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It all happens so quickly. Without a warning, or at least, without a warning Mirabelle can identify until it’s far, far too late.
They’re making their way down one of the winding hallways on the third floor of the labyrinth that had once been Mirabelle’s home. Siffrin is in the lead, as always, Mirabelle trailing behind them. Everything has gone smoothly up until now, so smoothly that it makes her suspicious. This is their final hurdle, the climax of their journey, so there’s no way they can possibly breeze through it all so easily. Maybe the King is waiting to launch some sort of sneak attack on them, or maybe all the strongest Sadnesses are still somewhere up ahead. So she remains vigilant, keeping an eye on Siffrin’s blind spot and trying not to let the building tension get to her.
And then, in the middle of the corridor, Siffrin pauses. Mirabelle thinks nothing of it. They’re figuring out where to go next, probably. She tenses slightly when they draw their dagger, wondering if perhaps they’d caught sight of something in the shadows, but Siffrin doesn’t take a fighting stance. They simply reach up with one hand to pull down the collar of their cloak, casual as anything.
Even if Mirabelle had suspected something was wrong, she doesn’t think it would have helped. Everything just happens far too fast, a blur of steel slicing first through air, then flesh, all in one quick, smooth motion. Before she can even start to process what’s happening, Siffrin is already falling. He crumples in a heap on the floor, the dagger clattering to the ground beside him, something dark splattering the blade.
“SIF!” It’s Isabeau who reacts first, pushing past the rest of the party to kneel down beside Siffrin. Mirabelle follows, her body is moving of her own accord. She sinks to her knees in front of them. Her head is buzzing. Still trying to catch up. To understand what’s happening.
“FRIN! FRIN! NO!” Bonnie. They sound so far away.
“Don’t look, Boniface.” Odile. Mirabelle hears her take a step to the side, placing herself between Bonnie and Siffrin. “Mirabelle. Heal them.”
Her voice is firm enough to cut through the fog in Mirabelle’s mind. That’s…that’s right. That’s her job. Siffrin is hurt and she has to heal them, that’s–that’s her job.
Siffrin is facing away from her, and so she reaches down and rolls him onto his back. Something warm seeps through her gloves, warm and wet and spreading, like some sort of infection across her hands and arms.
It’s only when she’s flipped Siffrin over that she fully realizes what’s happened. What they’ve done. A whine escapes her mouth. She thinks for a moment she might pass out.
Blood spurts from the side of Siffrin’s throat like water from a fountain. It splatters across Mirabelle’s chest and lap and arms and down over his cloak in a dark, viscous torrent. There’s so much. Too much. It pools on the ground beneath both of them. Siffrin’s body convulses, his eye flying open, pupil dilated and unfocused.
No. No no no no no. This isn’t…this isn’t happening. It isn’t happening, but she puts her hands out in front of her anyways, drawing on every bit of her strength. Odile’s words echo in her ears. Heal Them.
“Mira, pressure on the wound! Pressure and craft!” Isabeau says. His voice is almost steady. It sounds like he’s reciting something. Ah, Defender training, Mirabelle thinks in some distant part of her mind. He has Bonnie’s hat in hand, rummaging around inside of it as Bonnie themself wails incoherently from somewhere behind them.
“Right,” Mirabelle manages to force the word through her lips, breathy and strangled. “Right, right, I’ll…I can…”
She presses her trembling hands over the wound, trying to stem the blood flow even as the light of her craft envelops the area around Siffrin’s neck. She can…she can, she has to do this. She has to be strong enough for this, has to save them, she has to. Siffrin is…Siffrin is still breathing, kind of, breathing hard and quick. It doesn’t sound like breathing. It sounds like choking. Dark blood bubbles from the corners of his mouth, trailing down his chin to join the river pouring from his throat.
Not enough. It’s not enough. The realization washes over Mirabelle, icy cold. Blood continues to pulse out from beneath her palms. She pushes down harder, pouring every bit of craft that she can into Siffrin’s body, but it’s like trying to keep water cupped in her hands. Beside her, Isabeau drips sweet tonic into their mouth. His face is ghostly pale.
The tonic flows back down Siffrin’s cheek along with more blood. He doesn’t sound like he’s choking anymore. He’s barely making any sound at all. Beneath Mirabelle’s palms, the glow of craft begins to fade.
“No…” Isabeau’s voice is barely audible. “Sif, no. C’mon, Sif, please…” He uncorks a bottle of crafted water, pressing it to Siffrin’s lips.
“LET GO OF ME!” Bonnie is still screaming. “LET GO! I’VE GOTTA HELP FRIN! I PROMISED! I PROMISED!”
“Boniface…”
“NO! FRIN! FRIN GET UP!”
Mirabelle says nothing. She thinks that if she opens her mouth, she’ll start screaming. The glow beneath her hands is fading.
Siffrin twitches one more time and goes still. The light around his neck lingers for a moment longer, flickers once, twice, then goes out. Mirabelle feels as if someone has punched her in the chest. She thinks that would be preferable.
No. No no no no.
Isabeau takes hold of Siffrin’s arm with a shaky hand, pushing back their sleeve far enough to press two fingers to the underside of their wrist. His expression is grim. Mirabelle mimics him, grabbing Siffrin’s other forearm. She doesn’t know how to take a pulse, and she certainly wouldn’t be able to do better than Isabeau. But something in her still hopes, hopes only because she still can’t believe this is happening, and if she can just find it, the proof that this isn’t real, that Siffrin isn’t…
Siffrin’s arm is cold. Why? Why are they cold? That doesn’t…it doesn’t make sense.
Maybe because all the warmth in Siffrin’s body is spilled out across the floor. She…can’t tell how much blood he actually lost, dark blood on dark stone, but she knows it was too much. The air is thick with the smell of it, that horrible metallic smell, thick enough for her to choke on it.
She pressed her fingers into Siffrin’s skin. She can’t. Feel. Anything.
“No.” She breathes. “Oh change, please, no.”
She puts a hand on their chest instead. Presses down. Silently prays for something, anything. A single rise or fall of his chest. The pulse of a heartbeat.
Nothing.
