Chapter Text
[you bled out]
All of Dormont turns out for the end-of-the-world party.
There are long wooden tables stacked high with adorably bite-sized hors d'oeuvres. There are enormous cauldrons bubbling over with mulled wine. There are string lights Crafted to glitter and blink like a line of dancing fireflies. There’s live music and sequined jackets and some of the most delicious pastries that Isabeau’s ever tasted.
Bonnie’s more-or-less chained to the buffet, devouring mini quiches so fast that Isa’s stomach hurts just looking at them. Madame Odile is just drunk enough to take up a little more space than usual. She’s holding court over a small crowd of admirers who’re clearly hanging on her every word. At her elbow, Mirabelle listens, too, giggling and blushing and correcting only the most outrageous fabrications.
All that’s missing is Siffrin.
But Sif isn’t in any of the likely spots. He’s not ravaging the snacks, or lurking at the fringes of the crowd. They’re not at the bench overlooking the House. And they’re definitely not on the dance floor.
There’s still a little time before the gang meets up for their sleepover. (Odile wanted to give Mira enough time to reconnect with her friends from home, just in case— Just in case.) So it’s not like Sif is late or anything. But even so, this might be their last night on earth. Of course Isa wants to see them.
###
When he finally finds Sif, it’s at the Favor Tree, of all places. The party hasn’t quite extended this far into the dark, but there’s a faint glow flickering through the leaves, like a candle about to go out.
Siffrin is laughing at something. It’s Isabeau's favorite of all of Sif’s laughs, a snuffling little wheeze that sounds utterly unguarded. Their voice sounds unusually rough: the consonants smeared, the vowels bent sideways. Isa has seen Sif drink before, but he’s not sure he’s ever seen them drunk. Until now, apparently.
“Like you care,” Sif is snickering, to whoever-it-is that’s managed to win his trust in record time. “Can you even get drunk? …Wait. Do you even eat?”
“Stardust!” another voice giggles, high and bright. “Where are your manners! You should know better than to ask a gentleperson of a certain age whether or not they eat!!!”
Huh. It’s weird… Isabeau is pretty sure he’s met everyone in Dormont, but he doesn’t recognize that voice. And, while he’s on the subject, Sif sounds kind of weird, too. It’s not that Siffrin is scared of new people—they’ll walk right into a stranger’s home without a moment’s hesitation—but it takes them ages to sound that comfortable. Like he’s known them his whole life, or even longer.
All at once, Isabeau’s self-awareness catches up with him. He shouldn’t be creeping around in the dark, spying on people. This is a party. He’s allowed to go looking for his friends!! That’s totally regular party behavior.
“Sif?” he calls, ducking under the branches. “Is that you?”
—The light goes out.
When Isabeau steps into the clearing, Sif is alone, taking a long slug from what looks like an entire gallon of pilfered wine.
“Oh,” Sif says, looking startled. “Isa.”
“H-Hey, Sif!”
Sif’s expression softens. “Hey, Isa.”
Isabeau looks around. Weird… He didn’t see anyone leave, but he doesn’t see anyone here, either. “Who were you talking to?”
“Mmm…myself?”
“You were asking yourself if you eat?”
“…Yes?”
“And answering?”
“Yes.”
“In a different voice?”
Sif hesitates. “Did you hear another voice?”
Isabeau nods.
“Then… yes. I was doing a voice.”
“Oh.” Isabeau shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “Um. That’s cool.”
Sif grabs for their bottle. They miss by a mile, nearly upending the whole thing all over their beautiful silvery cloak.
Isabeau frowns at it. “Um. Do you, um— Or. I think maybe I should take that?”
But when he reaches for it, Sif’s hand flicks out and flips the neck of the bottle between their fingers, spinning it in a glittering arc before secreting it away in their cloak.
“Woah,” Isa breathes, impressed. Maybe Sif isn’t as drunk as he sounds. “When did you—” learn to do that, he was going to ask, except that’s when Sif trips over thin air and falls flat on his face. “Sif!!!!”
“Isa,” Siffrin says, to the ground.
“Aw, crab, bud, are you good? Do you— I think maybe you should have something to eat??”
