Asteria get smaller and smaller, watches as they rush over to collapse onto their knees on the retreating, transparent ground above, an invisible floor that’s still solid for them. Their mouth hangs open, their intense gaze wild and panicked. 

It’s the second time in Loop’s life that they’ve seen her look so frightened, so small. The only other had been the night they first lost each other.

“Atlas!!!” she screeches their name, banging her fist against the void like she could crack it open. “Come back! Come back! ”

It’s too late for that now though, they think, clutching tighter onto Mirabelle. They’re already too far gone.

Chapter Text

Dear Grandmother,

I wanted to let you know that I received your last letter today, and tell you that I am thankful for the chocolates! We don’t get much from the capital all the way out here, so it was a nice surprise.

I’m glad to hear you and father are doing well and that the meal rations haven’t been hitting you too hard. I miss you dearly still and I hope to return home once things settle down some, but from the stories in your letter, I am starting to see why you insisted I leave the city. 

It’s much calmer out here, even being so close to the Island Wish’s barrier. There’s still that same tension you spoke of as people try to figure out what’s going on, but the town’s small enough that everyone knows each other. So, at the very least, no one’s pointing fingers about who may have crafted the Wish.

Speaking of crafting, you’re correct in your assumption that even the end of life as we know it can’t cancel midterms. Honestly though, I can’t even dredge up much anxiety about them with how exhausted I’ve been from practical applications. Nearly every agricultural field is reaching out to the University, begging for more Artificers to help with food production by crafting their tools. 

From what I understand, the government is demanding a five percent output increase over the season to make up for the loss of imports? If you could find a way to verify that claim in your next letter, it would be much appreciated, as such a demand seems somewhat ludicrous to me.

I’ve still been attending classes, don’t worry. I would never want to disappoint you by falling behind in my studies. I’ve been doing very well in the fields of maths and science, but I will admit theology and metaphysics have been getting somewhat difficult the further we get into the semester. 

The “Introduction to Second Sight Menus: Item Descriptions and Profiles” course is by far the hardest and most frustrating though. Honestly, if I have to try to summarize another book without reading it, I’m going to lose my mind.

We had an activity a couple days ago where the professor gave us each a page of an article face down and had us write down as much information that we could Know about it. Most kids at least got a paragraph or two of summary, but all I got was a couple sentences about the type of tree the paper was made from. Isn’t that ridiculous?

However, there is one Artificer who pretty much wrote the entire page down verbatim. I wish I could’ve captured the professor’s face when she stood up to present her work, they were so shocked. 

This student is unusually quiet in class and doesn’t interact very much with anyone even outside of it as far as I can tell. Their presence is always accompanied by a strong, sweet smelling craft energy and a feeling of pressure that serves to make them somewhat unapproachable.

But I am your grandson, after all. So of course, I approached them after class anyway, intent on asking for pointers. 

Before I had the chance to even say hello, she was already speaking. “Don’t worry,” she said. “The Universe doesn’t care about you enough for your inability to navigate menus to matter. There’s really no need to try and gain extra favor at this point.”

This offended me, for obvious reasons, and I will shamefully admit that I said something a little snippy, implying where they could put their own favor in response. The comment didn’t seem to bother them in the slightest, however, and they continued on to tell me that the Universe can’t truly care about anyone and that I would learn more from reading the article myself than trusting anything the Primordial Originator had to say about it.

Needless to say, I was shocked at such a blasphemous statement coming from an Artificer’s mouth.

I later told my roommate about it, and found out that this specific student lost her brother this month prior when the barrier went down. Apparently they had been on a boat just out of reach and it capsized when the Wish was instated, making it impossible to rescue them. Or, in the worst case scenario, recover their body.

Considering that, I think what they said makes much more sense. I too believe I would struggle with my faith if something so awful happened to me. It also does make me feel at least a smidgen guilty for my crude comment, no matter how deserved it felt in the moment.

I would like to invite them to sit with me in the cafeteria. All the other students seem to be inclined to give them a wide berth, but I can’t help thinking that they must be lonely. I have little hope they’ll say yes to my request, but I feel I have to try. If you have any advice on the matter, I would welcome it.

I am sending you all my love and I hope to hear from you again soon.

❂ ✪ 𖣔 ✪ ❂

The adults all decide to lay Belle out right next to Frin in the Housemaiden’s bed, and Bonnie watches hawkishly as she curls into them, eyelids fluttering as she breathes out a sleepy sigh.

It’s been about half an hour since she fell asleep, slumping over in her chair the same way Frin did. The Change God disappeared too, the little figurine going lifeless as it hit the floor, expression cracked down the middle like all the rest of the statues.

It had taken a few minutes in the chaos following to figure out what to do next, but once it became clear that Belle wasn’t waking up anytime soon, Dile practically dragged Za out of the room with her to go to the library. They weren’t really sure what they would find there that would help, but they were smart enough that Bonnie trusted that they would find something at least.

Hopefully.

With them gone though, it was Bonnie’s job to watch over Belle and Frin, making sure that nothing changes and getting a Housemaiden if something did. Nille’s supposed to be helping, but she’s sat down against one of the walls, staring up at the ceiling.

Bonnie can’t really blame her though. It is kinda boring being on watch duty, cause in reality, it’s just watching a couple of people sleep.

It’s not entirely unlike when Frin lost their eye. There had been a lot of wait time during that too, in between all the panic and trying to keep their wounds clean. Though when Bonnie thinks about that too long, their guts go all twisty in their stomach and their hands feel cold.

So, they’ve decided to take their job super seriously instead, and they’re not going to look away from Frin or Belle for a second! Nothing can keep them from their self assigned mission!

…except maybe their sister.

Nille stands up, face scrunching up as she stretches her arms above her head. She sighs, going over to the bedside table where the Change God figurine had been sitting and opening one of the drawers.

Bonnie frowns at her. “Za says it's not nice to go through other people’s things without permission,” they chide.

”Well, usually, I would very much agree with him,” Nille says, reaching into the drawer with a grin. “But…if you don’t tattle on me, I feel like we could make an exception for…this!”

Nille pulls out a deck of cards, presenting it to Bonnie with a flourish and a wink.

Bonnie’s jaw drops, noticing the glittering edges of the cards and the tiny, painstakingly crafted illustrations on each one. “No way!” they cry. “Are those Dimension of Champions cards?”

”Yep!” Nille says, popping the p, and glancing back into the drawer. “And it looks like they have two competition decks in here; one fire, one ice. Wanna play?”

