Chapter Text
Odile reflects, as Siffrin sits on the ground hyperventilating, that perhaps the oddities she had noticed since their nap were more significant than she thought.
The others have the panic attack handled without her, at least.
Technically, no, he says, when asked about doing it alone. Someone going by Loop. Offering advice and thoughts like the voice that lurked and spoke shrouded in the darkness of those branches.
129. 129 loops, he says.
She flinches at the number, but they probably don’t notice, surrounded by everyone else, she’s sure.
What must it have been like, trapped so long? 36 is already so many. It took time to reach the King, to find the book with information on the shield Mirabelle needed to learn. It took time, finding those openphrases and guessing the right path. The time they lost to that one key in a book on the 2nd floor was astounding. And even still, fighting The King is not an easy task.
(He’s getting easy. Easier every loop. She does not mind the speed at which he is defeated, except that it means the loop comes to a close sooner at the end.)
Siffrin moves to take the front of the group at the same time as Mirabelle, and they bump into each other.
“Ah–”
“Oh, sorry!”
They pause, looking at the group, clearly thinking through it. “Oh.”
Everyone of their group has been retaining experience but Siffrin. She sees the click in their eyes, realizing that this means Mirabelle is faster than them, now.
Odile hums, and flicks open her book, Examining Siffrin. The stats float around him in her view as she analyzes all the details.
Those are all normal, if high (especially since they don’t seem to be factoring in the equipment as she looks at them, a bit of static against her mind as she tries to focus on that wards her away). What worries her is the extra bar. One for turn charging on top, one for HP on the bottom, and one in the middle for DL.
“Siffrin’s speed is significantly higher than yours, Mirabelle. Letting him take the lead will be fine.” His shoulders slump (relief?) at that, and Mirabelle simply nods. “Before we continue, though, Siffrin.”
They straighten and turn toward her. “Yes, Odile?”
“What is DL?”
They stiffen, but don’t shrink from her gaze. A gaze she doesn’t break, simply waiting for their answer.
In the end, Siffrin sighs. “It stands for Distress Level. You don’t need to worry about it unless it gets to 80%.” Saying nothing else, he turns and starts to move forward.
She jots down that information, and the fact that they seem rather stubborn about discussing it. Maybe she’ll catch him at break time.
129 loops. A new internal system tracking distress. Gems, what did it take to break the loops if that was the result? What happened to them? There’s so much she and the others still don’t know.
As they walk, Odile flicks through the menus. He’s making such quick work of the Sadnesses that Isabeau and Mirabelle don’t often need to step in to finish them off, and the turn never reaches her or Boniface.
Craft emanates from some of the other decorations they wear, if she pays attention. There are beads on their typical pins, different designs for each that give off some warmth she can’t identify.
And it’s interesting that the equipment and items he has (presumably from his future) came with him, similar to the way weapons and equipment are automatically equipped for everyone here. But what’s more interesting is the items themselves, and that memory.
Odile takes a step away from the group to fire off a simple paper attack at one of the low-level rock Sadnesses around as she thinks.
The hat seems to shimmer, each star faintly blinking as it moves. The sheer amount of Craft poured into it and the dagger is mind-boggling. It’s clearly a custom creation, possibly made by Isabeau (and it looks like Boniface helped, though that doesn’t reduce the quality of the design). Small silver chains dangle from the tip and drape over the brim, looping all about, with beads and charms hanging off the edge around Siffrin’s head. She’s certain she hasn’t identified all their Crafted properties.
The chains tinkle, slightly, as they sway. Joined the funny noises appreciation crew.
The dagger, too, is fascinating.
Odile knows that craft, that Craft.
She knows the materials and techniques that have been used to create it. Even after being properly forged and shaped, the sense of meteoric iron is different from the kind drawn from beneath the crust of the world. Otherworldly indeed. It could act as a Craft Sink, storing energy until needed, and even with all that’s been sunk into it, there’s still plenty of room for more.
The gems, too, seem to have been made with that in mind. Odile has tried her hand at it before, but never was as advanced as the techniques in this blade imply. Some of them, though, seem to not hold Craft energy, but something else she can’t quite identify. It’s far more slippery, flowing with the rest of the metal grip so freely, changing in his grip as she keeps a close eye.
She and Mirabelle must have worked quite hard to make that together.
It aches, deep in her chest. In a spot she long thought empty and unimportant. Seeing the care she’s put into this, a message shouted loud and clear that this person is hers, and will carry that proof with them everywhere they go.
They notice her noticing the dagger, as they reach the storage room, and laugh. “You have no idea how many attempts this took,” he says, twirling it before saying “Stostorage roomoom.”
“I imagine quite a few, if I recall my own forging and gem-cutting skills, along with Mirabelle’s,” she says, raising an eyebrow.
He plucks items from barrels and the countertops, breezing over to the bookshelf. “Seventeen attempts at a prototype before they were both confident enough to make it for real. I have opinions about that number, but this counts as number 18, so it’s fine.”
“...” Number opinions.
She’d like to know, but not now.
“Is there something you’re in this room for? I doubt the juices are worth it.” They never needed them anymore, after all.
Siffrin pulls a book from the shelf and hands it to her. “How much does this make your head feel like it’s being juiced?”
That gets a laugh from Isabeau as both he and Odile look at it. It quickly dies down as they both groan instead.
“Sif, why is the headache book relevant?”
They take it back. “Because I can read it, and you can’t.”
“Oh? How did you manage that?” she asks.