“Nnnnooononono,” Sif slurs, pushing up on their elbows. “S’not even snack time, haha!!! That’s… the end of the floor.”
“Uh. O-Oh yeah?”
“Aaaanyway, s’not like…” Sif flaps a hand vaguely. “M’always the same amount hungry, so who… cares!!! Haha!! Who cares!!!”
“W-Well. Um. I care. And… so does everyone else?”
“Pshh,” Siffrin scoffs. “For now.”
“Yeah, I think pretty much for always, bud.”
Sif’s face darkens. “Hah. ‘Always.’ What’d’you know about… pffft. You’re like… a little baby. Trying to give advice about… arthritis.”
“Uh… huh?”
“Always,” Sif mutters. “Good joke. Always, haha, hahaha!!! I’m the only one who… You don’t even know what that word means.” He tries to spit on the ground but fails to muster enough force, so most of it winds up on his chin. “I’m always. You’re— Yyyyou’re only sometimes.”
Isabeau fidgets uneasily. “Um. Um, um… I really think we should get you some water? I’m worried you’re gonna—”
“Noooooonono,” Sif says again, even more emphatic. “You don’t hafta worry. I wouldn’t… Won’t let anything happen to you. Keep you safe. Promise.”
Of course Isabeau knows that Sif is just being dramatic because they’re wasted, but his neck heats up anyway. “Aw, Sif. Or, I mean… Back at you.”
“Haha! Funny.”
Isa’s face falls. “I wasn’t joking.”
“Haha!!! M….me neither.”
Haha, ouch. That stings. But Sif clearly isn’t in the right frame of mind to talk about it. “Um. Okay, well. Will you let me take you home, at least? We’ve got kind of a big day tomorrow…”
“You have no idea,” Sif snorts.
“…and I’d like to see you drink some water…”
“Like to see you, too,” Sif mumbles blearily. “Like to see you do… allllll kinds of things.”
Isabeau blanches. Wow, drunk Sif is crabbing terrifying. “U-Um!!”
“M’sorry,” Sif mutters. “I know I’m…” To Isabeau’s horror, Sif’s eye floods with tears. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I know it’s—I’m—Isa, Isa, you’re just so… It isn’t fair to…” They choke on a sob. “You just… deserve so much better…”
The rest of that sentence is washed away when Sif drops to a crouch and wraps both arms around their face, blocking out the rest of the world. Isabeau can see their shoulders shake with the force of each wrenching, heaving sob, but Siffrin stays utterly silent. Perfectly contained. Like they aren’t there at all.
Isabeau’s chest aches. He wants so badly to wrap them up in a hug but he knows, he knows that Sif hates being touched. It would be wrong to take advantage when they’re already so crabbing miserable. Instead, he drops to a crouch beside them.
“Sif,” he says unhappily. “Hey, come on, you’re okay. You’re okay, you’re just drunk. You’re just… having a bad night.”
“Haha!!!” Sif almost screams. “A!! Bad night!!!! Fffff…funny!! Because it’s! Every night!! If you’re the one that’s bad then it’s bad every night, it’s every night, it’s every night it’s every night it’s—”
“Sif!!” Isabeau yelps. “S-Sif, Siffrin, come on, you’re— You’re not bad!! You’re good!! You’re so so so so good!!”
“Haaaaa! Ha… Isa. Isa, Isa, you’re. Killing me. Haha, I mean—I’m killing me!!! I’m…” Siffrin tucks their head and hugs their knees to their chest, like they’re trying to disappear completely. “M’sorry. I’m really really sorry.”
“No, hey, you don’t have to—”
“No, it’s— It wasn’t okay, I don’t think.” Sif hiccups wetly. “I think maybe I… shouldn’t have done it.”
Oh, crab. He’s almost too afraid to ask. “D-Done what?”
“Stabbed myself,” Sif mumbles, so soft that Isabeau has to lean in close to hear. “Didn’t think it would take so long. Just—couldn’t talk to her again!!!! Couldn’t hear the same stupid— But it wasn’t… nice. It wasn’t nice.” Siffrin’s face screws up painfully. “Got your pretty clothes all dirty. Y'r pretty face all… S-So next time just… don’t get so close. ‘Kay? Just let me— Let me keep you safe.”
