Chapter Text
It's a good day! You've made decent progress on this carving, you've hardly thought at all about pain, you only almost had one panic attack, and you don't even particularly feel like an awful person that everyone is just humoring so you don't die.
Mirabelle is telling you about an experimental new music form from Ka Bue. It's something about Crafted voices, which is a little confusing but from what you understand, it's sort of like Crafting a drawing to move but with sound. It's interesting!
Mirabelle is saying, "So far, people have been leaning more towards Ka Buan pop, but they get pretty funky with it! Lots of unique sounds!"
You smile. Her eyes are sparkling every time you look up from your carving.
"I'd love to get my hands on a few records, but it started coming to Vaugarde just before the King..." She sighs. "So saving the world got in the way. And now we're traveling, so even though we aren't on any special quest, I'm not sure if it'd be worth it to get records now? It's not like I have anything to play them with..."
You pause. ...
"And I wouldn't want them to get damaged," she continues. "It would suck to buy a record and then break it before I even get to listen to it. Ugh," she grumbles.
"...Sorry," you say.
Mirabelle blinks, broken out of her rambling. "Huh?"
"Sorry," you repeat. "I'm why we're traveling, and now you can't listen to your music."
She tilts her head and frowns. "Siffrin... You're way more important than some songs! I'm really more annoyed that there isn't a more convenient way to listen to music. I hardly have any space in my dorm for my record player!"
...
You listen her go on about how compact record players do exist, but they still wouldn't be convenient for traveling on foot like this. Then Isabeau joins the conversation and the two of them start talking about maybe making the records themselves smaller.
You look down at the blocky wooden zinnia in your hand. You look down at the knife in your hand. You wonder if they wish you were more convenient.
You get deja vu, for just a second. You feel dizzy and like you're about to vomit, for just a second. Then you're fine. You're fine.
Bonnie appears right next to you very abruptly and you nearly slice your hand open with the knife. You don't, thankfully—just a cut on your finger that you hardly notice. You hardly notice it. You hardly notice it. You hardly notice–
"Frin," Bonnie says seriously.
You blink and lean a little away to see them better. "Yeah?"
"I'm almost done with food. Do you want first dibs?"
You grin. "Yes," you say, and Bonnie smiles and dashes back to their cooking setup. You tuck your carving and knife into your cloak and follow.
Your eyes widen when you see the plate. Malanga fritters... It's been a while, right? And you really really love them. So they shouldn't be... sickeningly familiar. Or anything. Right? If they have spice that's good, because it would be a somewhat new taste, at least. But you can't remember if you've told Bonnie that they're good with spicy pepper.
"Take what you want," Bonnie says. They're bouncing in place a little.
You take a fritter. You bite into it... Not spicy, but still good. The texture is kind of nothing. You finish it and the nothing texture fills your mouth in an odd sort of way. You take another. You bite into it. You feel sick.
You lower the hand holding it onto your lap.
You swallow and the feeling of the nothing texture going down your throat nearly makes you gag. You must be making a face, because Bonnie frowns and says, "Frin? Is– It's not bad, is it?"
You might cry. "No, no," you assure them, "it's so good... It's really good, I just–" You shut your mouth. There's something building in your throat and you can't tell if it's tears or vomit.
Bonnie leans forward. "You can tell me if it's bad. I can take crit-i-sision."
Stars.
Stars, you really hoped the loops wouldn't make you hate your favorite food, you really really hoped, but you just can't keep anything, can you? Stars! And now you're making Bonnie think their cooking is bad. Stars, stars, you're awful. This is awful. Selfishly, you regret always picking the malanga fritters to make Bonnie happy. Selfishly, you regret having too much of a good thing.
You stuff the rest of the fritter in your mouth and try to chew it. It tastes good. It also tastes like looping. It feels like cotton candy. It coats your throat in gritty sugar.
"Needs spicy peppers," you choke out, hand over your mouth, then stand and stumble and walk into the trees. Bonnie says something but you don't really hear it.
Stars. Stars. You really screwed that up, didn't you? You stop behind a big tree and cough. Now Bonnie will think you hated it, and everyone will be worried, and–
And today was supposed to be a good day. It was a good day. And then Bonnie did a nice thing and made you food they thought you'd like and you went and ruined everything because. It isn't fair. Because it isn't fair.