She tries to use her craft again, her hands over Siffrin’s heart, like she can breathe life back into them somehow. A bolt of pain shoots through her skull, but she ignores it. It doesn’t matter, though. No glow comes from her hands. Siffrin lies beneath her, still and silent and lifeless.
Mirabelle pulls back, her body moving without her input. Her arms drop to her sides. She stares up at the lightless ceiling. This…this isn’t happening. It can’t be happening, it doesn’t…it doesn’t make sense. Less than a minute ago, everything had been fine, or as close to fine as it could be, and now…now…
Why? She doesn’t understand it.
Across from her, Isabeau buries his face in his bloodstained hands. He sounds as if he’s trying very hard to keep breathing.
“Is he…” It’s Odile’s voice. Almost a question, but not one that Mirabelle needs to answer. The resignation is clear in her voice.
Mirabelle shakes her head anyway. She can’t speak. Can’t breathe. If she inhales, that sharp metallic scent will drown her, she thinks.
Bonnie’s screaming has turned to wails. Mirabelle can hear them pounding their tiny fists on Odile’s legs.
“NO! NO FRIN! YOU PROMISED! YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN’T GET HURT ANYMORE! FRIN, YOU LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!”
It’s the sound of Bonnie’s desperate cries that brings the tears to Mirabelle’s eyes, more than anything else. She doubles over, hands clutching her chest. Her fingers are slick with blood. She breaks into gasping sobs, the painful kind that digs somewhere deep into her and twists. She’s not even crying from grief, she doesn’t think. Grief requires some amount of…of processing. And she can’t even begin to do that. It’s the broken weeping of a heart that doesn’t know what else to do.
It hurts, but it won’t stop, and so Mirabelle kneels on the floor and sobs, swallowing gulps of air with big, hiccupy gasps, the same question screaming at her over and over in her mind.
Why?
Why?
Why?
She wants to grab Siffrin’s shoulder and shake him. Ask him why he would do this? But she doesn’t. She can’t bring herself to touch him again. To feel his cold, dead body beneath her hands.
And what would be the point? He won’t answer her anyway.
None of them can bear to leave Siffrin there, just abandoned in the middle of the hallway among the debris and Sadnesses. Isabeau scoops them up gently in his arms. Blood still leaks from their neck, now a drip and not a flood. Isabeau has to hold their head against his body to keep it from falling backward, from opening that awful wound in their throat any further. He keeps glancing down at their body, then squeezing his eyes shut with a jolt and looking away again. Mirabelle understands. It’s hard to see them like this, so limp, so still. So wrong.
Even after the King attacked, even after all their travels, this is still the first time she’s seen a dead body. She’d kind of always expected a dead person to just look like a very still sleeping person. But this is nothing like that. Maybe it’s some subconscious part of her brain that picks up on the lack of breathing, the lack of a chest rising and falling, the pallor of their skin. Some primal survival instinct meant to tell her something is wrong. She doesn’t know.
She leads the way. It makes sense. She was the one following Siffrin, after all, and the one most familiar with the house, even if the layout is all messed up now. Her shaking legs lead her along mindlessly down the corridor. Isabeau follows her, then a solemn Odile, still shielding the view from a sniffling Bonnie.
It’s weird. Not following along behind him, not watching over the brim of his hat for danger. Weird making the decision of where to go. Siffrin had walked through these halls with such confidence. He’d made it seem so much easier to lead than it actually was.
There are no Sadnesses in the hallway right now, thank Change, but more will reform sooner or later. They shouldn’t linger here. Not that Mirabelle wants to, anyway. The smell of blood has embedded itself in the air. She moves forward as fast as her trembling legs will allow.
The hallway ends in an intersection of three doors. There’s a frozen housemaiden there, the cool one that Mirabelle had never been brave enough to speak to, huddled on the ground. Her face is fixed in an expression of terror. Mirabelle shudders.
Frozen people also look different from corpses, she finds. She doesn’t pause to look any longer.
She opens the left door first. She’d heard somewhere that it was the best way to get through a maze, that if you just keep going left, you’d always get to the end. And the house is a little like a maze now, so it probably works. She doesn’t know what else to do.
The door leads to an all too familiar place, twisted enough that the wrongness of it is like a jolt through her body.
“Oh,” Mirabelle says in a breathy whimper. She’s sort of surprised that her voice still works. “It’s…my room.”
Odile steps forward, surveying the space. Her voice is carefully controlled, but Mirabelle can hear the tremble hidden beneath it. “We can’t bring Siffrin with us to fight the King. It…would be best to leave them here for now. We’ll have to come back for him later.”
Mirabelle nods. It makes sense, even though it feels a little like abandoning him.
Claude’s bed is covered in papers, and so Isabeau lays Siffrin’s body down on Mirabelle’s bed. He reaches out a shaky hand towards Siffrin’s head, maybe to brush the hair out of their eye, or wipe the blood from their cheek, but draws his hand back. His shoulders sag.
Mirabelle’s eyes remain on Siffrin’s body. She…doesn’t think she’ll even be able to sleep in that bed again. What an awful thought. As if that’s what matters in all of this.
“Mirabelle,” Odile says. “If this is your room, do you want to change clothes? We could all use a minute anyway, I’m sure.”
Ah. Mirabelle looks down. Her darkless dress is so thoroughly soaked with blood that she can barely tell what shade it was originally supposed to be. Her gloves, too. The weight of it drags down at her.
So much blood. She feels unsteady on her feet. “Yes, please.” Her voice sounds like a child’s.
Mirabelle wipes her hands on the cleanest part of her dress and opens the dresser, grabbing the first thing she sees. Another dress, similar to the one she’s already wearing. She holds it by the hanger and ducks into her bathroom.
She can see herself in the mirror above the washbasin. There is blood smeared across her cheeks, maybe from wiping at her face. Her eyes are so swollen and shiny that she can barely even recognize herself. Her lower lip is trembling. She looks like a scared girl. Not the savior of Vaugarde. How could she be? How is she supposed to save everyone? She can’t even save a single person.
She bites her lip. It doesn’t stop trembling.