Isabeau’s head is spinning. Pretty clothes. Pretty face. Stabbed myself. Keep you safe. It’s all too much, way way way too much at once. “S-Sif. You…”
“Shhhh,” Siffrin whispers. “S’okay. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.”
Then they curl forward and vomit on their shoes.
Ohhhkay. It is definitely time to intervene. Isabeau rolls up his sleeves. “I’m gonna take you to bed, okay?”
Sif barks a laugh.
“I… don’t think you’re okay to walk,” Isabeau decides. “So I’m—I’m gonna carry you, okay? I just. Um. I’m gonna have to… touch you. If that’s okay.”
“Wish you would,” Sif mutters.
(Um?????) “So just— If I do something you don’t want, you have to tell me, okay?”
“Mmh.”
“Sif!! Will you tell me??”
“Mh? Oh. Yeah. Sure. No worries.”
###
Siffrin feels so light in his arms, like something Crafted from paper. Or like one of those stupid-fluffy cats that loses 80% of its body mass anytime it gets wet.
The worst part is the way they nestle into him. Small and soft and painfully trusting, like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be. It isn't fair, it isn't fair that Sif is finally letting someone touch him—without freezing up! Without flinching away—and Isabeau isn't even allowed to enjoy it. Siffrin’s not in their right mind, so Isabeau isn’t allowed to think about the way they tuck their head under his chin and sigh into his neck; or the way their little hands come up to clutch at the collar of his shirt. He's not allowed to read into the way the tension bleeds out of them, like they feel totally safe in his arms.
“Sorry,” Siffrin sighs, in the barest, faintest whisper. “M’sorry. I know it’s— You shouldn’t have to, it isn’t fair to—”
“Sif. I want to take care of you.”
Siffrin chokes on a sob. “That’s the worst part.”
Isabeau has a very quiet aneurysm when Siffrin nuzzles into the side of his throat. Come on, Isabeau, focus up. Focus up! Do some factorials!! The factorial of 4 is 24. [5!] is 120. A factorial of 6, that’s… 120 times six, so 100*6 plus 20*6, that’s 720. The factorial of seven is—
“Isa?” Sif says blearily. They’re so close, Isabeau can feel their voice against his skin, just the faintest puff of breath.
“Wh-What’s up, Sif.”
“I promise not to throw up on you.”
Pfff. “Thanks, buddy. That means a lot.”
“N’sorry for making you…” He can feel them shudder in his arms. “Y’know. I won’t do this again. Just felt—bad. Wanted to feel… less bad.”
“I get it.”
“Didn’t work.”
“Hah. Yeah, no kidding.”
Siffrin’s hair slips into their face, tickling their nose and making them sneeze. Of course Sif would have the cutest sneeze imaginable. A soft little squeak, like a kitten that got into the spice rack. Isa's stomach flips. Before he can think to stop himself, he’s already braced their weight under one arm, freeing his other hand to brush it back.
Siffrin shudders. “You touched me,” they whisper. “You only ever do that if I'm dying. …Oh. Am I dying?”
“You’re not dying,” Isabeau reassures him. “You’re just drunk.”
“It’s okay if I'm dying.”
“Gonna have to agree to disagree on that one, bud.”
“This part’s nice, though,” Siffrin mumbles.
Isa can’t help laughing. “Pfft. Hey, if you just want a lift, I’m pretty sure there’s easier ways to get it.”
Siffrin’s big bright eye opens wide. “But it’s not hard at all,” they tell him, with absolute, shattering sincerity. “It’s so easy to die.”
[you were crushed]
Everyone is counting on her. The House, Dormont, Vaugaurde... They're all waiting to watch her prove that their faith wasn't unfounded. The only problem is that it was. Mirabelle wasn't Chosen. She was just... available.
“Mirabelle.”
Mirabelle brightens. Just seeing Siffrin is enough to make her feel a little more real. “Oh! Siffrin! You’re already up! Oh, I wanted to ask—”
“Can I talk to you?”
“I— W-Well, of course! You can always talk to me, Siffrin! What did you want to talk about?”
“Traps.”