You feel fuzzy. You sink to the ground against the tree and– and your dagger is out. Oh. Oh, okay! Yes, this will make you feel better. You're doing this now.
...
You should go back and tell someone. Instead of this. Because you shouldn't be doing this.
You also don't think you could talk, and all the concern would be too much, and you don't want to make Bonnie feel bad. So. So you roll up your sleeve.
Stars.
With the first that draws blood, you wipe it on the tip of your dagger and put that in your mouth. It tastes metallic. Not sugary. It tastes like iron, like if you ate a coin, bit your lip. Like if you licked your own blood off your own dagger.
You make constellations. You build a star chart on your arm. A dubiously accurate and and bloody star chart, in your flesh—if it is accurate, then wouldn't it be fun if you could navigate with a map stabbed into your skin? You are making it part of yourself.
Despite everything, the stars were not tarnished. You don't think they could ever be. It's not like it was their fault—they're just big balls of gas out in space.
Nor was it the fault of Bonnie's malanga fritters. And yet, here you are, jabbing yourself with a knife to chase away a vague fuzzy nothing feeling.
It was your own fault. You ruined it for yourself.
...
You hold up your arm to admire your handiwork.
You stare at it.
You blink. Your arm is covered in blood.
Oh. Oh, stars. Oh, stars, you've really done it now! They're gonna be so upset! Why did you think this was a good idea? Why did you think it was a better idea? Why why why why why? If Bonnie came looking for you, if they found you–
You gasp for air and clap your clean hand over your mouth. You drop your dagger in the process and it nearly slices open your leg. You can't go back now! What if Bonnie sees? You can't– They–
You sob against your will. You pitch forward and start rocking, bloody arm propped up on a leg and held out; the lightless blood drips onto the light grass at your feet. You messed up. You messed up. You hope someone comes and finds you. You hope nobody does. You keep your hand over your mouth so it doesn't pick the dagger back up and do something that scares you, you keep your hand over your mouth so nothing can hear you crying. You want something to find you. You want someone to find you and save you, you want some wild animal or Sadness to come and kill you, you want to go back go back go back and undo what youve done to yourself and grin and bear it.
You sit there and cry until no tears come out anymore and you're just alone on the forest floor hyperventilating. And then you cry some more and harder because what if Bonnie is the one to find you? You don't want to scare them. You'd rather die. It would be so easy. The dagger is right there—you pick it up and throw it. It bounces off the trunk of a tree and lands under a scraggly bush, and that just makes you cry harder for some reason. You don't know how much noise you're making. You don't remember how close you are to the others. What if Bonnie hear and finds you–?
"Gems alive!"
You cry somehow harder. You don't know why. Just a lot of emotion, you think. Your chest hurts. You can't breathe very well.
"Siffrin," you hear Odile say, distantly, "I'm going to touch you." She does; she gently takes your bloody mess of an arm and holds it, examines it. You can hardly feel her touch. Too much pain, too much fuzz.
You weakly grab onto her sleeve.
She says, "Careful. If you move your arm too much it will bleed more."
You try to relax. You're not very successful. You're even less successful when–
"'Dile? What's going on? Wh– OH CRAB IS FRIN OKAY???"
You don't know what's happening anymore. Odile says something but you don't hear it. Bonnie's here. Bonnie's here and they saw, and you scared them, and they probably will think this is their fault because of those blinding malanga fritters that you ruined for yourself, and you just want to go back and try again, go back, try again, go back, why did you throw your dagger? You're so stupid! You think you're practically wailing by now. How long can this go on? Why did you throw your dagger? You can't do this anymore! It hurts! It hurts, so much, physically and emotionally! You hear more speaking. You can't do this, or you'll explode like a supernova. Like a dying star. You.
You...
You stop. You feel yourself sway... You're so tired. You're like a dying star. You can't do it anymore, so you won't. You feel like static.
......
"Siffrin?" someone says. You blink your eye open... and Mirabelle is in front of you, so scared and worried.
You take stock of yourself. Your face is wet, your arm aches, your throat is sore, your chest is cold. You feel a little empty. You say, "...Hi."