Bonnie is practically vibrating in their seat, but their eyes catch Belle as she rolls over, snoring lightly, and the momentary excitement leaves them.

”No thank you,” they say quietly, bottom lip quivering as they ball their hands into little fists. “I’ve gotta do my job.”

Nille frowns, looking at the bed and then back to Bonnie. “Hey,” she says, grabbing the second deck before walking over to them.

Even when she bends down to their height, they stubbornly refuse to look at her. Their eyes feel suspiciously watery, and they’d really feel like a baby if they cried right now, so maybe if they just stand very still and don’t breathe, the tears won’t escape.

”Hey,” Nille says again, grabbing one of their hands and resting the other on their face, turning their cheek and forcing eye contact. She looks at them very seriously. “This isn’t just ‘your’ job any more,” she tells them. “I’m here now. And when there’s a job and two of us here to do it, what does that make us?”

“…A team,” Bonnie replies wetly.

”Right, and what does a team do?”

”Look out for each other,” they respond, sniffling as they bring a hand up to aggressively wipe at their nose. “Make sure the other person doesn’t step in it.”

”Exactly,” Nille says, brushing a stray tear out of the way with her thumb. “I’m not gonna let you step in it, but there’s not much we can do right now. And that crabbing sucks, but it’s just the way it is sometimes.”

To Bonnie’s horror, Nille’s words only make the crying feeling worse. “Yeah, but,” they say, voice shaking like a leaf, “why does it have to just keep sucking? I’m so tired of it sucking.”

Nille’s look softens and she grips onto their hand tighter. “I don’t know Bonnie,” she says quietly. “I really don’t. But right here, right now, we’ve got each other and we’ve got these decks of cards. So let’s do two plus two and make four alright? We square?”

Bonnie manages a small giggle. “Nooo, no bringing math into Dimension of Champions!”

”Bon, the entire game is math.”

”Yeah, but it’s like…game math,” they say, lifting up their shirt to wipe away the remnants of tears. “That’s different.”

When they pull their shirt back down, they find Nille looking at them with the goofiest smile on her face. “I love you Bonnie,” she tells them earnestly.

Bonnie’s face heats up, and their eyes drift to the ground, scuffing the tiles with the point of their shoe. “…Iloveyoutoo,” they say in a rush, embarrassed.

Nille just laughs and hands them their deck.

”Hey!” they say, as they go to start shuffling. “This is the ice deck! I want the fire deck!”

”Un-uh,” Nille tsks, shaking her head and shuffling her own cards. “Finder’s fee. I got ‘em for us, so I pick first deck.”

It takes a bit more arguing to get them both sitting on the floor, and agreement to switch decks at the end of each game to actually get them started playing.

Two games in, one win each, and suddenly Belle wakes up.

It’s abrupt. She rockets upright, gasping like she just surfaced from drowning rather than waking up. Her hand flies to her side where her rapier is normally strapped, removed in her sleep, and she squints in the light, as dim as it is.

”Belle!” Bonnie shouts, game entirely forgotten as they rush towards the bed. They drop their hand and the cards scatter in a dramatic flurry, spreading across the floor. “Belle, you’re awake!”

”Bonnie?!” Belle cries, reaching up to rub her eyes. As panicked as she is, she still yawns. “What…? Where’s Siffrin?”

Bonnie frowns, eyes darting over to where Frin is still asleep and then back to Belle. “Uhh,” they say, “right next to you?”

Belle blinks, looks at them, and jumps. “Oh!” she says. “Oh, they should…I…We left the other plane together? They rescued me? So they should wake up too, right?”

Bonnie has no idea what she’s talking about, and when they look at Nille to see if she can explain, they find her standing behind them looking just as confused, so. No help there, they guess.

”Belle,” they say seriously, turning back to her. “I have no ideas about the words you are saying.”

Belle squeaks, clasping her hands in front of her. “Sorry!” she says. “Sorry, I’m just a little…discombobulated. I just thought…”

Then Siffrin sits up.

Well…kinda. Someone sits up from Siffrin, as if Frin was a cocoon to be shed. Their vaguely transparent body splits from his at the torso, skin an inky black that seems to shimmer like oil in the candle light.

Belle sucks in a gasp, tumbling out of the bed and landing flat on her butt right next to where Bonnie is standing.

The head of the inky person looks more solid, and its face is shaped just like Siffrin’s, though its wavy hair drapes further down. It’s pure white like a porcelain mannequin, with the vaguest hint of shine and no discernible features underneath it, only a void of a mouth that works open and closed.

“Ughhh,” the person coming out from Siffrin groans, their voice the same as Frin’s but distant and echoey, like they were speaking to them from some far away cave. “Stars…my head…”

Meanwhile, the real Frin is still asleep on the bed, seemingly entirely unaware of anything weird happening to them. They don’t even seem to be in any pain, relaxing further into the pillows as their glowing double wriggles out of them.

“Who the crab are you?!” Bonnie shouts, taking a protective half step in front of Belle.

“Bonnie—“ Belle starts, her hand already reaching out to them.

The person winces, their head rolling Bonnie’s direction. They grunt, lifting their hands up towards their temples. “Bonbon?” they ask. “Mira? What’s…ugh…what’s going on? Where are we?”

Belle squeaks and scrambles to get upright, gracefully tucking Bonnie behind her as she does. Then, she immediately freezes, looking uncertain. “Siffrin?” she calls cautiously.

The person leans further forward, and Bonnie can see the way they’re shaking as they bury their face in their hands. “It’s so bright…” they say, “did we…the rooftop?”

Bonnie feels a bit bad for shouting at them now, they’re clearly a lot more confused than they are. And that’s saying a lot, because Bonnie is really, really confused.

Nille slowly slides into the corner of the person’s vision, gently waving a hand at them. “You’re in Bambouche,” she says softly, the way she once talked to a possum that got into Bonnie’s room who she had to coax out from its hiding spot under the bed. “Do you remember that?”

The person grimaces. “Bambouche…” they say slowly, their breath an unsteady sway compared to the steady, measured rises of Frin’s chest beneath them. “We can’t…but, no…that’s frozen…”

“Not anymore,” Nille says. “You guys defeated the King, town can’t be frozen with no King to keep it that way.”

“Oh…” the person says slowly. Uncomprehending and disbelieving, like Nille had said that the sun rose at midnight. “The last blow…I dealt…the last blow?”

“What?” Bonnie asks, blinking. “No you didn’t! Belle did! She—!”

They don’t get to finish the sentence, Belle’s hand covers their mouth so quickly. She shoots them a real serious look that Bonnie immediately interprets as a ‘shush!’

