Archive of Our Own

You forget how many times you've done this. It's been more than 30, maybe 40, you lost count around then. Probably more. So, so much more. Your feet are aching and your eyes are tired, but you can do nothing other than press on. 

... That is, you would be, if you had anywhere to go. You're such an idiot, forgetting where the Star Crest was supposed to go. It was down, not up! You're supposed to have this memorized by now, how could you haven't realized where you were going! And now you're stuck! Nowhere to go with no immediate end in sight! 

If only you can do it yourself. 

... But you can. 

You take your dagger in your hand. It feels heavier than usual, but that might just be the weight of what you're thinking of doing. Fast and easy in a way, no? Sure, it'll be rough, but they're always rough! And you can get back a little quicker! ... It is killing yourself, though. Not just running into a tear, or letting yourself get squashed to death. It's active... But faster! No need to run around, just grab and go! 

Your grip tightens around the handle. You take a deep breath in and out. 

They've been walking for what feels like hours. Isabeau can feel the ache setting in. The break was good, of course - what's not good about a sit down and some snacks - but it doesn't help the utter mundanity walking through the hall of the House. It's cold in the way only places frozen in time are, even the burning wall sconces feeling cold whenever he passes them. 

The chill of absolute nothingness is probably the worst thing about the house. He thought it when they walked in and he still does. Everything has a generally unsettling and threatening presence, that safe room having been the only exception. He doesn't think he's ever felt such a deep discomfort in any place. 

He didn't even notice it when they first walked in. That's how the frozen places are. Not a sting or a chill, but an emptiness. He didn't realize it was so cold until his hands started to feel stiff, fingers slightly darker than usual. The air is stale and almost hard to breathe, making Isabeau wince when it infiltrates his airways. He can almost taste the age of it, the empty agony of it. The taste of it clings to his tongue and throat. He briefly thinks of a storage room in the House he Changed in, where the air had been thick and musty and suffocating. 

They've been walking for so long Isabeau almost doesn't realize Siffrin has stopped in front of the rest of the party, causing him to almost stumble right into Mirabelle. He stops just short of it, thank Change, but still. They all look forward where he's stopped and look into the darkness. There must be something they missed. Crab. 

"Siffrin?" Mirabelle's soft voice pipes up in front of him. "Is everything okay?" 

The rest of them watch as Siffrin stands in front of the group, still and silent. Isabeau steps past her in order to stand beside them. 

"Sif," he says lowly. "What's going on?" He leans forward just enough to catch Sif's face. Bonnie pipes up from behind them, but they're quickly silenced by M'dame. 

Isabeau looks down at Siffrin, now that he's got a better look at him. There's something in their face that he rarely sees. It's this odd sternness, where their brows are furrowed and their eye is squinted slightly. He almost wishes to shake them out of their thoughts, but he doesn't. He wouldn't do that to Sif. 

He draws closer, lowering his voice. "Sif?..." 

"Siffrin, what are you?-" Mirabelle falls quiet as Siffrin's cloak audible rustles. 

Isabeau's stomach drops at the sight of Siffrin's dagger. For a moment, he wonders i they see something the rest of them can't hear. It must be. Sif is good about these things and he's got this wicked intuition that Isabeau trusts with his life. 

"... Sif." He reaches his hand out on instinct, but stops short and pulls it back to himself. Siffrin doesn't even turn, doesn't even blink. "C'mon, Sif, what're you doing?" 

Siffrin finally blinks and turns to look at Isabeau. He's slow about it, calm and lazy like they have all the time in the world. And they smile. That same sweet smile that Isabeau has grown so fond of. His chest feels warm. 

"Hey, is there something over there?" There's something gentle in their voice that makes Isabeau pause. He can see them lifting their dagger. 

"Sif?!" 

He doesn't get the words out in time to stop them. He can only get enough out that he doesn't miss the splatter of dark blood. The ripping of the skin and sinew of Siffrin's throat. He does not get enough to actually look away.  

They crumble to the floor in a heap. Isabeau's throat burns as he screams. 

Oh Change. Oh Change. 

"SIFFRIN!" 

Oh please, not him. This... Not him, not Siffrin. 