There’s enough water left standing in the washbasin. Maybe it would have evaporated by now if it weren’t frozen in time. Her gloves are stuck to her skin. She peels them off, then does the same to her dress. She discards both of them on the floor, some distance away from the pile of Claude’s clothes that Mirabelle had begged her several times not to just leave in the bathroom. A memory from a lifetime ago.
The blood has soaked through to her skin. She does her best to scrub it from her body with towel after towel dipped into the small amount of water she has to work with. There’s…so much of it, all over her legs and arms and hands. No way she can get all of it, not even if she spent an hour in here. Too much blood. Blood. Siffrin…Siffrin’s blood.
Mirabelle presses a hand to her mouth. Another whimper squeezes itself out of her chest. She leans over the basin, her stomach suddenly churning. Her hand smells like copper coins.
She does the best she can at cleaning herself up until she’s run out of towels. It will…have to be good enough. She pulls on the new dress with shaking hands before taking one more moment to breathe, clenching the sides of the washbasin. The metal digs into her palms.
She can’t stay here forever. They still…still have to beat the King. If…if they can.
She pushes her way out of the bathroom. The only one left in her dorm is Odile, looking down at Siffrin’s body. She turns towards Mirabelle at the sound of the door opening.
“Feeling any better?”
Mirabelle says nothing. She looks down at the new darkless dress. There’s a small smear of blood on one side of it. She should have picked a different shade.
“I suppose that’s a foolish question.” Odile sighs. She massages her forehead with her thumb and index finger. “Still, better than walking around with blood all over you. We should find clothes for Isabeau, too, if we can. Nothing in here would fit him.”
Mirabelle chews her lip. “Where are…”
“Isabeau is outside with Boniface. He couldn’t bear to be in here any longer. And Boniface shouldn’t have to see this. Though I fear they’ve already seen too much.”
Ah. Mirabelle’s eyes return to Siffrin. He looks so small, she thinks, lying there. Eye closed, hands over his chest like he’s in a casket. Someone has wiped some of the blood off his face and wrapped a scarf that Mirabelle is pretty sure belongs to Claude around the wound on his neck. Mirabelle will have to apologize to her later. If she’s not…
Odile watches her. “Do you want to say goodbye. Depending on how the fight with the King goes…”
If they lose to the King, it probably won’t matter for long. Still, the thought of just leaving Siffrin here feels wrong.
If they do win, then…they’ll have to figure out what to do with…with Siffrin’s body. Her chest hurts at the thought. They’d…never gotten an answer from Siffrin, for what they should do if he died. Bonnie had interrupted first, and…and Mirabelle had really believed the words they’d said back then. That they’d all make it out alive.
Had they known even then, Mirabelle wonders. That they were going to…do this? It…wasn’t that long ago, that they’d all had that conversation. Was it planned? Or was it a spur of the moment decision? That…makes more sense, she thinks. It seems strange, to plan a suicide in the middle of a random hallway. But they also hadn’t…seemed to need any time to think about it.
Will she ever know the answer?
She steps closer to Siffrin, Odile silently moving out of her way. She’s glad that she doesn’t have to see it. The injury. The image of it is imprinted into her mind, that clean, deep gash that Siffrin had carved into his throat.
He’d done it so quickly, without so much as a moment of hesitation. And that…that doesn’t make sense to Mirabelle. She can understand someone being in so much pain that they no longer want to go on. There were plenty of times when she’d felt that way, too, when she was younger. Before she was medicated. But she doesn’t understand how someone could just…could do what Siffrin had done so easily. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t even tensed up. Like he wasn’t slicing into his own throat, but perhaps a loaf of bread. Or a vegetable.
No, even that…Mirabelle remembered chopping vegetables herself. Always so hesitant, so mindful of her fingers. So clumsy. She remembers her friend, the one who had taught her how to cook, and how Mirabelle had admired the way she could dice an onion or a potato so quickly and precisely, never pausing, without needing the little rhyme she’d taught Mirabelle, and seemingly no fear of cutting her fingers.
When Mirabelle had asked how she did it, her friend had just laughed and told her that she was doing just fine. That she’d get more confident the more she practiced. That was how it worked.
Mirabelle shakes her head. Why is she thinking of this, why now? It’s not relevant. It doesn’t…make any sense.
None of this does. It makes so little sense that it’s still hard for Mirabelle to believe it’s happened at all. But she knows that it did. She reaches down, gently taking Siffrin’s hand. So cold. Still so limp. How…how long does it take for bodies to start going stiff?
She’d noticed that something was wrong with him, of course she had. It was hard not to. He’d been so…off these past two days. Tired. More distant, like he was half there and half somewhere else. He’d smiled a lot, but it was always a little too wide to be convincing, a smile that dropped as soon as he thought nobody was looking. But it made sense, didn’t it? They were going to fight the King soon. Even Siffrin, for all his confidence, had to have been feeling the strain of that.
But for it to be to the point that they’d…
How could Mirabelle not have noticed that they were hurting this much? What…what kind of a friend was she?
If she’d noticed…if she’d said something sooner….would Siffrin…still be alive?
Had something happened that she hadn’t known about? Or…or had they been feeling this way the whole time? Had they been suffering so badly and she’d never suspected anything? That must have been the case, right? Nobody could go from being fine to being willing to slit their own throat without hesitation in less than two days, could they?
They’d said that traveling with everyone was the happiest they could remember being. Even though they were all fighting for their lives, day after day. Even though they’d just lost an eye.
She remembers just how quickly he’d thrown himself in front of Bonnie, back then. Of course he had. Any one of them would have done the same, if they’d been faster. There was no reason to think he’d be doing anything other than protecting a defenseless child. But now. Now she wonders.
She stares down at Siffrin’s lifeless body. With their eye closed, no longer choking on their own blood, they look almost calm. There’s no fear on their face, no hurt, no sorrow. Just quiet acceptance. She hates that look. It’s worse, she thinks. Worse than if they looked pained.
“ Why?” Mirabelle whispers. She isn’t sure who she’s asking. Siffrin? Herself? A God who won't answer? Why did you do this? Why now, why like this? Why didn’t I notice?