They glare up at her, willing to listen but not happy about it. They lick her hand for good measure, and feel a smidge of satisfaction as she shivers.

The person takes a shaky breath, their hands sliding away from their head and down to their chest.

Bonnie’s eyes track the movement, and now, looking closer, they can see the way it’s radiating light as well. Right where their heart is supposed to be, there’s a dim shine that’s vaguely hidden away by their voidy body. It pulses to a beat; a steady, rhythmic thump that coincides with tiny specks of light bubbling up on their skin.

Their skin becomes more solid, their mouth disappearing and head losing some of its definition as it starts to grow brighter, like a fire coaxed to life. The room gets lighter with it, the unnatural, buttery glow slipping into all the cracks and crevices the candles couldn’t touch.

Finally, their eyes open, blinking into full awareness. They swivel around the room, seeming to take everything in. When they land on Bonnie, they note their different shades with the left one being slightly lighter than the right.

They don’t linger anywhere long, at least, until they finally catch sight of Frin laying underneath them.

Their breath hitches in their throat suddenly, eyes blowing wide open and only getting bigger with each passing second. “I—!“ they gasp, and then start hyperventilating, slowly reaching for Frin’s face before noticing their own void shaded hands and gasping again, pulling them closer to inspect them. “I—!!!”

”Hey, hey,” Belle calls gently, taking a cautious step towards the person. She slowly, very slowly, takes the hand they’re staring at into hers, and their head pivots towards her, breathing getting even shallower than it was before. They look haunted and hunted at the same time, like one of the protagonists from the books Belle likes so much.

”Breathe,” Belle orders them. And then, as if to demonstrate, she takes a few Frin breaths. Innn. And ouuut. Innn. And ouuut.

The person catches on after a moment, shakily copying her. She tugs on their hand, and they turn, pulling their legs out of Frin’s, as they continue to get more solid.

By the time Belle has gotten them upright, their form is both fully stable and recognizable for Bonnie. 

“Spiky, glowy star person!” they exclaim, pointing at them in surprise without noticing how they subtly flinch at the description. “You’re back!!”

”’Spiky, glowy…star person’?” Nille repeats, brow scrunching as she looks to Belle for confirmation then at Loop. “You mean you’ve met before?”

Loop freezes in place, their grip loosening in Belle’s as they rapidly blink at Nille, bewildered as though they’ve never met another person in their life. “Uhh,” they say eloquently.

Belle squeezes their hand, and steps forward, looking decidedly nervous which is normal for her. What’s not normal is the slight guilt, looking like she just took the last cookie out of the cookie jar without permission. “Yes, we’ve met before,” she tells Nille, without meeting anyone’s eyes. “This is…um…well. This is…”

”Loop,” Loop says, robotically chiming in. Their voice is deeper now, having lost all traces of Frin’s voice underneath their sparkly tone. Their eyes pinch upwards, to the point that they don’t even need a mouth for Bonnie to read the fake smile underneath all the shine. “Your lovely ally, back once again, it appears.”

The door chooses this moment to open, Dile gracefully stepping in, looking over her shoulder as she finishes saying something to Za that Bonnie can’t make out. It’s in her sharp tone though, the one that means she’s said the final thing she’s going to about whatever they’re talking about because she knows it’s the smartest thing about it.

Which, she’s wrong sometimes even then. Bonnie’s caught her a couple times and called her out for it, but it usually started a fight if that happened. Most of the time she eventually cools down and comes around, and there was even once where she gave them a fancy cookie from one of the shops after she hurt their feelings!

Bonnie doesn’t know if there will be any coming around on anything right now though, not by the tension in her shoulders and the way Za frowns unhappily behind the comically large stack of books he’s carrying.

Dile sighs, pinching her brow as she turns to address everyone else. “Sorry for taking a bit longer than expected, have there been any…?” She trails off, meeting the eyes of the room’s newest occupant who only stares back, radiating terror. Za follows her gaze and makes a confused noise, like a squeaky toy being stepped on.

”Loop’s back!!” Bonnie yells, helpfully pointing at the star. Just in case they both hadn’t noticed.

❂ ✪ 𖣔 ✪ ❂

Loop makes a great show of looking as uncomfortable as possible, while trying to hide the fact.

They’ve taken perch on the end of Sif’s bed, right by their feet, knees pulled up to protectively cover the four pointed scar that runs up, down, and across their whole torso. It glows through the gaps in their skin, filling the room with a hazy light that sends the shadows skittering every time they shift.

Their eyes, their only feature visible through the blinding glow of their star shaped head, are pinched closed. Isabeau can nearly imagine the tight, fake smile their mouth would be making, kind of like the ones Sif makes when he’s really not doing well.

Tiny fizzies crackle and pop off of their inky body, flickering off the little dots that line their skin like glitter. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bonnie reaching out to try and touch one, fascinated, before Petronille tugs them back with a chiding huff.

Mirabelle sits on the chair next to them, eyes flickering between Loop and Sif with a concerned expression on her face. No one else seems to notice, but Isabeau has been around Mira long enough to see the gears churning in her head. She’s connecting some dots that the rest of them don’t have yet, and she brings a nervous hand up to her mouth, nibbling on her fingernails.

“Nails,” Loop says, without even opening their eyes, and Mirabelle yelps, pulling her hand from her mouth like it burned her.

Isabeau winces, subtly sliding close enough to put a steady hand on Mira’s shoulder.

She jolts, nervously looking up at him, and he tries to give her the most reassuring expression he can. “It’s alright,” he tells her softly, even though he doesn’t exactly know what he’s telling her is going to be alright. 

Or, he thinks, giving a quick glance to Sif still fast asleep on the bed, if anything will ever be alright again.

Mira shoots him a grateful smile anyway, laying her hand overtop of his.

Loop scoffs, and Isabeau looks up to find them refusing to meet his eyes, their distasteful gaze honed in on their joined hands. “Nothing about this is ’alright’, Fighter,” they say, dramatically putting the words in air quotes. “You might try to play dumb, but anyone with working eyes can see that nothing happening currently is ‘alright’.”

Isabeau blinks at them. If he was fully present, he thinks he might’ve been offended. But, because he’s a wee, little bit emotionally compromised right now by the roller coaster, cluster crab of the day's events, a warning bell goes off in his head instead.

He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip on Mira’s shoulder as he tries to connect his own dots. “…What do you mean, I ‘play dumb’?”