There's so much blood.. How is there so much blood? He's never seen so much of it... Isabeau can see their chest rising and falling in slow, shaking stutters, coughing up more lightless blood. 

There's a distant stumbling, hard to hear over the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. Mirabelle is rushing forward with him. He can't see Odile, but he knows she's shoving Bonnie away, back into the room behind them so they don't have to see. It's all a flurry of indistinguishable motion, though, with his dying friend in the center of it. 

Dying... 

Oh Change, Siffrin is dying. 

Isabeau collapses at his side, grabbing at their cloak with shaking hands. A pained noise tears its way up his throat at the sight of the wound. A single slash across their throat, gushing with dark viscera deep enough that he can see Siffrin's throat tensing around air that won't come. Blood bubbles with every strained breath or gasp of air, spills from their mouth in awful clumps. 

"No-" His voice is breaking. He grabs Siffrin's shoulders before he can think clearly about it, pulling them up as if to hold them together. "No- no-" 

There's so much blood. He can't get over how much there is in the first place. It's pouring from their neck like a fountain. Isabeau can't even begin to stop it, no matter how hard he tries to press his hands against the wound. Their entire cloak is drenched in it, void staining down the front of the darkless cloth. 

"Sif- Siffrin- Please-" His eyes are burning, vision blurring. "No no- You can't- You-" 

Mirabelle collapses down beside him, her hands trembling just like his own. She's mumbling to her self indistinctly, but Isabeau knows the words well enough. She presses her hands over his, fingertips alight with Healing Craft, something to fix this. It's warm and seeps through Isabeau's hands and down to Siffrin's bleeding neck, but... 

Siffrin shoves her hands away. She protests, crying, "Siffrin, please!" softly. Not that it matters regardless. 

It didn't even do anything. 

Isabeau has watched that Craft bring them back from the brink of death, keeping them from total defeat, and it did nothing. 

Nothing.

The world is crashing down on him. This can't be it. He hasn't... He hasn't even said it, yet. 

He fights to make his voice work again. "Sif- Please- Please..." He's never held them before. He can see the light leaving their bright eyes slowly. It's not enough, he's still bleeding.

He's still dying. 

Siffrin strangles out a low, pained sound that hurts Isabeau just to hear. They spit out more blood and phlegm than words in the process. Their hands - now empty of the dagger - are reaching up at Isabeau. Reaching. 

"No no- No-" One hand wraps around the back of Siffrin's head, holding them up. "Don't- Don't say- Just- Just breathe- We- I- I can- We can fix this-" 

They choke again, visceral and disgusting. Their hand, with all the effort his shaking limbs can muster, lands on Isabeau's arm and clings to his shoulder. Their mouth is moving, but it's too blurry for Isabeau to see and he can't hear more than the pained coughing. He opens his own mouth to shush them, but it doesn't come out right. It comes out broken and pathetic, like a sob. 

He didn't realize he was crying. 

Their hands are fragile as they hold onto him, getting weaker and weaker so quickly. Their voice withers through his bloody lips, forcing out a noise Isabeau could almost mistake for his name. 

"Change, please-" He grab's Siffrin's hand on his shoulder, holding onto it tightly. Their blood on it is thick and cold, sticking to his skin. He pays it no mind. "Please- Don't do this to me- I can't- You can't- I still need to- I need-" 

He doesn't know who he's begging. He doesn't know what good it'll do. The lazy god he believes in? What would they do? What out there could fix this? 

Siffrin's hand grabs back at his own, but it's getting less so by the minute. He doesn't have time. No no no... 

"I love you," he mutters. Useless. "I love you-" Again, like it will fix anything. "Please- Sif- Siffrin-" 

Their hand is limp in his. 

He's gone. He's gone. 

The world is crumbling under his feet. 

Their body is so light in his arms. 

Gone. 

Mirabelle crashes down beside him, her head falling forward against Siffrin's. He cradles him to his chest, not realizing how their blood smears all over his clothes. Mirabelle trembles against his side, crying out in a broken wail. Isabeau can't even begin to hold himself together. 

They both break. His throat is tight, aching with his voice. Mirabelle weeps into his shoulder. 