“I don’t know,” Odile says.
Mirabelle turns to look at her. She has her arms crossed in front of her chest. She’s staring at Siffrin.
“I missed something, I know I did,” she says. Her brows are knitted together, frustration and regret burning in her eyes. “I just don’t know what. And now it’s too late. If only I had figured it out sooner…”
At least Mirabelle isn’t alone in just how lost she is. It doesn’t make her feel any better.
For a moment, both of them are silent.
Then, Odile sighs. “Siffrin had all the keys on him. We need them if we want to progress through the house.”
She’s right, but Mirabelle doesn’t like it. It feels horrible to go snooping through Siffrin’s pockets when they can’t object.
Odile must see the look on her face. “I don’t like it either. But we don’t really have a choice. I’ll take care of it. You’ve already done more than enough.”
Mirabelle doesn’t object. She stands a few steps back as Odile rummages through Siffrin’s belongings, picking at the drying blood beneath her nails. Siffrin, for all his many pockets, doesn’t have very much on him. A single silver coin, a small pendant shaped like a bell, a lump of clay, the key with the crying mask from the 2nd floor…and the photo they’d all taken at the mirror maybe half an hour ago.
Odile returns everything to Siffrin’s pockets except for the keys, taking an extra moment to look at the mirror picture. From the side, Mirabelle can see her jaw clench. She looks down at the photo as well. Everyone looks so surprised, except for Isabeau and Siffrin. Isabeau is grinning, his arms spread wide. Siffrin is…also smiling, a tight, too-wide smile.
Had they known, then, what they were going to do?
Odile returns the picture to Siffrin’s pockets. Mirabelle’s glad. She doesn’t want to look at it anymore.
She’s even more glad when they’re out of the room. Her room. She feels a little less like she’s suffocating out here.
The others are waiting out in the hallway. Isabeau is slumped against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest. Bonnie stands beside him, arms tucked behind their back. Their eyes are fixed on the ground.
Isabeau looks up when Mirabelle and Odile exit. His eyes are haunted. Mirabelle is sure hers look the same.
“I guess we still need to keep going, huh?” He says. He gives her a ghost of a reassuring smile that’s probably meant for himself as much as for her.
“Y-yeah.”
Isabeau doesn’t move to get up, though. He just stares down at his knees.
Mirabelle swallows. “Do…do you want to…if we don’t come back here…” Do you want to say goodbye? She can’t say the words.
Isabeau squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t think I can. Not right now. I can’t–I don’t want to see them like that.” His voice cracks at the end.
“I…Okay.” She understands. She doesn’t want to think of going back in there either.
Isabeau sighs. He still doesn’t get up.
“I should have said something,” he says. “Talked to them, when I realized that he wasn’t okay. If I had, maybe things would be different. But I thought…that we’d have more time. That whatever was going on with them, it could wait until after we’d defeated the King. I didn’t want to push him to talk if he wasn’t ready.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I feel so stupid…”
“That would make all of us stupid, though, wouldn’t it?” Odile said over Mirabelle’s shoulder. “Any one of us could have said something, but we didn’t. Beating yourself up over this now won’t do any good.”
“I know…but…”
While the pair of them speak, Mirabelle turns to Bonnie. They’re dragging a boot back and forth along the floor, the rubber squeaking on the stone. Their expression is sullen.
“Bonnie…” Mirabelle starts. She’s not sure what she’s going to say, but it doesn’t matter. Bonnie cuts her off first.
“I know, okay! I know Frin’s dead, I know that’s why you won’t let me see him. I’m not–I’m not stupid! Don’t treat me like a baby.”
Ah, she should have figured as much. There was only so much they could hide from Bonnie. What a terrible thing for a child to have to see. It had been hard enough for her, and she’s a grown adult.
She…should probably say something. Do something to help Bonnie work through this. She doesn’t know what, though. Should they let Bonnie say their goodbyes? Even with Siffrin’s wound covered, letting them see him like this would surely be traumatic. Would it be worse, though, to deny them closure? Mirabelle doesn’t know.
“Boniface, if you want to say your goodbyes…”
Odile makes the decision for her. Mirabelle is ashamed at how relieved that makes her feel.
“I’m not sure that’s–” Isabeau starts, but Bonnie cuts him off.
“I DON’T! I don’t wanna see Frin! I HATE THEM! They’re stupid and a liar and I HATE THEM!” Tears brim in the corner of Bonnie’s eyes. They ball their hands into fists. “He promised he wouldn’t get hurt anymore, super duper promised and he’s a big crabbing liar! I don’t wanna see him ever, EVER again!”
They squeeze their eyes closed and give the ground a hard kick.
Mirabelle thinks she might start crying again too. She manages not to. Maybe she’s all cried out.
She doesn’t say anything. Nor does anyone else. Bonnie sniffs, wiping their nose on the back of their fist.
“Why did they do that?” Bonnie whimpers. “I-I don’t get it…I don’t get any of this!”
Change. Mirabelle’s stomach churns. What should she say to that? How do you explain something like suicide to a child? How do you tell them that someone they’d cared deeply about had chosen to end their own life?
“It’s…” She cups her hand to her chest. “I-I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
Bonnie sniffles again, not seeming satisfied with her answer. Beside them, Isabeau takes a deep breath.
“Well,” he sounds as if he’s fighting with his voice to remain steady. “You know how, um, how people get sick. And can get so sick that they die. Well…sometimes people get very, very sick, but the sickness is inside their brain.” He cringes. “I…guess that’s the best way to put it. And it causes them a lot of pain and makes them very sad. And sometimes it makes them so sad that they don’t…that they don’t want to be alive anymore.”
“Oh…” Bonnie said, frowning at their boots. “Was Frin sick?”
Isabeau sucks in a breath. “I don’t…I don’t know.”
Bonnie turns to scowl at him. “That’s stupid. You’re an adult, so why don’t you know?”
“Being an adult doesn’t mean knowing everything, Boniface,” Odile says. “There’s a lot we don’t know. I’m sorry that we can’t provide you with a better answer.”