A flash of panic hits Loop’s eyes before they tuck it away, bringing a hand up to awkwardly rub at their arm. “A simple hunch is all,” they say, with only the slightest shake in their voice. “Looking at you tells me you can’t be all brawn and no brain, after all.”

Isabeau opens his mouth, but is stopped from asking any further questions by a fluttery, definitive ‘thunk’ from the corner of the room, drawing everyone’s attention.

Odile has snapped the book she was reading shut, its cover a scrawl of Ka Buan characters and a plaque with some symbol Isabeau can’t recognize. She looks more disheveled than he’s ever seen her, the bun in her hair loose and her coat rumbled as she shifts forward in her seat.

There’s a fire in her eyes though, as she looks towards Loop. Isabeau winces in sympathy as Loop freezes, pinned in place like an experiment undergoing the knife.

“Is that really just a hunch?” m’dame Odile asks. “Or is it something you ‘Know’?”

“Ahh.” Loop chuckles dryly. “I see you’ve been catching up on your reading, Researcher.”

“Answer the question, please.”

Loop claps their hands together, eyes pinched up in the tightest, most clearly faked smile that Isabeau has ever seen. “Why should I?” they ask. “Haven’t I helped your party enough? I selflessly guided you all that way up that House, right to the King in order to save your little Traveler and give him his happy ending.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be friends with Siffrin?” Odile asking, cutting straight to the heart as she raises one thin eyebrow. “They speak highly of you, with what little they open up about you. Are you really not inclined to help us, if not only for the sake of helping them?”

Loop takes an unsteady breath, turning their head away just enough that Isabeau can’t see their expression. “What I’m capable of helping with is found in my namesake, Researcher,” they say, voice flat and rough like concrete. “What more can I do, outside of those detestable loops?”

”Start with telling us who exactly you are and what you know, perhaps?”

“Loop,” Mira chimes in, reaching out with her free hand to rest it on their knee.

It’s subtle, but Loop flinches, the same way Sif does whenever someone in the party touches them when they don’t expect it. Their eyes crinkled in a grimace, their gaze slowly travels up from the floor, to her hand, to her face, looking half like they expect her to attack them at any moment.

Mira smiles when their eyes meet, tilting her head. “I wanted to thank you, before we left Dormont, for helping us find Siffrin,” she says, “but I‘m starting to think I owe you thanks for a lot more than that too.”

Loop takes a shaky breath. “I—”

”I‘m not going to press, but…I know you’ve probably been through a lot,” Mira continues. “More than I can probably understand, so…I’m…I’m really sorry to ask for your help again, but…”

She steels herself, rolling back her shoulders and straightening her posture. Isabeau feels a swell of pride, watching a newfound sense of confidence overtake her, and her eyes light with determination.

”If you know anything,” she says, “anything at all that can help us save Siffrin, then I am asking you. Please.” She bows her head, eyes closing. “Please help us Loop.”

Loop looks stricken, like they’re the one seeing stars rather than the other way around. “I—“ they try again, lifting up a shaking hand as their nervous gaze darts around the room. “Well…”

Their fingers twitch one more time, and Isabeau can nearly see the moment they click a mask back into place. Their eyes curve into a sarcastic smile, their inky hand darting out to pinch Mira’s cheek and squeeze it as she yelps.

”Well!” Loop says again, false cheer infecting their tone. “A genuine request for help from our dearest Housemaiden! How could I refuse something like that!”

They let go, ignoring the way Mira replaces their hand with hers on her cheek, and cross their legs in front of them.

“Let’s take two then!” they chirp, waving a finger through the air. “Your ally Loop, here once again to help with something besides the loops. Ask away!”

“Cool,” Bonbon says, before anyone else can chime in, giving a quick, curt little nod. “Can we start with how you came out of Frin like that then? Cause I really wanna know how you came out of Frin like that.”

Loop snorts. “Ahh, a hardball question right off the bat. I like the way you think, Kid!”

Bonnie pouts, taking a step out from where they had been tucked away behind their sister. “I’m not a kid,” they mutter, crossing their arms.

“Party approve preteen then, my apologies,” Loop says, with a wave of their hand. They lean back, overdramatically thinking as they gaze to the ceiling. “I’m not entirely sure how or why I came out of Siffrin like that, to be honest with you. My best guess is that I had been in limbo on another plane for quite some time, and your Housemaiden’s escape rudely pulled me out with her.”

”Are there stars on the other planes as well then?” Odile asks, aiming the question at Mira and Loop both. “Not just in the sky?”

There’s a fraction of a second where Loop’s expression darkens, before smoothing back out. “You could say that,” they answer cryptically.

”There were…” Mira starts, shooting a quick glance over to Bonnie. “…people on the other plane. I thought they were stars at first, because they were all glowy, but I think they were Islanders who were stuck there.”

“Yeah, speaking of which,” Isabeau says, furrowing his brow, “do you know how they got trapped there Loop? Or why?”

Loop refuses to meet Isabeau’s eyes. The light of their inhuman head crackles, like a stubborn fire someone’s trying to put out. “I have my suspicions.”

”And are those suspicions centered around the actions of a specific person perhaps?” Odile asks sharply, cutting straight to the point.

Loop closes their eyes, taking a deep breath in and out. Their chest moves with it, and Isabeau watches it in fascination. Do they even need to breathe? Or is it just a comforting motion? Do they even know?

”A question in exchange for a question then,” Loop says, seeming to brace themself. “I am correct in assuming you’ve already met Asteria then?”

”Well, if you count ‘em stepping into Siffrin’s body and puppeting it around for a minute or two, acting all creepy before passing out again and taking Mirabelle with ‘em,” Petronille says, “then yeah, we’ve met.”

Mirabelle’s shoulder twitches under Isabeau’s hold, and he looks down to find her nibbling on her lip, considering something. 

“Mira?” he asks, prodding her, and she winces as everyone’s stare trains on her.

“…She was…on the other plane too,” Mira hesitantly admits, clasping her hands together. “And Siffrin, they…they called her their sister.”

Tension floods the room like it’s seeping in through the walls, a steady drip drip of dread that permeates the space. Isabeau’s jaw hangs open, eyes wide as he tries to digest this new revelation.

”Wait,” Bonnie says, squinting. “Does that mean Frin has an evil sister too?”

Petronille gasps, cutting through the uneasy in the room. She turns to Bonnie, pressing down on their hat and glares at them, cheeks puffed in a playful sulk. “What do you mean ‘too’?!”

Bonnie yelps, hands coming up to grab at her wrist as they struggle against her hold. Isabeau can see them grinning though. “Za was right!” they exclaim. “All sisters are evil!”