He loved them.

He loved him, and he's gone. 

Siffrin is gone. 

He's dead. 

It feels impossible. Unbearable. The walls of the house would better collapse in on him. Broken pleas escape him as if there is anyone out there that can do anything. 

Someone. 

Anyone. 

This can't be it. 

His throat is too choked up to smell the burnt sugar in the air. 

He feels - 

You wake up in the field once again. 

The first thing you feel is the burning gasp you take. Air scraping through your throat like sandpaper. The phantom pain of your dagger still lingers in your neck. Your hands are already outstretched towards nothing. 

Stars.

The afternoon sky beats down over your eye, warming your sweaty skin. There's a faint breeze, as always. 

You stabbed yourself. 

Your throat feels tight. You're no longer injured, yet you still feel the taste of your blood In your mouth. You open your mouth and end up coughing so violently you force yourself upright. 

You died in his arms. 

You gasp for air the moment the coughing ceases. You look down at your hands, remembering how they were covered in blood. Your blood. 

He held you while you died. 

You blink and stare into the blindingly bright sky. Your breathing is painfully quick, refusing to slow down. You cant take a full breath. You just can't, it's so blinding painful. 

Stars! Quick and easy?! What were you thinking?!

How could you have thought such a thing? You thought ripping your throat open would be easy? You were stuck there! Bleeding out on the cold floor of that blinding house and they had to watch! Your family had to watch you die. 

Isabeau watched you die. You felt his tears on your face. His arms clinging to you as lightless blood poured down your torso. 

You close your eyes for a moment, but not too long. You cannot scrub the way his face looked long enough to keep them close. You have seen that look before. You hate it. You cannot bear to think about it because it causes this pit of shame to curl in your stomach. 

You need to talk to him. 

You can't make yourself move fast enough. You can barely feel the ground under your feet as you rise from the field, pace frantic. Dormont is the same. Bright, easy, and the air of something dark on the horizon. 

Enter Mirabelle. 

"Siffrin!" She speaks cheerily to you. "You're up!- ... Siffrin?" 

You blink. "... Hi Mira!" Stupid. You look like you've seen a ghost. You need to be paying attention. "Have you thought about doing a sleepover tonight?" 

There's this antsy feeling in your chest. You can remember her hands on your throat, trying to heal you. You need to see Isa, sure, but you can't make her upset. Do not upset her. 

"Oh- Yes!" She claps her hands together, smiling. "I was just thinking about it! You think its a good idea?" 

"Yeah!" You smile, even if it feels like barbed wire pressing into your cheeks. She's happier when you smile with her. "I'll go tell everyone!" 

She blinks at you, confused. "Well- I'd appreciate that, but- Siffrin, are you okay?" Her tones softens along with her brows furrowing. Stars, you need to be doing better! You're supposed to not upset her! Are you this stupid!?

"I'm fine," you chirp. "Just thinking about something." You tell her about the CARROT method. You hope that's enough to distract her. 

"Oh!" Her eyes widen. "Oh, that makes sense now! ... Wait, how did you?-" 

You wink at her, and she huffs. You briefly ponder how you wink with one eye but decide you need to move on sooner rather than later. 

She stares at you thoughtfully before humming. "Well, I'll leave you to your secrets. Come get me if you need anything!" She turns away and walks over to the bench outside of the library. 

... Why are you just standing here? 

Just move. You need to get it together. 

You need to see Isa. 

You're moving before she's completely out of eye range. You just- You want... It doesn't matter what you want. You need to see him, make sure he's... 

You see him. He stands in his usual place, tall and strong, head tilted to one side like mulling over many different thoughts at once. You first believed there was nothing more than silly jokes and his never-ending optimism in there. You know better now; you should've always known better. You idiot. 

He turns to look at you when you are standing in front of him. You watch as his face lights up per usual, eyes shining with his brilliant grin to compliment it. He looks at you with such... You don't have the words for what it is, but it usually makes you feel warm. Right now, it only worsens the pit in your stomach.

You can remember the fear in his face as he watched you bleed. The desperation as he tried to hold your blood inside your body with his strong hands, shaking more than you had ever seen before. He sobbed over you, his warm tears hitting your cheeks as he held you in his arms. 