Bonnie just scrapes their shoe on the floor again. “Will I get sick like that too?”
Oh Change… Mirabelle winces. “No! No, of course not…” Well, maybe that’s not something she can guarantee. What should she say, in a situation like this? “Um, well, even if you do, it’s…it’s a sickness that can be treated. So you…you shouldn’t worry…um, about that happening. To you, or to any of us.”
Please, please, she doesn’t want Bonnie to have to be afraid of this.
Bonnie narrows their eyes at her. “Then why did Frin die? Why didn’t Frin get treated?”
“We don’t know that either,” Odile says, once again freeing Mirabelle from trying to answer a question she can hardly bear to even think about. “Siffrin…was a very stubborn person. And a very private one. Not someone who wants to ask for help.”
Bonnie’s face twists. Mirabelle can only guess that they’re remembering the exact same thing that she is. The days after Siffrin had lost their eye. What an ordeal it had been to get Siffrin to rest even for a few days, and even more to get them to agree to make a detour to the nearest town for better treatment than what Mirabelle could provide out in the field. Siffrin had brushed off everyone’s worries with smiles and a variety of eye-related puns, and had only gotten more reticent and frustrated the more the party had tried to press the issue. They had not been pleased at Isabeau’s suggestions that they stay in the back during battle, nor at Mirabelle’s offers to take over as scout. The very idea of either had seemed to offend them.
And…it had been convincing. Mirabelle had really believed that the loss of his eye hadn’t bothered Siffrin that much at all. Maybe he was just the sort of person who could brush such a thing off. Or…
I just try to not think about things that bother me in general, haha.
Her chest hurts.
“Stupid Frin…” Bonnie sniffles. They wipe their nose on the back of their hand. Their body trembles. “I hate him! They’re so stupid! They shouldn’t have been so stupid and stub-born!”
“You’re right, they shouldn’t have,” Odile says. Her expression is weary. “It’s fine for you to be mad at Siffrin. I’m mad at them as well. I’m mad that he put all of you through this without ever trying to reach out for help. And I’m mad that he decided now was the time to do this. Not that…picking another time would have made it any better.” She squeezes her eyes shut and sighs. “Now is perhaps not the time and place to discuss all this. We’ve been here for too long already.”
She’s right. Pretty soon, the Sadnesses that had roamed this hallway would reform. And even if they didn’t, the curse was surely creeping closer.
“But…” Isabeau says, trying to offer Bonnie a reassuring smile. “I’m sure that Sif didn’t mean to break their promise to you. Sif cared for you so much. He’d never want to hurt you. But he probably…probably was in a whole lot of pain. And…it’s hard to think clearly when you’re in a lot of pain.”
Bonnie glowers. They stomp their boot against the floor again. “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”
“I…okay.” Isabeau’s expression is pained. Mirabelle is sure that hers isn’t any better.
Had Siffrin known, then, when he’d made that promise to Bonnie? Had he known when they’d talked with each other, when she’d poured her heart out and he’d shared a bit of his own in turn? Had he known when they’d shared samosas under the stars together, preparing for their fight with the King.
There’s…no point in thinking about this. Mirabelle probably won’t ever know the moment Siffrin had decided they were going to kill themself. She’s not sure she even wants to know.
She can’t dwell on it any further. The grief can wait until later.
They have to keep going. Have to fight the King. So that, at least, Siffrin won’t have died for nothing.
Not that she knows what Siffrin died for. One more thing she’ll probably never know.
The party combs the rest of the third floor, not quite sure what they’re looking for. Mirabelle inspects the blocked door, since Siffrin hadn’t seemed interested in examining it before. She swipes at the strange material blocking the way with her rapier, only serving to make a tiny dent.
There must be some way to get through. A hidden passage, perhaps, that will take them past this door. If they can just find it, and they have to, then they can get through.
There’s a locked door in the eastern wing of the house that the crying key doesn’t open. Mirabelle just hopes that key wasn’t on a lower floor as well.
Their progress is so much slower without Siffrin. Mirabelle had noticed that things were going smoothly, of course, but she hadn’t realized the full extent of it. When Siffrin had been leading them, they’d never once run into a locked door they couldn’t open, never spent an hour turning a room upside down in search of a key, never had to backtrack or gotten turned around and ended up somewhere they’d already been several times before. Mirabelle wonders if it’s just her own incompetence in leading them, but none of the others seem to have any more insight than she does.
The Sadnesses are different, too. Before, they were sculking in the shadows, almost seeming to shy away from the party. Now, they pursue them down every corridor and jump out from behind pillars with vicious intent. They seem stronger, too, no longer going down in a couple of strikes. Mirabelle feels like they’re always on the back foot, a few blows away from being taken out.
They’re down one party member, so it makes sense…probably. Maybe they look weaker now, as a smaller group.
The more they struggle through the house, the worse Mirabelle feels. Had Siffrin really just been carrying them through the whole time? Why hadn’t she noticed? Why hadn’t she thanked them for all the work they’d been doing?
They avoid going back to that corridor until they’ve exhausted all other options. It still smells so heavily of blood, Siffrin’s dagger abandoned on the floor. Odile stops for a single moment to pocket it. Mirabelle is thankful. She…doesn’t want to see that thing anymore.
The last key is hiding in a closet in the change room. Mirabelle squeezes it tightly in her hands and just tries to be relieved that it was on this floor after all. Isabeau finds a new shirt and pants there as well that almost fit him. He changes into them while the rest of them wait in the corridor.
Behind the locked door is another strange Sadness, one that takes all of their strength to defeat. They barely make it out, bruised and winded, all of Mirabelle’s healing craft exhausted for the time being. It drops yet another crest that she pockets.
They shouldn’t use it just yet. Really, they’d gotten lucky on the last floor that they’d chosen the right direction, but Mirabelle doesn’t feel comfortable relying on that luck any longer. There are at least three different paths blocked by tears on this floor. Maybe more? They’ll have to check the whole floor again just to make sure.
Mirabelle is the only one of them who can actually get past the tear walls, and so it’s her job to check what’s on the other side all alone. None of the others like it, but they don’t really have a choice. Odile makes her promise to come back if she so much as spots a Sadness.