Isabeau snorts, managing to smile despite everything. “Proven right once again!” he says.

”Asteria’s not evil,” Loop hisses, and when Isabeau looks at them again, their gazes finally meet. 

He’s immediately put off by the intensity of conflicting emotions that flitter across their features. Their head flares, fizzes aggressively popping off it, as they stare at Isabeau with eyes full of anger. It oddly reminds Isabeau of Siffrin at their most desperate, and he gets the sense that Loop would be baring their teeth at him if they could.

”What would you call them then?” m’dame Odile asks, her voice cold.

Isabeau glances her way, and ooooh. Oh boy, she looks even more angry than Loop does. Her expression is closed off, but the energy radiating off of her is hot and furious. She tilts her head back, staring down at Loop from the rim of her glasses.

“Like the Housemaiden said, they’re Siffrin’s sister,” Loop stresses.

”So?” Odile asks. “Just because they’re blood related, does it give them the right to run around like an egotistical child playing God? To harm others? To harm Siffrin in the name of getting him back?”

Loop growls, anger shooting them upright. They’re shorter than Isabeau originally thought they were, coming only up to his chest, but they still hold themself dangerously, body poised like a predator. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Researcher.”

”Enlighten me then,” m’dame Odile replies coolly.

”Whooa,” Isabeau says, stepping in between them and holding his hands up. “Alright, everybody, let’s calm down here. We’ve got enough to figure out already, we don’t need to be fighting each other.”

Loop and Odile both inhale at the same time, apparently getting on the same page now that it's time to snap at Isabeau for keeping the peace, but Petronille interrupts before they can.

She steps forward, right in front of Loop, with her hands on her hips. Loop flinches as she gives them a once over, blinking in surprise. She sighs.

”Look, I get where you’re coming from,” she says, “but I don’t think fightin’ about morality here is going to get us anywhere.”

Loop just stares at Petronille, like she’s some foreign object they’ve never seen up close before. Isabeau can hear the sounds of them trying to come up with something witty to say, their breath hitching at weird intervals while they try to force the words out.

”So,” Petronille continues, business-like. “Let’s not bring that into this, and you just explain what you think they’re doing, alright? You said you had suspicions.”

Loop takes another shaky breath before plopping back down on the bed. They look at Siffrin, who’s still peacefully asleep, brow smooth and breath level, even through all the chaos, and they hesitate before placing a gentle hand on his leg.

”Asteria is an Artificer,” Loop says slowly. “I’m assuming your studies have already brought up to speed on what that means, right Researcher?”

Odile hesitates, her gaze trailing down to the small pile of haphazardly stacked books next to her chair.

Isabeau can only guess as to their contents, having only been assigned to carry them back. The work had been more as a human shopping cart than an intellectual equal, holding things as m’dame flittered around the library with the intensity of a storm hitting the shoreline.

Now that he’s looking closer at the titles though, he realizes most of them are written with the strange letters of the Forgotten Language. There are others too, a few in Vaugardian and even a couple that are written with the Ka Buan alphabet.

Skimming over each spine is like getting his frontal lobe attacked by a hundred tiny needles, but Isabeau makes the effort anyway. ‘Saint Sirius on the Beginning of Constellations’, ‘Universal Critical Theory’, ‘The Primordial Gods and their Purpose’.

”I’ve been…familiarizing myself with the Island’s religious practices, yes,” m’dame Odile finally concedes. “An Artificer is the equivalent of a Vaugardian Housemaiden, correct?”

Loop makes a seesaw gesture with their hand. “Close, though it's not a one to one translation,” they say. “Housemaidens follow their beliefs, Artificers craft theirs.”

Isabeau tilts his head, “What exactly does that mean?”

“The Universe,” they say, and then pause as everyone in the room winces and reaches for their head.

Loop sighs, trying again. “The God of the Forgotten Island is ancient comparatively, and unlike the Change God, it wasn’t crafted by humans,” they explain, “which makes it vastly more powerful, and therefore its offerings require a lot more power.”

“Offerings?” Odile asks, raising an eyebrow. “Like sacrifices?”

Loop makes a face. “Kind of? But not quite,” they say. “It doesn’t always have to be like…a purposeful offering, just something that sustains the people’s belief in that specific God. So like…a person who Changes in a way that is traditional for the Change religion, is making an offering to the Change God whether they know it or not. Thus the belief in that God continues, and it keeps being a God rather than fading away or becoming a fact.”

”Becoming a fact…” m’dame Odile says, trailing off thoughtfully as she brings a hand up to cover her mouth. “Is that what happened to the Primordial Gods?”

“Oh,” Loop says, surprised. “You remember them?”

”I thought Primordial Gods were the dead Gods?” Isabeau says, squinting as he tries to recall what he knows about them. There’s a strange feeling in his head though, one that he’s getting vaguely familiar with now that the Island’s coming back into view. It’s like trying to go back to thinking about his first steps, or pushing his tongue through a gap in his teeth, an empty space where something should be.

”Not all the way dead,” Loop says. “That would imply complete non-existence, like the God of Colors. No, the Primordial Gods are closer to being fact than any other God we know about, but they still have rituals and traditions that work as offerings. I believe this city was just in the middle of one for the Sea God, before all this hubbub.”

They point, and Isabeau follows the gesture to a flyer hanging up on the wall, right next to whatever Housemaiden this bedroom belongs to’s calendar. It sports a three pronged trident, with some text and dates scrawled beneath it.

“What would becoming a fact mean for a God then?” Mirabelle asks, her worry causing her tone to waver, and Isabeau feels a pang of sympathy for the Housemaiden, who’s devoted her entire life to her religion.  “If it’s not dead?”

“Just what it sounds like,” Loop says, carefully avoiding her eyes as they pick lint off of Siffrin’s sheets. “There would be no traditions surrounding it, no emphasis on its domain. For example, if the Change God became fact, all Changes would happen with a lowercase c, with little fanfare and maybe even some apprehension.”

Mira makes a wounded noise, hands coming up to cover her mouth, as she stares horrified out into the middle distance. “Is…” she starts, dragging out the word like the beginning to a question that she doesn’t want to ask, but has to anyway. “Is that what Asteria’s trying to do to the Change God?”

Loop’s head snaps up, and they stare at her, wide eyed. “What? No. What? Why would she want to do something like that?”

”The Change God, when it appeared here, did mention something about them trying to kill it,” Odile says, her eyes narrowing.