He held you in his arms.

You realize you'd like him to do it again. 

And what an awful thing that is to want, no? You would consider ripping your throat out in front of him so he could hold you, wouldn't you? You're a monster. You're disgusting. What kind of horrible person wants to be held that badly? 

... Not that you're much of a person, are you?

"Sif!" His voice booms in your ears. His grin is so bright, as if looking into the sun. You force yourself to smile. 

"Isa!" Your voice trembles. Stars, damn you. You're horrible. 

His face falls, because you're so awful at what you do. His brows furrow, eyes filled with worry and his brilliant smile is gone. He opens his mouth, probably to ask you if you're okay or something. His concern is sickening to you; you don't deserve it. You speak before he can get a single word out. 

"What's up?" You blurt, praying to the Universe that you sound okay. He continues to stare at you; the furrow of his brows only reminds you of how they look the same when he's crying over you. Don't think about it don't think about it just don't think about it. 

Thankfully, he adorns his smile again and speaks as normal. "Oh- Nothing much! I'm just thinking about what to ask the Favor Tree." He looks towards the large tree; you wonder if he'll ever catch a glimpse of a certain star in there. "Isn't this tree cool?" He looks at you with a tilt of his head. 

He's so happy. So nice. So kind. You care about him so much. You feel even worse for even thinking about hurting him like you did, for finding joy in that moment. You don't deserve it...

Cue joke. 

"Yeah..." You smile as smoothly as possible. "One could say it's a pretty..." 

He looks at you expectantly. His eyes shine with delight as the expression on your face. "Yeah?" His smile is wide, like he's trying to fight it from splitting his face open. 

You grin. 

"TREE-mendous tree!" 

He burst into loud, boisterous laughter again. You don't think you could ever be sick of it. No matter how many times you make the joke, it's always worth it. Because he always laughs like you've told him the funniest thing in the world, grinning ear to ear and almost falling over himself. His face darkens when he laughs, cheeks flushing where his smile stretches his face the widest. 

His hand reaches out towards you. You hold your breath in anticipation. It lowers... slowly. Closer, closer, and closer... 

Please, you think briefly. Please. You know you're disgusting. You know he should despise the thought of touching you. But you are selfish. You are greedy. So please, please touch me. 

His hand stops just above your shoulder. Your chest is tight. You want to cry.

"Haahh..." He sighs, wiping a tear from his eye. "Change, that was good!"  

You think you might actually cry. 

Why does he never touch you? You're waiting, you're wanting, you wouldn't stop him! If you were a better person, you'd open your mouth and tell him. But you aren't. You're disgusting, and greedy, with a black hole of a stomach and an ever-wanting heart. You wish he would just touch you, do it so you don't have to ask. You don't want to ask. You only want. Aimlessly. 

You remember his arms around you. He held you tightly, tighter than you've ever been held, you think. Not that you can remember a time someone else actually hugged you. You just know no one else hugged you like he did. Stars, it was nice. It was so nice. His arms - strong, made for strength and protecting others - felt like they could hold you together after you had ripped yourself apart. If there's anyone who could do that, it would be him. He would hold your broken body back into proper shape, taking the parts you had torn apart and pushing them back into place. You rarely take the time to appreciate the way his body is crafted, but now - with all this want in your chest - you marvel at the work it must have taken. 

You, like the monster you are, think that you'd be okay with ripping your throat open again, just for the chance that he'd hold you once more. You then want to rip your throat out anyway, just for having that thought in the first place. Disgusting. 

He's looking at you. You should be saying something, continuing the joke or something new but all you can do is stare. He looks at you with that softness in his eyes, brows furrowed and mouth pressed into a frown. 

You feel cold and empty. His hands were warm when they cradled your head. Would he make you feel warm again?

"Sif?" His voice finally infiltrates your ears. "You alright? Hellooo?" He waves a hand out in front of you. 

All you do is want. 