Odile may not be good at reading people, not nearly as good as she is at books, but the smile he gives then is fake. “Sorry, it’s not a skill you’d be able to learn!”
“Siffrin.”
They sigh and drop the smile, a weary look in their eyes. “I can translate for you. Or sum up.”
“Translation will work fine.” She leans back against the desk, waiting, and notes Isabeau against the wall. Boniface has stolen the stool by the dictionary, but Mirabelle stays standing nearby too.
And Siffrin reads.
All told, the walk between the death corridor and the storage room isn’t that long, but it’s still long enough to let Isabeau eye Siffrin’s new hat.
(And it’s interesting, that no one noticed it until attention was drawn to the fact that this wasn’t their Siffrin, isn’t it? Whatever Craft has them looping, whatever Craft brought Siffrin here, it averts their gaze from what should be obvious until it can’t. Is this what it’s like for Siffrin, when they have the garden scissors?)
Seeing it makes his fingers itch in a way he rarely indulges. The eyepatch was fun (the eyepatch that Siffrin from a year in the future still wears), but he wants to make something. It’s not enough to stand to the side and finish off Sadnesses that make it past Sif and Mira, which is very few (unless they want to give him something to do).
Not that making anything would do him any good, here. Unless he could fashion something like that hat, it would be lost in just a few hours. Not strong enough to count as equipment, lost in the loop.
(And is he really from only a year in the future? Has their Isabeau progressed so far in such a short time, abandoning the act? He’d have to have done that, looking at that hat. It’s definitely got an insert to keep the brim stable, but is that shot silk? He can’t tell the type from here, but it shimmers and it seems like good silk. The way the delicate chains are anchored to maintain their drape, the protective craft he can feel from it, along with something else he doesn’t quite know.)
(Siffrin really let him make that? Let him experiment and work and be so embarrassing and still happily wears that as if it’s the most natural thing in the world?)
Isabeau eyes the hat more, noting that all the stars, no matter what their state of skill is, have a glass bead in the center, and he tucks that information away for later. They seem to be stitched into place, both with the stars and as part of the chains, shining in unreal shades, glittering just on the edge of his perception.
Siffrin notices the staring, of course, but more than that, they notice the intent behind Isabeau’s gaze. “I waited 129 loops to hear what you wanted to say, just so you know. Drove me outright insane.” They twirl their dagger in their hand and slice through a Sadness in front of them without so much as a glance, as if the Sadness were butter fated to fall to that attack by a hot knife.
Crab, that’s hot. “I– Uh– Sorry? About that???”
(He knows? Of course he knows, it’s been a year.)
This Siffrin just laughs, like getting to the end again and again and knowing nothing will stick isn’t heartrending, as if watching him forget no matter what Isabeau does isn’t tearing open a hole in his chest. “I got so fed up, one time when I saw you by the Favor Tree I kissed you, because I couldn’t deal with it. Looped back immediately after, of course.”
“K-kissed???” Isabeau can’t help it, he stutters, feet almost tripping on this floor he knows so well.
“Well, not you you. You’re not my Isa, obviously. Your Siffrin could always be different, I’m not them. My Isa and I are still working the kinks out, but things are going well.”
It takes him a moment, but that tone of voice is always familiar. He can’t help but snort, even as it causes his cheeks to darken. “That was horrible, I should gag you for it.”
“Hah!” Siffrin steps to the side and lets him attack the scissors Sadness in front of them with ease. “I’m not telling you if I’m into that.”
He gives him the best pout he can muster. “Aww.”
“You,” they point with their dagger so casually, “need to work it out with yours.”
Which is fair, but he’s so tired of being met with walls and nothingness. It’s pointless to try and confess, not with how Sif will just forget, but there’s no way to make progress to get through to him.
And then they’re in a storage room, and Siffrin is picking up a book. One with writing that makes his head hurt.
There are many components to wish craft. Most important of all is the strength of belief. Just as one cannot channel their innate craft without willpower and intent, wish craft is the act of sculpting that belief and intent into a workable shape and willing the Universe to accept it, creating a path for you to follow…
…The ritual is the act of casting…
…Not every wish can come true, and not every wish is simply granted. As laid out in cited works, the Universe most often works by providing one tools to achieve their wish rather than making it happen by luck or chance or without work. A wish is nudging the Universe, asking for the chance to walk a route under the stars that you want, but you must still…
Siffrin keeps going, and Isabeau listens intently, pondering this new craft.
When they finish, he asks, “Is this why you asked Bonbon about what they wished for when they were apologizing?”
He nods. “It’s not always even what your wording is, but what you want. The words are just part of the ritual. Say I wanted a warm place to sleep, I might wish for the next inn to have an empty room, but if I stumbled on a house and the owner invited me in, that fills the actual desire.”
Bonnie chimes up, “So, why’d it grab you if I wanted ‘Frin, then?”
A good question.
Isabeau watches as Siffrin hesitates. Pauses.
He has more thoughts than he’s about to share.
“I’m not sure, Bon–Bonnie!” He shrugs. “It was your wish! I’m sure what you really want has to do with your Siffrin, though. I think I’m the tool to help find that path, not the desired outcome.”
Under his breath, so soft that Isabeau is sure only he and Odile can hear, Siffrin whispers, “You wouldn’t want me to be the desired outcome anyway, second worst only to Loop.”
Hm. If he gets a chance they’re talking about that later.
For all that Siffrin is insisting he’s different—and Isabeau isn’t truly a fool, he is different, he’s not theirs—he’s still Siffrin. That hasn’t changed.
And Isabeau can’t not care about any Siffrin he meets, it seems.