”Well…yes, she might kill it,” Loop admits, squirming uncomfortably under everyone’s stares. “I don’t think she’d mean to, but…Death for a God is something entirely different than it is for a human. Gods don’t stay dead, as long as they have people who believe in them.”

”So,” Odile says, placing the book in her lap on top of the rest of the stack. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight, killing a God is not as bad as making one into fact?”

Loop nods slowly. “If a God dies, it’s just reborn. Usually that happens when another God kills it, or with cultural shifts, or just if a majority of its worshippers move to traditions that honor other concepts. It’ll come back as something slightly different, fueled by some other combination of beliefs and offerings, but it does typically come back.”

”What if a human kills it though?” Petronille asks. “What happens then?”

”Probably the same thing?” Loop says, their face wrinkling up. “It’s never happened in any mythological text I’ve seen though, so I couldn’t tell you for sure. It might just wipe all of its memories and make it start fresh? It’d be less powerful in that case for a bit, but with a God as well-loved as the Change God…”

A wave of distaste passes over Loop’s features, and Isabeau gets the sudden impression that they are not one of the people who love the Change God.

”We’re speaking a lot about probabilities here,” Odile says, standing up. She pulls her hair out of its bun, pinching the pin between her teeth as she tries to put it back in order. “How do you know all this? And how are you able to hold it in your memory?”

Loop huffs, a mischievous glint hitting their eyes. They swing their legs back and forth, cutely resting their head on the backs of their hands as they tilt their head. “Finally, an easy one!” they say. “That’s because I’m special!”

Odile narrows her eyes, readjusting her coat and taking a step forward, radiating a downright menacing energy that has the hairs on the back of Isabeau’s neck standing up. “Elaborate,” she demands.

”Well, I’m the Universe’s favoritest, most special little star!” they cheer, and even with how happy they sound, Isabeau feels like the words ring hollow. “An excellent entertainer you see! Where would you be now if I was not here to regale you with exposition as we near the final act? Why, this silly little play would have no meaning!”

“Play?” Bonbon asks, echoing Isabeau’s own thoughts. Their nose scrunches as they think, eyes narrowed. “You sound just like Frin, he always con-fa-lates plays with real life too.”

“Conflates,” Odile and Petronille say at the same time, then look at each other.

”Well.” Loop claps, eyes closed and face dim. “I am their sponsor after all. Some of their little, bothersome traits had to rub off on me eventually during all of those boring, tedious, useless loops.”

”Hey,” Isabeau says warningly, arms crossed.

“Whatch’a mean by sponsor?” Petronille asks.

Loop looks at her for a long moment before answering, blank faced like they’re doing some complicated math problem in their head that requires all their attention. They scoff before the pause becomes awkward though, waving a dismissive hand in her direction.

”Well, Guardian, as I said, my function is in my namesake.”

Petronille frowns, making eye contact with Isabeau over Loop’s head, and mouthing, ‘Guardian?’

Isabeau gives his best, ‘I have no crabbing clue’ face, and shrugs. It’s not like he has any idea why he’s called ‘Fighter’ either.

Loop continues on, either entirely unaware or entirely uninterested in their mini conversation. “I was crafted by the God of the Forgotten Island in order to help Siffrin escape the loops,” they explain. “Therefore, everything I Know, I learned for that specific task.”

”So your access to information was limited then?” m’dame Odile asks, pulling the small notebook she always carries with her out of her pocket. She fingers through it until she finds an empty page, and Isabeau catches a peak of her messy scrawls in both Vaguardian and Ka Buan, littering the book in haphazard lines, some crossed out and others underlined. “What did Knowing entail?”

Loop eyes the little book suspiciously, even more so when m’dame puts a pen to the paper. They lean back slightly, closer to Siffrin. “…It was limited, yes,” they answer. “I had some Knowledge of Dormont, but only for the window of time in which the loops occurred. Now that we’ve escaped those, however, I’d say the only other thing I’m still well versed in is every matter related to Siffrin. I’m a real Siffrin-ologist, if you will.”

Odile doesn’t write anything, simply glancing up at Loop expectantly.

Loop squirms, protectively crossing their arms and staring up at the ceiling. “I have access to all of Siffrin’s memories,” they say in a rush. “At least up until you all defeated the King and I had a brief flirtation with non-existence.”

“Wait,” Isabeau squeaks, feeling his face heat up. “You have access to ALL of their memories from before we beat the King?!”

They blink, finally meeting his eyes with an emotion beside disgust. First surprise, which quickly then melts in a mischievous, teasing look. 

“‘Sif. Hey,’” they echo quietly, Knowingly, and yeah, that’s it. It’s time for Isabeau to roll over and die in embarrassment. “‘Hey Sif. Siffrin. Siffarooni.”

”Noooooo,” Isabeau moans, bringing his hands up to cover his blushing face, insides squirming.

Petronille and Bonnie look at each other and snicker, and even Mira cheers up enough to look slightly amused. M’dame Odile just sighs though, thoroughly disinterested.

”Back to the matter at hand, please?” she asks, dripping with annoyance.

“Umm,” Bonnie says, raising their hand like they’re in class. “I have a question now.”

Loop blinks at them, their stare going vacant for a moment, seeming to be remembering something. Then, their expression softens. “Yes?” they say. “Question from the class?”

Bonnie jerks their head in a nod, eyes full of childish curiosity. “What’s Asteria like normally?” they ask. “Like when they’re not trying to pull a Frin and blow up the whole world?”

Isabeau can’t help but snort at the bewilderment that radiates from Loop, and Mirabelle manages to hide a small huff of laughter behind her hand.

”What do you mean by…pulling a Frin?” Loop asks, grimacing.

”Well, this is just like when Frin hurt all our feelings and tried to go fight the King on their own, right?” Bonnie asks, looking to all the other adults for confirmation and then pursing their lips when they find none. “I guess maybe it’s a little worse than Frin, cause what he did just made, like, four people upset, while it seems like she’s just putting everyone to sleep willy-nilly. But the shade in the sky is the same!”

”And what does that shade have to do with it, Boniface?” Odile asks hesitantly, only to have the preteen turn and glare at her.

”Uh…duh! It probably means she’s hungry, sick, and sad! Just like Frin was!” They pause, looking over at Petronille before their eyes uncomfortably trail to the floor as they kick up some dust. “Besides…they lost their brother too, right? And they lost him for a lot longer than I lost Nille for, and that was already really bad. So I…”

”Oh, Bonnie…” Petronille says carefully, starting to kneel down next to them, her hands already reaching out.