She smiles, relieved. "Siffrin."
"Sorry," you rasp.
"C-can I hug you?"
You think for a moment, then shake your head.
She looks a little disappointed. You exhale shakily. "That's okay," she says. "How are you feeling?"
You huff out a laugh. "Bad. I, I don't know why I. Did that."
"What happened?" she asks with a cute little worried frown. Stars, you feel awful.
"Um," you start, and your voice wavers pathetically. "Bonnie made malanga fritters for me. They– They're one of my favorite foods. And they were really good." This is just sad. Your face warms and you shrink into your cloak collar. ...You hope you didn't get any blood on it. It's a pain to wash out of white fabric. "But, um. I had them during the loops. So it– So I can't eat them anymore. I guess." Your voice breaks, so you hide a little more. Stars, this is just embarrassing! You ran off and sliced up your own flesh because you lost your favorite food and had a little trouble explaining it. Embarrassing. Stars.
Mira hums sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Siffrin," she says. You whine.
It's too much. You don't want to exist anymore, not like this—you want to stop being aware until you're calm, until everything's better, until you're not. Not...
You want to reset. You want to– you want to stop. You want to go back to before the loops, when you actually felt good, and you want to have the courage to just say what you want. You would have gotten it. They like you, no matter how much you convince yourself otherwise. For some reason it hurts more to think they do, because it means you messed up something they like. You ruined it. You want to scrap it.
"I don't want to be here," you whisper. "I don't wanna have to live like this."
"Siffrin," Mira says, and it sounds like she's speaking through unshed tears.
There's a new presence to your right. You look—it's Isabeau. "Hi," you say.
"Hi," he returns with a small smile.
"'M sorry."
"No!" Mirabelle cries. You startle a little and she smiles apologetically. "Don't be sorry, please. You just– You just went through a lot, there. We want to help you. Don't apologize for needing it."
You squeeze your eye shut. "I broke something you like."
"What?" Isabeau says.
"That's fine," Mirabelle says. "What was it?"
"Me," you say. Your voice breaks again.
Mirabelle makes a sad sound. Isabeau asks, "Can I touch you?"
You nod. "Just a little."
"Tell me if it's too much, 'kay?" he says, and puts a gentle hand on the back of your shoulder and rubs. You shudder.
"'M sorry," you murmur. Isabeau's hand on your shoulder chases away that fuzzy nothing feeling and replaces it with a little buzz, and you relish in it. Mirabelle is holding your hand, the one with the arm of stars. You feel better. You feel tired.
You open your eye. Your arm is still bloody and awful, but the stars are healed away, at least enough to stop bleeding. You can't see what damage remains through all the blood.
...
Mirabelle's grip tightens around your hand just slightly. She says, somewhat abruptly, "Why didn't you say anything?"
You... shrug. "I... I don't know. I didn't want to– to make Bonnie upset. And then I didn't want to scare them."
"Siffrin," Mirabelle half-scolds, half-whines.
Isabeau huffs quietly. "You kinda failed at both of those, bud."
You whine and duck your head. "I know." You can't do anything right. "I-I'm sorry, I should've... shouldn't've done that."
"It's fine, Siffrin, we just want you to be okay," Mira says.
You laugh and reach up with your clean hand to wipe your face. It's gross. "Sorry I messed that up." You still want to take your dagger and open your neck. You wonder if there would be Colors inside you! Would it be pretty or blinding?
...
You jolt. You don't want to die. You don't want to die. You really really want to die but you don't want to die. You want to be okay, but you aren't, and you won't ever be, you'll never be what you were before, you'll never be what they want because they want what you used to be because that's what "okay" means. You broke something they like. You broke something that's theirs. You punched your reflection and it shattered you too, you dropped your own soul on the floor and stepped all over the pieces just so someone would waste a bandage on your sorry bloody feet. You want to grab Siffrin from before and tell him they like you, you are loved, so don't blind it by making selfish wishes and use your damned eye!
You want to die.
Why can't you just be. Normal? Why can't you just laugh and say "I'm better now, thanks for helping, sorry I bled and cried all over, I'm better now"? Why can't you be okay already?
You don't want to die. You just don't want to be like this.