Hm. That’s… unexpected. Siffrin is usually the one in charge of traps. And scouting, and scanning, and situational awareness in general. Still, Mirabelle isn’t one to turn down a chance to make herself useful. “Oh! Do you know, I’ve actually taken a class about this!”
Siffrin’s mouth ticks up. “Wow, really? What are the odds?”
(Since Mirabelle has taken every entry-level course that the House offers: roughly 100%. But Siffrin doesn’t need to know that.)
“So, what did you want to talk about, exactly? I don’t have much practical experience, but I’ve learned a lot about the, um, philosophy of trap-making, in relation to the principles of Change. How to construct a House that’s always welcoming, but still feels safe for everyone inside; that sort of thing. Ooh, if you’re interested in the interplay of security and hospitality, there’s a very interesting book I could loan you…”
“I’m thinking a little shorter-term,” Siffrin says quietly. “Like. Um. Any traps that might actually be active, in the House.”
“Oh!! Oh, goodness, it’s not like you to do research! You’re always so good at reacting in the moment; I never thought you’d want… But of course, I’d be happy to help!!!”
###
The bench outside of the library doesn’t have enough space for all of Mira’s notes, and all the properly sizable tables have already been hauled outside for the party. But it’s a beautiful day—one that might be their last. Which is as good an excuse as any to stretch out in the grass, under the sun.
Mirabelle chews her pen thoughtfully. “Hm… Well, the House in Dormont, in particular, has made a lot of advancements in the integration of intent into the field. Which is to say, ah… developing dual- or tri-Craft sensors which detect emotion or intention, in lieu of more conventional physical triggers. They'd hoped to automate counter-measures which would only activate if an intruder had genuinely come to do harm… Which sounds good on paper, of course, but—and this will interest you!!—they wound up learning far more about subjectivity than they did about security!”
She hesitates. Is she boring them? But when she looks up, she finds Siffrin listening, apparently avidly.
“For example,” she presses on, encouraged. “If someone truly believed themself to be a burden, the trap might activate, even if its target held no ill intent. But, conversely, a self-righteous scoundrel could walk through unscathed!! Self-consciousness versus self-awareness, that sort of thing. —Are you taking notes?”
“Yes?” Sif’s hand freezes in place. “Is that wrong?”
“N-No!! Of course not!! I just… I had no idea you were so interested in theory! Oh, but this changes everything!" Mirabelle clasps her hands under her chin, dizzy with possibility. “I only wish I’d known sooner! There are so many books I could have loaned you!”
Siffrin shrugs one shoulder. “I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Hehe! Well, of course I’m happy to teach you.” Mirabelle’s short, painful memories of teaching are all tinged with humiliation, but this is different. Of course Siffrin teases her sometimes, but they’re never really mean. At least, she’s fairly sure he never means to be. “Here, let’s try for a practical example, shall we?”
###
When she looks up from her blueprint, she finds Siffrin watching her with newfound respect.
“That’s horrendous,” he says seriously. “Really really horrible. Do you know how many thieves you could flay with this?”
“I–!!” she gasps. “I didn’t mean—”
But they’re already leaning over to tap at a spot on her diagram. “What if we added spikes to the axle, too? That way, anyone who slips through only has a second to feel smug before they get skewered.”
“Ooohhh,” she breathes. That’s clever, isn’t it? But it would be even cleverer if— “Suppose we made them out of glass? Something that might refract the heating element…”
Siffrin shakes their head admiringly. “Devious.”
###
When the sun finally slips behind the horizon, Mirabelle still isn’t sure that she’s taught Siffrin anything actually useful. But he does look a little less anxious.
[something's broken, failing, rotting]
Odile is just browsing, scanning the shelves for something that might lend her a strategic advantage, when Siffrin catches her eye. Again.
He’s been acting strange all afternoon. They must have wandered in and out of the general store eight times, at least. But they never look at any of the wares. They just loiter around the corner, stealing glances.
“Siffrin,” she snaps at last, whipping around to glare. “You’re giving me a headache. If you have something to say, just say it.”
She could kick herself when Siffrin visibly flinches. She always forgets how delicate that kid is. Probably because of how hard they work to hide it.
“I’m not angry,” she tries again, as gently as someone like her can manage. “I only mean that you don’t have to be afraid to talk to me.”