Bonnie dodges away before she can pull them close though, shaking their head to clear it like their thoughts are an etch a sketch doodle. They look up at Loop, who stares back with wide eyes.

”I get why she’s being so mean, is what I mean,” they say. “So…if you’re Frin’s sponsor or whatever you said, and you know, like, everything about them…then you must know their sister too, right? So, what were they like? Before they started being all mean?”

 ”I…” Loop says, eyes darting back and forth between Bonnie and the sleeping Siffrin. They pull their knees back up to their chest, hiding their four pointed scar from view, and for a moment Isabeau thinks they’re going to clam up and refuse to answer. 

Surprisingly though, they continue.

”She’s weird,” they blurt, and look shocked that they even said that much. It seems to break some dam inside them though, the rest of the words flowing out easily. “She’s terrible with people. Can’t keep up a conversation to save her life with anyone who’s not…Siffrin. She’s favored by the Universe, more so than anyone else I’ve ever met, and so she Knows wayyy too much about everything. But she has no tact whatsoever, so inadvertently someone else has to smooth everything over when she steps in it. And…”

Loop trails off, seeming to come back to themself only to realize that everyone is staring at them in different degrees of surprise. Their face seems to brighten.

”You keep talking about ’Knowing’ stuff,” Petronille says after a pause, looking between Loop and Odile. “You mentioned that before too, Ms’ Odile. What exactly does that mean?”

M’dame Odile sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose and grimacing. “I only have a vague notion of what it means, though its importance in all the text about the Island can’t be understated.” She gives Loop a meaningful look. “Perhaps you could give us all an overview that doesn’t end in an informational hangover?”

”A hangover?” Bonbon asks. “I’ve never had one of those before, is it bad?”

”Very, very bad,” Isabeau says, with a sage nod. “The worst pain you’ll ever feel in your whole life.”

”Whoa,” Bonnie says flatly, then turns to give Loop an equally flat look. “Please don’t give us a hangover.”

Loop snorts. “I will attempt to explain as simply as I can, though don’t blame me if it hurts your precious little noggins anyways! You’re all the ones who asked!”

They glance over at Odile’s stack of books, eyes narrowed as they skim over the titles. “Kid,” they say, pointing. “Do you mind grabbing me the brown book there? Second one down.”

”I’m not a kid!” Bonnie repeats, more instantly. They huff and cross their arms, clearly playing up their annoyance as they give Loop a downright evil side eye. “And why can’t you grab your own dumb book? You’ve got legs!”

Loop just smiles.

Isabeau sighs, giving in immediately to being the middleman and shuffling over to the stack. He pulls the correct book out, and is surprised to find the title is in Vaugardian. ‘The Universal Price of Knowledge and Favor’, the cover reads, ‘by Oriel Dubois’.

He brings it over to Loop, who snatches it out of his hands and pointedly doesn’t thank him. He huffs, and steps back behind Mira’s chair, watching as they flip it open to the table of contents.

”This is the book you’ll need if you want to subject yourself to a headache by way of a further reading, Researcher,” they say, humming as they flip to a page and kindly dog ear it for her. “As for the basic gist…”

They give Mira a look, who tilts her head curiously in response.

”In the same way that the Change belief is founded on the continuation of Change, the Island’s belief is founded on the continuation of Knowledge,” they tell her. “I…don’t understand as much of it as you would probably like me too, but…the God of the Forgotten Island created everything, and therefore it Knows everything there is to Know.”

”Everything?” Mira asks, frowning. “That’s not possible, is it? No one can know everything there is to know, that’s not the way things work.”

”No person can Know everything there is to know,” Loop corrects. “A God however, especially one as powerful as that, can. From what Aaa…” they start to say something, grimace, then pivot before anyone can question it. “From what others have told me about it, everything to it is an…experiment of sorts. It tells its favored what it thinks they need to Know in order to shape the world in the way it seems fit.”

”The Universe leads,” Odile says, pausing in the middle of jotting something down in her notebook, and Isabeau watches as a realization clicks into her.

Loop nods, finishing the mantra. “We can only follow.” 

“Wouldn’t that…” Mira starts, nervously wringing her hands together in front of her chest. “That’s not really giving them much of a choice in anything though, if their God is just laying out the entire path for them.”

Loop laughs without humor. “A little presumptuous to believe that every God is as enthused by the idea of free will as yours is, isn’t it Housemaiden?”

Mira grimaces, and Isabeau watches a nervous drop of sweat drip down from her temple. She squeezes her hands together tighter, but doesn’t answer.

Bonnie’s eyes ping pong between Mira and Loop, narrowed in thought. “Does that mean the Forgotten Island’s God is a jerk too then?”

”Not really,” Loop says, curling tighter into themself. “That’s not really how most people would describe it anyway, even the most blasphemous of them. It’s an all powerful God, and omniscience doesn’t quite lend for a strict moral code. It doesn’t think or feel how a human does, and therefore doesn’t have the capacity for empathy.”

”That just sounds like an extra fancy way of saying it’s a jerk though?” Bonnie says. “Like, people know it’s mean, they just don’t wanna say it out loud.”

”Ha!!!” Loop says more than actually laughs, but when they look at Bonnie, Isabeau can see something more lively spark into their expression. ”The truth comes from the mouth of babes, I suppose.”

”Hey! Don’t call me a baby!” Bonnie shouts, stamping their foot. “That’s even worse than being called a kid!”

Petronille snickers and Bonnie shoots her a death glare, but when she walks over and puts a hand on their shoulder, they let her without complaint.

Loop looks at them with something approaching envy.

Isabeau isn’t sure what to make of that.

”I think Asteria makes more sense, if that’s the God they’re following to try and find Siffrin,” Mira says softly. “That sounds awful to just…be forced to Know things like that.”

Isabeau looks at her, drawn in by the shakiness in her voice. Her eyes are closed, hands clenched tightly together as though she was making a desperate prayer. Tears leak out of the corners of her eyes, dribbling down her cheeks as her lips quiver.

”I…” She releases the iron tight grip of her hands in order to rub her eyes with the back of her knuckle. “We should…We have to do something, something to help them!”

”Help them?” m’dame Odile asks incredulously, snapping her notebook closed. “Help them? Mirabelle, they’re the one doing this! They’re not some innocent bystander, not some victim. They’re messing with powers beyond their comprehension, to a degree that could be arguably worse than what the Ki—“

”DON’T—!” Loop interrupts, lurching forward in their seat, “—finish that sentence if you know what’s good for you, Researcher.”