The first place she checks is a tiny room full of books and poems. Nothing that might help her get through the blocked door. She searches it anyway. There’s an anthology of horror stories that, in a different situation, she might have dropped everything to dive headfirst into. She kind of wants to even now. It might make her feel better, to think about terrible things happening to people that she doesn’t know and that don’t exist. But there isn’t time for that. She leaves the book on the shelf and returns to her friends.
The second row of tears blocks the way to a far larger room, though not one that is any more useful than before. Just more books and papers and some strange contraption that she doesn’t know the name of. No secret passages or magical whatevers to get past the door. She’s not really sure what she should be looking for. She just hopes that she’ll know it when she sees it.
She shouldn’t linger in here that long, she knows. Especially if there’s nothing to find. But her legs are getting very tired. She takes a seat in the room’s singular chair, turning her body to gaze out the big glass window at the night sky beyond. Is it already that late? Have they been in here that long?
She remembers last night. Their picnic under the stars. Savoring Bonnie’s samosas and enjoying the moment with her friends. For once, not worrying about what tomorrow would bring. She’d felt at ease in that one precious moment. The talk with Siffrin had helped, too. Had made her feel like she wasn’t alone. Like she wasn’t broken. She…hadn’t realized just how badly she’d needed to hear that. To know that someone else felt the same way she did.
And there, under the stars with all her friends, she hadn’t even been scared of fighting the King. It really seemed like their group could do anything. Mirabelle can’t remember many times when she’d felt like that. Felt so right.
That might as well be a lifetime ago, now.
The stars blur into big, pale smudges. Ah. She wipes at her eyes. Her hands still smell like copper.
She doesn’t want to be in this room anymore.
She can only guess what she looks like when she returns to the group. Nobody says anything, but Mirabelle knows that they understand. Isabeau gives her a quick rub on the shoulder. Always so kind, always so quick to offer comfort. Even when he’s hurting too. When this is all done, they can talk, and grieve, and work through everything together, maybe. But now isn't the time for that.
Other possibilities exhausted, Mirabelle once more leads them back to that dreadful hallway. The blood puddle is starting to dry. It’s hard to tell where it starts and ends. Mirabelle gives the whole area a wide berth and peaks on the other side of the tears just enough to be able to confirm it’s probably the best way for them to go. That’s where the last door is, after all. The one with the crying mask.
Mirabelle squeezes the key in her hand, staring down at its great big wailing mouth and downturned eyes. Emotions are impermanent. She recites those words to herself in her head. The good ones don’t last forever, and so they must be treasured while they’re here. The bad ones don’t last forever either. One day, she’ll look back and this will be nothing but a memory.
It doesn’t bring her any solace. She unlocks the door. There’s a note stuck to it, telling them where to find the key. It’s useless now. She crumples it up into a ball and tosses it aside.
Another room, another frozen person. A friend who had sacrificed himself for her. Maybe he would have known what to do, if he’d been in her place. She doesn’t want to look at him. She just wants to keep going. To get this over with.
Isabeau and Bonnie need a bathroom break. Mirabelle waits outside with Odile, leaning against the wall and trying hard not to think of anything painful.
“I may not be the best at providing comfort, but I suppose I should ask anyway. How are you holding up?” Odile asks her.
Mirabelle digs some more blood out from underneath her fingernail. “I…about as well as I can, I guess.”
“I wish we could stop and rest for longer. Maybe if there’s another place to take a break before we fight the King.”
“Maybe…” Mirabelle says. She…doesn’t think that any of this can be resolved in a short snack break, though. Really, she just wants to push forward. Defeat the King. Finally finish this, if she can. Bring everyone back. Her friend, her role model, her roommate, the Head Housemaiden.
Not everyone, of course. Not Siffrin. There’s nothing they can do to save him. No craft in the world that can bring the dead back to life.
She’s saved from having to dwell on this any longer by Isabeau leaving the bathroom. His eyes are slightly puffy. Bonnie follows a few moments later, still sullen as ever.
Mirabelle takes the lead again, pushing her way through the door into the next hallway. And stops. It’s so sudden that Isabeau bumps right into her with a little oof, knocking her forward a step.
“Mira, wha–”
He freezes, sucking in a harsh breath.
At the end of the hall stands a motionless figure, facing away from them. Darkless cloak, darkless hat.
Mirabelle rubs her eyes. It’s not…it can’t be real. It’s just…just the stress, or maybe the trauma, getting to her.
“Frin?” Bonnie says, their voice wavering.
Mirabelle jolts. What? So…
“Can you…” She trails off.
“So…can everyone else see that, too?” Isabeau asks. He sounds like he’s on the verge of hysterics.
“I suppose it would be…highly unlikely for us all to have the same hallucination at the same time,” Odile says.
Mirabelle can’t help it. She takes a step towards the figure, her legs shaky beneath her again.
“Siffrin?” She asks, voice barely audible. Siffrin? doesn’t turn to face her. He doesn’t move at all. She speaks again, louder this time. “Siffrin?” Still nothing.
What is this? A ghost? A shared hallucination? Or…or some sort of miracle? An answer to her prayers. Not by the Change God, they wouldn’t do that, but…something? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand. She takes another step towards Siffrin, moving slowly and quietly. As if anything else would break the illusion.
The others follow along behind her, as cautious as she is. Like they’re approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any moment. Siffrin doesn’t move even a centimeter all the while. As still as if they were frozen in time.
When she gets close enough to touch them, she hovers a hand out, reaching towards their shoulder, then draws back. She…she doesn’t know what will happen if she touches it. Touches them. Will her hand go right through? Will they disappear?
Instead, she steps carefully around it, around him, until she can see his face. She expects something to happen, something to be wrong. That the figure will turn out not to be Siffrin at all, or he might still be pale and dead with a gash across his throat, or maybe have no face at all. Something out of a horror novel.
But Siffrin looks…normal. Their expression is distant, but there’s life in their eye. No wound on their neck, no blood on their cloak. For a moment, Mirabelle thinks Siffrin must not be able to see her, but as soon as she moves in front of them, their eye swivels to look at her.