At that, his eye flicks up to meet hers. “Don’t I?”
Ouch. “We’re allies, Siffrin. And—companions, of a sort. If you have nothing to hide, then there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Siffrin doesn’t say anything.
Odile stops herself from rolling her eyes, but only just. And she thought Vaugardians were sensitive. At least the people of Vaugarde seem mostly at peace with their… let’s say, ‘emotionality.’ Whereas Siffrin is clearly no less fragile, but without Vaugarde’s laissez-faire stance on sentimentality.
“Look,” she says impatiently, and then stops herself when she remembers that ‘What do you want’ probably won’t go over very well with a kid more brittle than the average eggshell. “Is there something I can help you with?”
No answer. But of course there isn’t. That would be far too easy.
The indirect approach it is, then. “Would you like to help me with my shopping? I could use another pair of hands.”
Siffrin gives her one last wary once-over before jerking a nod.
###
Odile trawls the shelves. Siffrin trails limply after.
It doesn’t help that she doesn’t actually have anything to buy. The vendor has already apologized for the establishment’s distinct lack of familytales. Boniface is taking point on sustenance, a responsibility that they take vigorously seriously. And Dormont is a quiet, peaceful town. Not exactly a hotspot for weapon upgrades.
If she were in Ka Bue, Odile would know exactly where to find someone selling illicit Craft enhancers, or mild physical stimulants. But she isn’t. She’s deep in uncharted territory, surrounded by strangers who feel even more foreign than the ones who raised her.
“Siffrin,” she says, and pretends not to notice how violently they flinch. (She was never very good at the indirect approach.) “I have certain—trepidations—about tomorrow. I’m looking to buy anything that we might kick ourselves for having forgotten, once it’s too late to turn back.”
“…Like what.”
Oh. An actual answer. She wasn’t expecting that. “Ah… like… medical supplies, I suppose? Or… writing materials? In case the House has denatured so far that we’ll need to draw a map?”
Siffrin looks impressed. “That’s smart.”
Well, yes. It is her sole redeeming quality. “Is there anything you think we might be missing? Anything that might raise our odds of success?”
Another inexplicable flinch. “Oh. Um. I wouldn’t… Or. I’m sure I couldn’t think of anything you hadn’t already thought of.”
“So there’s nothing you think we should consider.”
“I. Um. I—” Siffrin swallows hard. “M-Madame. If you were… trapped somewhere, somewhere you couldn’t get out, but the cage was. Um. Transparent, so you couldn’t even see the bars… Would you want to know? Or would knowing only make it worse?”
“Hm?” Odile narrows her eyes. “How do you mean?”
“H-Huh?”
“Trapped how, exactly? How big is the cage? How did I come to be there?”
“Oh,” Siffrin mumbles, nonplussed. “Um. I don’t know. It’s just a hypothetical.”
Odile scowls at them. “Even hypotheticals need to be bounded by context, Siffrin.”
“Haha. I guess so, yeah.”
“Otherwise it’s not a thought experiment, it’s just a… fantasy. A daydream.”
Siffrin’s eye flicks away. “Haha. Yeah. I guess you’re probably right.”
[—GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK GO—]
All the grownups are running around being stupid, so, as usual, it’s up to Bonnie to deal with the stuff that really matters: snacks.
This plot of land might look like a normal farm to anyone else. But Bonnie can see it for what it really is. A feast waiting to happen. Besides, this vegetable patch isn't just any vegetable patch. It's also home to the biggest bee that Bonnie's ever seen. It was practically a sparrow!!! Except stripey. And buzzy. And... bee-shaped.
The farmer already told them that they can take whatever they want. Now all that’s left is the fun part: deciding what they want, and what to do with it.
The wheat is probably a little high-level, if they’ve gotta start from scratch. But they could do some pretty fun stuff with the potatoes and the squash. Ohhh… what if they fried them??? Even boring old people like fried stuff.
And then out of nowhere, Siffrin pelts around the corner and full-on shouts in their face.
“—Bonbon!!!”
Bonnie nearly falls over the fence. Frin’s face is bloodless, livid with fear. His single eye stretched wide with wild, animal panic. Like something strung up by a spider and eaten slowly, alive. “Huh???”