Sparks flood the room in the resulting stand off between the star and the older woman, both in the figurative and literal sense. Loop’s head flares up, the dots on their skin crackling in a combination of heat, anger, and energy that fizzles out of them like the last embers of a dying flame. 

They’re still leaned forward, looking about ready to jump and try to strangle Odile with their bare hands. Isabeau sees the beginning twitch of a scissor sign in their fingers, the one craft type she’s weak to.

M’dame Odile stares evenly back, perfectly composed, a hair no longer out of place. She looks down on Loop from the rim of her glasses, her palm flat and ready to slice through them as easily as making a paper cut.

“Stop!!” Bonnie shouts, stepping in between the two of them and holding their tiny palms up before Isabeau can even get the chance. “Stop fighting!”

”Boniface, this is not the time—“ m’dame Odile starts.

”No!” Bonnie whirls on her, pointing an accusing finger at her. “I know what you were going to say, and that’s mean! Way too mean! Ria’s nothin’ like the King. He was a stupid, crabbing tea-rant, who didn’t care about anybody but himself!”

”Ria…?” Loop repeats slowly, catching the nickname immediately.

”Ria?” Odile parrots after the both of them, voice sharp and near offended. “Boniface, I’m only saying—“

”No!” Bonnie says again, and the look on m’dame Odile’s face at getting interrupted a third time would almost be funny to Isabeau, if it wasn’t also crabbing terrifying.

“No, Ma’dame Odile is right,” Mira says, and everyone’s head snaps to her. She stares resolutely back at Loop, a determination entering her eyes that hadn’t been there previously. “They’re acting a little like the King, yes. But…they’re also acting a lot like Siffrin did when we found out they were looping.”

”Mira…” Isabeau says slowly, squeezing her shoulder.

”They’re sad. They’re lonely. They’re grieving,” she says. “And Bonnie’s right, they’re probably sick and hungry too. You…you all weren’t there, on the other plane, you didn’t see her. She…”

Mira trails off, and under Isabeau’s hand, he can feel her shoulder begin to shake. She swallows hard, and her next words come out thick and wet with tears.

“She looked so much like Siffrin! Exactly like them, really…and…it was so clear how much she loved them, how much she wanted to see them again, talk to them again….how scared she was to lose them.”

“Love does not absolve someone of their actions Mirabelle,” m’dame Odile says.

“No,” Petronille agrees, shifting uncomfortably. “But it does explain them.”

“I don’t think being on that other plane is good for them,” Mira continues, voice little more than a whisper. “If we could get them out of there, away from all the Gods, and reunite them with Siffrin, then maybe…”

“What Mirabelle?” Odile asks. Isabeau can see the way she’s trying to conceal her anger, hiding the frustration that she’s getting out numbered. “We could do what, exactly? Talk them down? Make them see reason? And what about the issue of the Forgotten Island and all its former residents? Will that just solve itself?”

“I—!” Mirabelle shakes harder underneath Isabeau’s hold as she tries to hold back sobs. “I—!“

“Odile,” Isabeau says, voice as firm as he can get it and she swivels her glower up at him. “I know you’re scared, but you’re being cruel.”

M’dame Odile looks first from him to the crying Mirabelle, to Bonnie balling their fist with tears welling up in the corners of their eyes, to Petronille who’s resolutely avoiding looking at her, and then finally to Loop, who simply blankly stares back.

She takes a deep breath in through her nose and steps forward, gently taking the book the Loop marked for her.

“I think I’m going to step outside for a moment,” she says, turning to the door. “I’m going to check in with the other Housemaidens, and I will return with any new developments.” 

As she crosses the threshold, she holds up the book without looking back. “Thank you for this Loop,” she says, and clicks the door shut behind her.

The atmosphere of the room feels shattered with Odile gone, like something about her presence had been holding everything together without anyone else knowing. It’s silent enough to hear a pin drop, the only steady sounds are of Mira’s sniffles and Sif’s slow, sleeping breaths as he snoozes away, entirely unaware of the fractures in their party.

Bonnie breaks the stillness, moving over to Mira’s chair and hopping up onto her lap. They take their hat off as they lean back against her, nudging their head underneath her chin. “It’s gonna be ok Belle,” they say, though their voice wavers through the reassurance. “Dile’s being dumb right now, but that’s just ‘cause she’s too smart usually. She’ll help us when she gets back, so don’t cry, ok?”

Mira takes a shaky breath, closing her eyes as she visibly collects herself. She doesn’t say anything, but wraps her arms around Bonnie in a tight hug, leaning her cheek against the top of their head. She’s still crying, but at least her face relaxes and she looks slightly calmer.

“...Housemaiden,” Loop starts, hesitant, and then flinches when every eye in the room turns to them.

Isabeau watches as they wring their hands together, uncurling enough to reveal the scar on their chest. It glows faintly, the light of it pulsing, and he has the sudden realization of something it reminds him of. The four pointed symbols on the King’s armor, the ones that had represented the stars.

“If you are being serious, about helping Asteria,” they continue, “there are…theories. One’s that say if you get an Artificer away from the Island, you can sever some of the connection the Universe has to them. Prevent it from conversing with them or forcibly leading them somewhere.”

“Really?” Mira asks.

Loop nods, not meeting her eyes. “Like I was saying, the Primordial Gods are closer to becoming fact than any others. If my assumptions are correct, whatever has been causing the memory loss of the Island has only solidified that even. Chances are, if the Island is still functioning as normal, then its residents are the only ones still truly following the beliefs of the Universe and the land itself is its only functional shrine.”

“So if we do actually manage to get Asteria here, like Mirabelle was saying…” Petronille says, thoughtfully trailing off.

“...then we could maybe weaken her? Enough to talk to her?” Isabeau picks up. “And if she’s away from the other plane, it’s not like she can go after the Change God either.”

“How would we get them to wanna leave though?” Bonnie says, bumping Mira’s head off of them as they look up at Isabeau. “It seems like they wanna stay wherever they are.”

“Well, as much as I loathe to admit it, the Researcher was right about one thing,” Loop scoffs. “Asteria is playing God, and if you want to get the attention of a God…”

“...then you make an offering,” Mira says, the words no more than a breath, looking at Loop like she was just now seeing them for the first time. They nod resolutely back at her.

Isabeau looks between the two of them, but they pay him no mind, seemingly engaged in some wordless conversation no one else is privy to. “Yeah, but…” he says uncomfortably, “...what would they want enough to leave?”

“They want me,” Loop answers him without looking away from Mirabelle, the words sharp as a dagger poised to make the final blow. “They want the power of my Wish.”