"Sif?" Isabeau says, voice soft and gentle and worried.
You sob, "I don't wanna be like this anymore. I wanna– I wanna go back."
"...Go back?" Isabeau asks hesitantly.
"To– to before the loops," you say, wiping your face again. "To when I was okay still. I didn't want any of that to happen."
His hand has moved to the back of your neck, with his thumb stroking the space behind your ear. "I know," he murmurs. "It sucked, I bet. You didn't deserve that."
You sniffle. "Mm."
Mira says, with confidence, "It did happen, though. And– and we can't remove the effect it had on you, but! We can help you heal! You'll feel better someday!"
You do your best to smile. You really want to believe it. If you think it hard enough, you will!
"And you'll be able to eat those fritters again someday," Isabeau adds.
You hope so. Stars, you hope so.
You sniffle more and wipe at your face more. Isabeau hands you a pretty embroidered handkerchief. You wonder if he made it. You feel a little bad for dirtying it, even if that's it's intended purpose.
Mirabelle says, "I'll go get something to clean up your arm, then we can go back?"
You nod. She stands.
...
You say, "Bonnie saw. Before it was healed."
Isabeau grimaces slightly in the corner of your vision. "They did."
"I didn't want them to ever have to see that."
"I know."
"What if they think it's their fault?"
"They'll understand if you explain," he says.
You hum.
Mirabelle comes back soon enough with a soft rag and a bucket of water. She washes away the blood with gentle care that very nearly makes you start crying again. You don't, though, thank the stars—you're tired enough as it is, without another crying session.
"Bonnie and Madame Odile are almost done setting up camp," she says as she cleans.
"Oh," you say, "I sort of thought we'd just continue moving."
"Of course not," Isabeau cries. "You have to rest after all that!"
"Oh. I guess that does make sense." You're glad. You're tired!
Mirabelle smiles fondly. "You're silly, Siffrin."
You grin. "They call me Silly-rin."
"Who?" she asks.
"The people. My fans!"
Mirabelle looks at Isabeau. You giggle.
"My biggest fan," you say, "calls me babygirl."
Isabeau's thumb halts its gentle back-and-forth on the back of your head. You glance at him; he's gone all dark in the face. You snort.
"Oh really?" Mirabelle challenges. "I'd like to hear that."
Isabeau squeaks. "I. Mmph." He covers his face with his unoccupied hand.
You and Mirabelle laugh at him. You feel a little better.
Once the last of the blood is scrubbed off, Isabeau sweeps you up into his arms and carries you bridal style. You playfully struggle against his hold before you all get to walking, then settle into him and take the time to examine your now clean arm.
The only evidence left by the healing Craft is the slight darkness of new skin. Some part of you is disappointed by that, but you're mostly relieved. You roll your sleeve back down.
It seems that in the time since Mirabelle was here, Odile and Bonnie finished setting up; when you enter the small clearing you'd all been in earlier, the tents are up and Odile is sitting in her camping chair with a book. You don't immediately see Bonnie. Isabeau sets you down and, as soon you're standing, you are tackled by an entire child out of nowhere.
"FRIN!!!!" Bonnie yells as you struggle to not fall over. "You're okay!! I was really worried!! What happened!?"
You solve the issue of balance by picking them up, holding their thighs so they're essentially sitting with their legs wrapped around your waist. You smile as best as you can. "I'm fine, Bonbon."
They squint at you. "You were crying like a baby."
You flush.
"And really bloody. Did something try to maul you? I'll maul it back."
You... don't meet their eyes. "It doesn't matter anymore," you say. "I'm alright now."
They hit your shoulder with a fist. "I call crab."
You stick your tongue out playfully. "Crab says 'stop calling me.'"
They pout. Then they frown and look down and say, a little quiet, "Um. Everybody is being really weird about it... so I don't know what happened. But, uh. I saw– I saw your dagger. In that bush."
Oh no.
Bonnie furrows their brow and stares a hole in between your collarbones. They say, ever quieter, "Why would you do that?"
You hug them close. Stars.
"Frin. Answer me!"
...
"Frin?"
"Sorry," you whisper. "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to see that."
"Then why'd you do it?"
You inhale. Exhale. You're fine. "That's a hard question."