“…Bonnie,” Siffrin says. There’s a measured pause. For a second, Bonnie can actually see him putting himself back together. “How are you.”
(????) “Fine???”
Siffrin breathes in, and out. In, and out. In, and out. In, and—
Oh, for crab’s sake. Bonnie can’t keep watching this. It’s physically painful. “And… how are you?”
Frin lets out their breath, then pastes on a big, lying smile. “Nothing is wrong at all!”
Ugh. Sometimes Bonnie can’t tell if Frin is actually stupid, or if he just thinks everyone else is. “Okay?”
“Okay! I’m, um. Glad to hear that you’re—um. Yeah.”
Oh, cool. That really clears things up. “I have to get supplies,” Bonnie tells them coldly. “See you later.”
###
But Frin doesn’t leave.
###
No matter where Bonnie goes, Siffrin just… follows. Silent. Just totally silently staring, like he’s waiting for them to do something wrong. To make some mistake that’ll gouge out his other eye.
Bonnie weaves through the field and gets steadily, silently madder. What is Frin thinking, looming over them like this? Making them feel all guilty and stupid and slow? Bonnie never asked them to save their life. They would never!! They don’t owe Frin anything!!!!
Bonnie hooks a sharp left between two rows of yams. Siffrin follows just a half-step behind.
At the end of the row, Bonnie turns right. Then right again. A full 180. And still Siffrin sticks to their tail, like a stupid little duckling. Like he doesn’t even trust them enough to pick vegetables without getting someone killed.
Ugh. Whatever. If Siffrin wants to follow Bonnie around like a stupid baby duck, that’s his call. No one asked them to be here. It’s like Nille used to say. You can’t control what other people do. Not even when they’re being stupid. But it goes both ways, okay? Don’t ever let anyone make you do something you don’t want to do. The only one in charge of you is you.
###
Bonnie leads Frin on a merry chase. Hard rights, illogical lefts. Skipping forward and doubling back. No matter where they go, Siffrin follows.
Oh, is that how you want to play? Bonnie thinks grumpily. Because I know this game. And I know how to win.
They lead Frin over troughs of manure, between slats in the fence. They weave between plows and cows and mounds of mud. It’s not until Bonnie wriggles under a furrow in the fence that Siffrin finally slows down.
“Oh,” he says quietly, wedged between wooden slats and dried-up dirt. “I’m stuck.”
Hah! A total victory.
“Oh, really?” Bonnie swipes the hat clear off of Siffrin’s head and plants it on their own. “Really?? ‘Cause it was easy for me!!”
“Well. You’re very talented.”
“I know!!! Or, I mean—I know!! You’re the one who’s dumb!!!”
Still splayed belly-down in the dirt, Siffrin snickers. “Heh. Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
“So just—stop being dumb already!!!”
“Okay. I’ll try.”
“‘Cause you’re creeping me out!!!”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Well!!” Bonnie huffs grouchily. “Well… good!!!!”
“Thanks, Bonbon.” Siffrin looks up at them from down in the dirt. For once, they don't look like they’re hiding anything at all. “I think I needed this.”
“Wh-What the crab?? Gross!!!”
“Haha. Yeah.” For a second, Frin hesitates. “Hey… Bonnie?”
“What!!!!”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” His tone hasn’t changed, but their eye looks unsettlingly dark. “I’ll die first. A thousand times over. As many as it takes.”
Ugh!!! Why are they like this??? Bonnie doesn’t WANT that!!! They don’t want him to die even once!!! But Frin looks so serious—so totally, uncharacteristically open—that they can’t bring themself to say it.
“Um. Frin?”
He just looks at them.
“I… have some snacks in my bag. In case you’re hungry. And ‘cause, um. Dile says if you don’t eat, you’ll never grow tall.”
“Hah! Thanks, Bonnie. But I’m not sure it’s in the cards.” Siffrin wriggles out from under the fence and reaches into their pocket, palming their lucky silver coin and rolling it between their fingers. “You could say I got… short-changed.”
“Frin!!!!”
“Yyyyes?”
“I was actually worried!!!”
“Haha! Aw. But there’s no need to worry about me, Bonbon. You know I’m always fine.”