“Is it…are you really there? Siffrin?” She asks.
The somber expression on his face blooms into a gentle smile, a smile that tugs at the corner of his eye, and oh, that’s the first genuine smile Mirabelle has seen from him in the past two days. A breath catches in her throat.
“Sif?” Isabeau joins her in front of Siffrin, his voice shaking. Siffrin’s eye moves to him. Their smile grows.
“Frin? Are you a ghost? Did you come back from the dead? Do you wanna be alive now?”
“Fascinating,” Odile says, though her voice sounds disturbed. “So they’re aware of our presence? Siffrin, are you able to hear us?”
Siffrin doesn’t answer, his eye switching between each of them in turn as his smile spreads across his face. It’s a haunting smile. Mirabelle hadn’t imagined that anyone could look so blissful and so sorrowful at the same time. Her chest tightens, horribly, painfully. Siffrin looks like he might start crying at any moment. Mirabelle thinks that she might as well.
Isabeau slowly reaches out a hand toward Siffrin, his arm shaking. Siffrin’s gaze jumps to it, something like…longing in their eye. Isabeau swallows and draws back. Siffrin’s smile wavers. A tear drips down their cheek.
Mirabelle takes a shuddering breath. She can’t speak. If she does, she’ll just burst into tears.
It’s Bonnie who steps forward. They’re trembling, but their face is determined. “Frin? Do you want a hug? Za said that you might be sad and sick, and when I’m sad or sick, hugs make me feel better.. So–so if I hug you, will you not be sad and sick anymore? And then you can come back to life and I’ll be mad, really mad, but less mad than if you stay dead! Okay?”
Mirabelle…doesn’t think that’s how it works. But she doesn’t know any more about ghosts than Bonnie does. She doesn’t think her books are accurate references.
Siffrin doesn’t answer, but they smile down at Bonnie, spreading their arms. Bonnie makes a little pained sound, then launches themself at Siffrin.
Siffrin’s body looks perfectly solid, but as soon as Bonnie comes into contact with him, his form scatters like disturbed smoke. Bonnie stumbles straight through him, leaning too far forward to keep their footing, and Mirabelle barely has the reaction time to grab their arm before they fall. She has to reach through Siffrin to catch them. It feels like holding her hand over a pot of steaming water, if that steam was ice cold instead of warm. Every hair on her arms stands on end. She pulls Bonnie to her chest. Bonnie’s shaking. She’s shaking, too.
“Ah, Bonnie? Are you okay?” She asks. She feels Bonnie nod against her chest.
Siffrin’s body shifts into a solid-looking form again. Their smile droops. Another tear trails down their cheek.
“So, they really are a ghost…” Odile says. It’s the kind of discovery that might have fascinated her in any other circumstance. Now, Mirabelle thinks, she just sounds weary. “Then, what is he doing here? I suppose it makes sense for a ghost to haunt the place where they died, but we hadn’t reached this part when they…”
“Maybe…Sif's still trying to lead us. From beyond the grave.” Isabeau chuckles. There’s no mirth behind it.
In Mirabelle’s arms, Bonnie sniffles. “If Frin wanted to lead us, they shouldn’t have died. Stupid Frin! If you were sick, you should’ve said so! Stupid!”
The ghost Siffrin doesn’t respond to any of them. Mirabelle’s not sure if he can hear them at all. He gives them that tragic, haunting smile once more before vanishing into thin air. Mirabelle can hear Isabeau choke on a breath beside her.
Bonnie pushes away from Mirabelle, stepping into the empty space where Siffrin’s ghost had been, looking back and forth with a desperation that frightens Mirabelle. “Frin? Frin?” They turn back to the others, eyes filled with tears. “Did I make them go away? Cause I tried to touch them? Or cause I yelled?”
Isabeau reaches forward to put a hand on their hat. “No, I’m sure that’s not it. Maybe Sif just…couldn’t stick around for very long. Since they’re a ghost. It must be hard to…to maintain a solid form. Or something.”
Bonnie doesn’t look like they believe him. “Will he come back?”
“I don’t know? Maybe?” Isabeau’s voice cracks a little.
Would it be better or worse if the ghost came back again? Mirabelle’s not sure. She squeezes her eyes closed. Siffrin’s smile lingers in her mind.
It’s not an expression she’d even seen them make. That she’d ever wanted to see them make. They’d looked so…so broken . That was the only thing she could think of to describe it.
Was that how he’d really felt, this whole time? For how long? Why…why hadn’t they noticed?
It’s all…too much. All of it. A whimper squeezes itself out of her throat. Her legs give out beneath her once again and she slumps to the floor.
“Mira?”
She wipes at her face. “I’m…I’m okay. I just…need a minute.”
She’s not okay. She doesn’t feel like she ever will be again. There’s a lot of things in their interaction with ghost Siffrin that have dug their claws into her, but one stands out.
“Siffrin…likes.” She stops. Liked. The right word is liked. “To…to be hugged?”
Why, of everything, is that what sticks in her mind?
“Yeah?” Bonnie says. They wipe their nose on the collar of their shirt, eyes still puffy. “He said he’s just not used to it. And then we hugged, and it seemed like it made them happy, so I thought maybe ghost Frin would want a hug, too.”
Oh. Mirabelle’s stomach churns. She hadn’t known. Siffrin had never seemed to mind being left out of their group hugs, but…maybe they had. Maybe it had hurt them, but they were just…good at hiding it. Along with everything else.
In how many other ways might they have hurt him and never realized it?
Mirabelle pressed her palms to her eyes. They still smell of blood. She wonders if she’ll ever get the scent out of her skin. She wonders if they’ll all survive long enough for it to matter.
Her cheeks are wet. “Why?” She asks, more to herself than anyone else. “Why didn’t I notice? I…I should’ve realized, I should’ve done something, I…” She chokes down a breath.
She feels a hand on her shoulder. Isabeau. He’s knelt down in front of her. “None of us could’ve known just how badly Sif was doing. They…may not have been able to hide everything, but they hid enough that we couldn’t have known that they’d…do this. We…have to allow ourselves that much grace.”