... Why keep wanting? Why keep waiting? He's so close. His hand is right there, for the Universe's sake! If only you just- 

Your hand wraps around his before he can pull it away. You remember a time where you pulled him close and took something just as precious from him and feel sick. You take so much from him. You take and take and you never give back, do you? Stealing agency, affection, care, all from those who you love most. 

... He's warmer than your hazy memory does justice. Your face ends up pressed to his chest, arms around his waist. He burns against you like a furnace. He's stable against you, a wall you can lean on in your desperation. You dig your fingers into the back of his shirt like that can keep him from pushing you away. 

You wait for him to push. 

The push never comes. 

He made this faint choked sound as you slammed into him. Now, he's just standing there as you hide yourself against him, barely breathing much less saying anything. Your eyes burns with tears. You hate yourself for this, but you can't bring yourself to let him go. He held you before! Why can't he do it again?! You know you're disgusting, you know you don't deserve it, but please! Just once... 

He should be disgusted with you. You shouldn't even be thinking about touching him. He should be pushing you away, splitting in your face. But he won't. Because he is far too kind to you. 

His arms settle gently around your shoulders, barely hover over you. It feels cruel, like a mimicry of how he held you before. You wish he would hold you tighter, keep you from shattering. You can't keep yourself intact, a throaty sob ripping its way out of your throat. Your arms wind around his back like barbed wire. It's rather pathetic how such a simple touch reduces you to tears in an instant. 

"... Sif," he murmurs softly into your hair. "... What's...?" 

When you try to answer, all you can do is cry. You can't believe you let yourself do this to him. He was so terrified, staring down at you , and all you can think about is how nice it was when he held you? And you still want more? You really are a monster. 

You close your eye and the image rolls through your mind again, him and Mirabelle staring down at you, sobbing as if in their own agony, as if they were the ones dying. It makes your chest feel tight again, another cry tumbling out of you. Isabeau jumps under your arms at the sound, but he doesn't say anything. Because he's too good to you. Because he l-... You don't want to think about that. It makes your guilt worse. You wonder if he finally said it in that whisper you heard before it was lights out. 

You cling to him tighter. You shouldn't be. You're supposed to be gentle with him. You're not supposed to hurt him. It doesn't matter if his body can handle it. 

His arms are finally steady around you, wrapping around your shoulders and holding you up. Your legs feel like they will give out beneath you, but it doesn't scare you anymore. Isa can keep you upright now. He's firm and solid, a wall of muscle against you. He's warm, undeniable. He makes you feel real. 

Your legs do give out, actually. 

"Crab-" His hold tightens, keeping you close to his chest. You hate how greedily you indulge yourself in it, your heart lodged in your throat. "I got you, Sif. I promise." 

And he does. He holds you up to where you don't even need to worry about keeping your feet on the ground. You can just let Isa keep you upright. You burrow your face against the crook of his shoulder, unable to keep more tears at bay. 

Why is he holding you? Why isn't he pushing you away? Doesn't he know there's something wrong with you? Doesn't he understand that you're dirty? 

... He doesn't. And you want to keep it that way. You monster. 

"Change, Sif, what happened?" His voice is low and soft, pressed into the top of your head. You like how his voice sounds this close. "You said you were taking a nap. Did-" He tries to loosen his hold on you, to let go. 

No. No no no no no don't let go please don't You won't do it again you promise- 

Your fingers dig sharply into his back, nearly collapsing as you sob again. He jumps and hugs you once more. That feeling settles in your chest again, seemingly soothed. Greedy. 

"Okay, okay," he sighs gently. "I... Is- ... Sif, what's...?" He falls quiet as you sniffle into his shoulder. "... Okay. We don't need to talk."

You want to thank him for that, but you don't think you could speak without bursting into tears again. So you instead press your face to his chest and cling tighter. He doesn't argue against it. He's far too good to you. You won't ask him not to be. 

He takes the time to let you stop sobbing, waiting with his hand rubbing up and down your back. His hand is large and yet so gentle as he holds you. The softness in his touch makes you want to cry all over again. You could never ask him to do this, but he gives anyway. He gives endlessly, not knowing how selfish you truly are, not knowing how much of it you are willing to take. 

