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You made a mistake.
You can’t move anymore, you can’t feel your body. Mirabelle is so angry that she’s yelling, Isabeau’s coughing, Bonnie is crying-
Why is Bonnie here?
No no no, they’d gotten away! You told them to! Why are they here? Why are they frozen, too?!
Odile is trying to calm them down but she sounds so tired, even though she’s trying not to show it she’s afraid.
The King is going to kill everyone.
His breathing is slow and steady and rough as he prepares to kill all of them. You can’t let him.
Not to the kid, not again not the kid
You call out to the King and ask him to kill you first. It’s like he doesn’t hear you.
You have to move you have to move
He doesn’t hear you now he’s moving
It hurts it hurts it hurts your heart hurts so much
It was a mistake they can’t pay for it
move move move mOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE BLINDING MOVE HE’S GOING TO KILL-
You jolt awake.
The sheets are suffocating and you’re gasping for air- tears are cascading out of your eye. It’s impossible to see. Desperately you try to kick the blankets off but they’re tangled all around you and it’s terrible. In your plight, you fall off of the bed with a thump and finally you’re free.
It’s one problem after another- you stumble to your feet as the vision crashes over you again, followed by a wave of pain and nausea. In the haze, you force open the door and dash out of the room, crashing into the wall. You turn and hasten down the hall, relying on your cloudy vision and tormented brain. The carpet is thick, muffling your footsteps.
You run into a bathroom and kick the entrance shut, throwing yourself over the sink. Your stomach is empty. You do not throw up. You shudder and remain planted there, gripping the counter with hands paler than the porcelain it’s made of. Each gasp is being wrenched out of you, perspiration and tears drip into the sink, and you still feel like you are going to vomit despite there being nothing to vomit.
A bathroom? What is this- where are you? Was it instinct, that you knew where it was? This isn’t the House, it’s not the clock tower, and it’s certainly not your blinding starting point in Dormont-
No- it’s coming back, slowly, in pieces like that broken tonic bottle. You’re staying at an inn. After traveling; it was storming badly and your family wanted proper shelter, not tents.
Existing is uncomfortable. You’re sweating profusely but can’t stop shivering, like your body can’t decide if it’s unbelievably cold or unbearably hot.
It’s dark. The light is not on, you never lit a candle. Nothing peeks from under the door, either, because no one except you is awake at this hour. So dark. What time is it?
Still heaving, you manage to lift your head slightly in a halfhearted search for the answer. Instead of a clock, there is a mirror in front of you.
How is it that the reflection which meets you is only a lightless shadow? A silhouette made of black that oozes down and over its form, fixing you with eyes that are bright and intent. Familiar, even as the lower part of its face splits apart to show what’s supposed to be its mouth.
“There’s a way out,” it says in a hoarse whisper. The black dribbles out of its lips, out of its neck.
Ah, that’s why.
“Everything hurts. It hurts so much.”
It looks like you.
“You remember how to. All it takes is a moment. It will hurt, but then it stops.”
Because that’s just what you are, isn’t it? A monster.
Your dagger is always at your hip. The shadow leans out of the mirror, though still tethered by the waist, and guides you. The hilt is not cold nor warm.
“You need this.”
As if those last words were a push in the right direction, you twirl the dagger as you had often done and bring it up. The jugular or carotid artery will do; the trachea is just a bonus. The shadow cups your face with miasmic fingers, wiping your tears in a way so tender you could have mistaken it for love.
Because that’s just what you are. A liar.
The dagger pinches your throat. It hurts.
You
swing
realize what you are doing.
Filled with sudden fury, you turn on the shadow and plunge your blade into its twisted visage.
Because that’s just what you are. A hypocrite.
The mirror shatters like a hundred realities, sending several fragments airborne while the rest cling to their place in the frame. The dagger is stuck, having gone straight through the glass and the metal, pinned to the wall behind.
You know what else you are? A fool. A blinding fool.
You aren’t immortal anymore.
How could you? How dare you?
You fall to your knees. The tiles are cold. You are cold, and hot, and shaking. You clutch the part of your throat that had fallen victim to the razor-edge. You could’ve made a mess. In fact, the mess has already been made. Just look at what you’ve done. There’s glass everywhere now.
Inconsiderate, selfish fool.
The knob rattles. You flinch, still hunched over. You’d forgotten that this bathroom locks automatically and has to be opened from the inside. Someone must have caught wind of your antics.
You have no intention of opening or answering.
“S-Siffrin? Are you in there?”
“Frin…?”
“Sif, are you okay?”
You try not to listen to their muffled voices. You don’t want them to see this.
“Siffrin, we know it’s you in there.” Odile’s stern words manage to pierce through the door. “We’re going to come in, okay? Stand back a bit.”
How, exactly, you wonder. The answer arrives in the form of the door being rammed clean off its hinges. It smells like wet rocks. You flinch again, but continue to nurse your wound. The panic sets in- they’re going to see you for what you are.
They file into the room one-by-one. Mirabelle gasps and pulls Bonnie back, audibly warning the others of the glass which lines the floor; even so, Isabeau is at your side in an instant, holding your wrists.
He looks so, so very worried. Isn’t he the sweetest? You think almost bitterly, because you really don’t deserve any of this kindness. Especially not after this stunt you just tried to pull.
Odile surveys the scene with strained features, her eyes lingering on the fractured mirror. She strides over to the sink, using her feet to safely whisk aside the pieces and splinters, and precisely removes the dagger from where it was lodged.
Isabeau is murmuring things meant to placate you, but your ears are ringing and you don’t process any of it. Like a limp doll, you allow yourself to be moved and shifted at his will.
He carefully removes your hands from your neck. You stare blankly at your fingers, which have come away stained and dampened. Mirabelle, seeing the path clear, crouches next to you. Bonnie watches from the doorway, hesitating to interrupt the adults’ work.
Mirabelle’s Craft bathes you in relief as your pain is allayed; you feel the tension withdraw from your body, making you go limp. Isabeau supports you, holding you steady.
Odile has procured gauze from the cabinets, and she kneels in front of you. “I’m going to put this on your neck. Okay?”
You say nothing. Because really, what can you say? She takes the silence as permission, but still goes about it slowly. Her movements are telegraphed and deliberate, so you can see and predict what she’ll do before she does it. The gauze is soon attached to your cut with comfortable pressure.
Bonnie finds the courage to walk over, and you find yourself being hugged. It manages to surprise you, despite the fact that Mirabelle and Isabeau were practically already cuddling with you. Odile reaches out and cups your cheek, but unlike the shadow her hands are smooth and warm. Not a hint of insincerity; just there to soothe you, and it feels good. Their presences are grounding, and you find that your ragged breathing is starting to even out.
Are they…really not judging? They have to be. You’re fraught with issues and if the time loops weren’t any indication, what happened tonight makes it so horribly obvious.
“I’m sorry.” You choke out the words like knives in your esophagus.
“We know,” Mirabelle whispers.
“I’m such a…an idiot…”
“What you are-” stresses Isabeau, “-is our friend, Sif. You’re gonna be alright. I promise.”
“It’s okay,” murmurs Bonnie. “We’re not mad. At least, I’m not.”
Odile keeps her hand on your cheek. She gently wipes one of your stray tears. “Just breathe, Siffrin. You’re safe…”
Maybe…maybe they’re not judging. They’re just concerned. Because they love you.
Sometimes you forget that you’re loved. It’s nice…
Just because you made a mistake…a really bad mistake…it doesn’t mean they’ll stop caring about you.
What you are is their friend. And you love them. And they love you.
And that’s what matters.