"Bonnie," Isabeau says, "this isn't something for ki–"
"Was it an accident? It was an accident, right?" They sound scared. You scared Bonnie.
"Mhm," you hum, strained. Stars.
"Okay," they say, and it sounds like they don't believe it but they don't want to believe anything else. You scared them.
"I'm sorry," you say again. "I'm sorry."
They hit your shoulder. "Stop saying sorry. It's fine."
You smile. It's not hard, despite everything. Bonnie makes it easy to smile. "Yeah. It's fine." You adjust your hold on them and say, "About the food you made me... I really liked it. It... It was just something you made in the loops, too. That's all."
"Oh," they say. "You should've told me!" They hit your shoulder more and you huff out a laugh. "You should tell me everything I made then, actually, so I don't– so I don't accidentally make food that makes you sad."
You nod. "Okay!" They grin at you. You grin back and toss them over your shoulder. They yell and kick and hit your back with their fists, and you just laugh.
Lunch is great, even if you're too tired to eat much. Dinner is even better. You tell Bonnie all the foods you can't eat, and you only get to feel a little guilty that it includes all their favorites before they call you stupid and say they can still make it just for themself. Which. Makes sense.
They do insist on getting rid of pineapples entirely. Odile backs them up on this, citing contamination. She says she's "surprised you haven't been poisoned already, considering everything is stored together." You tell her that's not comforting. She tells you it isn't supposed to be.
Currently, you are trying and failing to sleep. Why is tonight the night you struggle? You're exhausted.
You wonder if anyone grabbed your dagger. You hope so. You don't want to go get it yourself—you don't want to touch it at all, actually, not for a while. Or see it.
...
You also don't like the idea of being completely unarmed. ...It's fine. You have Craft. The Scissors attacks will just be less effective without the sharp object. And you're super powerful anyways, thanks to the loops. That's about the only thing you can thank them for.
You exhale heavily and roll over. Maybe you'll sleep better on this side.
...Your arm aches. You should stop putting it through so much stress.
You roll your sleeve up and stare at the empty skin. You sort of... You sort of wanted it to leave a mark. You're tired of no lasting impacts. Isn't that strange? To actively want scars?
You want scars that ache when the weather bothers them. You want scars that stretch a little funny. You want something that tells you this happened, this happened and it's not just in your shoddy unreliable memories.
Oh well. There's always next time you have a dramatic breakdown over something stupid! You sigh and tug the sleeve back up.
Something outside moves. Probably just a squirrel or something, but your hand instinctively curls into the Scissors sign. Just in case.
Your tent rustles. You lift your head and see a vague silhouette on the wall of the tent in the moonlight. The entrance unzips...
And Bonnie pokes their head in. "Frin?" they whisper.
You blink and sit up.
"Can I– can I come in?"
You nod and scoot back to give them room. "Careful of Isabeau's legs," you say.
With only minor difficulty, Bonnie ends up sitting cross-legged in front of you at the edge of your bedroll. "Did I wake you up?" they ask once settled.
You shake your head. "I was having trouble getting to sleep. You're fine."
"...I could make tea that helps you sleep?"
You smile. "It's fine, Bonbon. It's the middle of the night."
"Right," they say.
...It's quiet. You lean forward to rest your elbows on your legs and prop your cheek on a fist. You ask, after a short moment, "Why are you here?"
Bonnie shifts in place. You can't see their face in the dark; you'd turn a lantern on, if Isabeau wasn't sleeping right next to you. They mumble something too quiet to make out.
"Say that again?"
They look away. "I wanted to make sure you're okay. And you are. Which is good." ...They look back at you. "You are okay, right?"
...
You shuffle to the side to make room and hold out an arm. "C'mere."
They crawl over next to you, and you wrap them up in a hug that's only slightly awkward due to your positions. It's comfortable nonetheless. Warm. Bonnie snuggles up into your side, clearly sleepy thanks to the hour. You happily resign yourself to being their pillow for the rest of the night.
"I'm alright," you assure them quietly as you lay back onto your pillow. You are, for right now. And you will be.
You have your friends! Your family! And they love you!! Of course you'll be alright. You just… have to keep believing that.
Bonnie sighs happily.
…They do make it easy.