Maybe he’s right, but it doesn’t make Mirabelle feel any better. She sobs, and Isabeau wraps his arms around her back. He’s breathing heavily. It’s a hug for him as much as it is for her.
“If you need a minute,” Odile says. Over Mirabelle’s shoulder, she can see that Odile has a hand on Bonnie’s hat. “I can keep a look out for any Sadnesses. Though we still shouldn’t linger here too long.”
Mirabelle nods, squeezing Isabeau back as she tries to breathe on the floor in the middle of this random corridor. She feels like she could collapse into a broken, sobbing mess at any moment, but she can’t afford to. Maybe when all this is over, when they’ve defeated the King and saved the country. Then they can work through all this together, and it will hurt, but it’ll get better, eventually.
She takes a few steadying breaths, then pulls back from Isabeau, wiping at her swollen eyes. It’s a bit hard to see. She hopes they don’t have to fight anything in the next room.
Isabeau doesn’t ask her if she’s feeling any better. He already knows the answer. Probably feels the same. She’s not the only one who’s grieving, not at all. Even Odile seems like she’s fighting with everything she has to hold it together, trying to remain the voice of reason, to push them to keep going because there’s no other choice. Mirabelle wishes she could be the same. If only she were a stronger person. A different person. If only she could Change into one.
If only someone else were in her place. Someone stronger. Better. Smarter.
She stands back up on feeble legs. “Let’s…let’s just go.” She wants to be done with this already. To grieve her dead friend without the fate of an entire country hovering over her head.
She pushes open the door at the end of the hallway, the door Siffrin had been staring at before they’d approached him. Behind it is…
A dead end. Nothing but a statue of the Change God. Mirabelle recognizes that terrible face she’d given them.
“After all of this…” Isabeau sighs from behind her.
“It’s just a crabbin’ dead end. Why the crab did Frin wanna lead us here?”
Mirabelle stares at the statue. She doesn’t know what to do now.
She wishes she could ask the Change God for advice. Or…or for a miracle. But it doesn’t work like that. The Change God isn’t like the Favor Tree. It doesn’t give anything to anyone. Change is something you make for yourself. The best she can do is try to believe that they can get through this, that they can defeat the King. She…doesn’t believe it very strongly, though. Maybe she can at least try. She closes her eyes.
There’s a flash of light, and then Mirabelle’s holding something heavy in her palms. She doesn’t remember holding them out in the first place.
She opens her eyes. And jerks her hands back as if she’s been burned.
The dagger–the knife, falls from her grip. Isabeau manages to snatch it out of the air before it can land on her foot. Or on the ground, blade wet with–
Mirabelle breathes heavily. The air still smells like copper even here. Maybe it’s just her who smells that way.
She stares at the Change God with its ugly face and something surges in her chest. The Change religion, the Change God…it had always brought her so much comfort. Because even if she didn’t like herself, even if she wasn’t the person she was supposed to be, she could still Change into someone she could be proud of. It gave her purpose, gave her a future. Something to always strive for. And even when she was doubting herself, doubting the belief, she had still…she’d wanted to make the Change God proud of her.
But now, in this moment, she feels nothing but rage towards them. Maybe even hatred. How dare they look at her like that, with that stupid face she’d given it, and do this.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” She says before she can stop herself. Her voice is trembling. Her hands are curled into fists at her side. “What are you saying? That we should just–just give up ? That Siffrin had the right idea? Is that what you want?”
The statue says nothing. Mirabelle grabs the hilt of her rapier. Some part of her knows that she’ll regret this, but she doesn’t care. She’s angry and hurt and she doesn’t want to see this thing’s face anymore.
“How dare you! You don’t understand, do you? You–you don’t understand anything about us, about how we feel. If–if you’re going to start granting favors now, then, why can’t you–”
Why can’t you bring him back?
She draws her blade, but before she can bring it down, there’s another flash of light. Mirabelle stumbles in place. They’re back in the main room. She breathes heavily.
“Mira…” Isabeau puts his hand on her shoulder again. Before, she might have wanted to turn around and pull him into a hug and just weep until she has no tears left. But the anger is still burning inside her. She wants to fight something. To break something. Preferably the King.
This is probably all his fault anyways, one way or another. She’s fine placing the blame on him.
“We might be able to use this to cut through the door,” Odile says. She’s taken the knife from Isabeau, turning it over in her hands.
Ah. Ah, that was true. Maybe that was what the Change God had wanted all along. She…feels a little bad now. So they’d helped after all.
She’ll apologize to them later, if they all survive that long. She still feels angry, though. Maybe it’s not fair of her to feel that way. But she does regardless.
The four of them stand before the door. Mirabelle saws through the hair strands until the knife has broken and the path is clear.
They’re almost there now. There’s no triumph in the moment. Mirabelle wonders what it would have felt like if they’d all made it here together.
“Let’s just get going…” Mirabelle says. Her voice is still trembling. She doesn’t know if it’s still the residual anger or fear or grief. Maybe a bit of all of them.
She tries not to think about all the keys they’ve found, all their hiding places and the locked doors and what it might mean. She tries not to think about her hands covered in blood or about Siffrin lying still on her bed or about Bonnie’s desperate sobbing. She tries not to think about the ghost with its mournful smile or about every moment when she could have done something, something that might have meant there were five heroes standing here and not four. She thinks about only the King. Defeating him. Ending this.
If they even can. She…doesn’t have much confidence in that, not anymore. She was never the one who should have been here. A frightened girl who can’t do anything right. If the Head Housemaiden were here in her place, she’d have known what to do. She’d have been able to save Siffrin. She’d have been able to save everyone.
But it’s too late for that. She’s the one here now. She can only keep marching forward and try not to die. Not to let anyone else die.
“Mira?” Isabeau repeats.
Mirabelle remembers to breathe. She shoves every conscious thought into the deepest, darkest corners of her mind that she can find. She is going to go in there, and she is going to fight the King, and save the country, and end this journey. Or die trying. It’s the only thing she can do now.
“Let’s go,” she echoes. And steps forward toward the end.