His hand slows its soothing touch as he pauses in thought. "... We will have to talk, y'know Sif?" You make a noise of discontent and he laughs. Stars, it's nice to feel it this close. "I know, I know, but we really should... It seems important." 

You grunt into his neck. It's not important. You don't want to talk about your problems, you just want to forget them. And that means ignoring what you can't forget. You don't want to talk about it. Talking means remembering. 

"It's not important," you mumble. He hums again. 

"... Yeah, I doubt that." Isabeau sighs. "But sure, it doesn't have to be important right now." He pats your back and you feel shame come back to you at your utter carelessness. 

It's pathetic how quickly you folded. 

You shuffle away from him once you get your footing, pulling your arms back to yourself and slinking out of his hold. He doesn't fight you, even if you wish he would. He doesn't. He's too kind. 

He looks down at you, lacking the brightness he had before. There's a soft smile across his face, his eyes filled with concern. You wish you had just kept to yourself, because now he's worried. You worried him. You're horrible. 

"All good?" He asks you gently. 

"Yeah!" You force a smile. "I'm all good!"

He can see right through you. You know it. You know it the moment his smile twists into a slight frown. 

"Yeah, no," he huffs. He opens his mouth to continue, but he must see something in your face because he closes it again. When he speaks, its lighter. "... We can talk about it later." 

You smile up at him. He's so good to you. You don't deserve it. 

He smiles back at you. You really like his smile. It makes you so happy just to look at. 

He continues. "Anyway! I'll be going so you can do your thing with the Favor Tree, but is there anything you want to talk about before I go?" 

Hm. You pause to think. 

Well...

The clocktower is so quiet. You stare at the ceiling in the dark, letting yourself mull over the thoughts you can't get rid of. 

The guilt doesn't leave you. You don't know how long it will be until it does. There's just this pit in your stomach telling you how horrible you are. Because you are.. terrible, that is. You can't stop remembering your family watching you die. You remember Isabeau and Mirabelle the clearest, but you know Odile and Bonnie were there too! You can only imagine... 

You turn your head and look over at Isabeau. He's fallen asleep at this point, rolled up on his left side and facing in your direction. You watch him for a moment, and in this quiet, you allow yourself the indulgence. You don't have to worry about judgment or being caught, you can just let yourself be. And right now, that means staring at Isabeau as he sleeps next to you. Stars, you're so gross. 

You just can't help yourself, though. He's softer in sleep than you've ever seen him before. All of his features have smoothed out, eyelids fluttering every so often. He sighs softly every once in a while, mouth slightly opened as he breathes. You can see the faintest hint of freckles on his face, still lingering from the summer. He's got such strong features that you sometimes forget just how pretty he is. Isa is pretty. 

Of course you take your fill of him. 

You never gorge yourself sparingly. 

You are voracious. 

You are greedy. 

You are disgusting. 

You find yourself thinking about how different his face looked when you died. You think about how he held onto you like his hands alone could keep you in one piece. You think about his warm tears on your face. You hate the image it conjures in your mind's eye. Isabeau isn't supposed to cry like that, especially not because of you. You do everything you can to make him smile and laugh, and you failed at that. Why? Because you wanted to move on faster? That's such a stupid reason. 

You're an idiot... But you knew that already. 

You replace the image of him weeping in your head with the one you have before you. The image of him sleeping soundly in front of you, oblivious to the world. It's nice to look at. He's nice to look at. 

One of his hands rests near his face. You wonder if you could take hold of it without waking him up. They look roughened with labor, you wonder if they would be calloused under your fingertips. Your cheeks darken at the thought. In the dark, you allow yourself the indulgence of the thought, holding his hand, before you shake it from your mind. You shouldn't think like that. You don't deserve to think like that. 

Your hand drifts near his, just for a moment. Because the temptation is too strong. You control yourself though, for once. Finally. 

You roll onto your back to avoid staring at Isabeau any longer. You need to in order to keep yourself from listening to the temptations running in your head. You need to keep these thoughts to yourself. So you stare at the ceiling, and punish yourself by remembering what you did in the House that got you into this mess. 

Your stomach churns. You feel sick. 

Never again, you tell yourself. 

[You got a MEMORY OF MOURNING! You'll always remember this.]