Chapter Text
“I wish to wear clothes Isabeau has made,”
“I wish to wear clothes Isabeau has made,”
“I wish to wear clothes Isabeau has made…”
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Going through the House was… interesting. Siffrin knew, of course, that it’d be tough. Instinct could only carry them so far, after all. The place was crawling with Sadnesses and had the King at the top. There’d be no avoiding danger entirely, but that was fine! They knew how to use their dagger, and a bit more experience would probably do the group some good, so long as they could keep on top of healing! So it was fine that, no matter which way they went, there was part of him screaming to just lead everyone back out again, but the doors were closed. Nowhere to go but forward.
It was fine that it was near blinding, near deafening. Fine that it was a fight to figure out the way forward when usually it was first-nature.
It was fine that they couldn’t figure out what the “Death Corridor” was about even though something inside of him agreed with Mirabelle—they’d ultimately had no choice but to move past and it was… fine? It was fine that he had to plaster on a smile and all he could do was warn them that there was something tough ahead before they ran into a strong Sadness…
It was fine that no food was set aside for him at snack time. He couldn’t eat it anyways, right? Sure, it felt good to be included, felt warm to be cared for, and there was something fun about trying to sneak their portions onto everyone else’s plate, but it was fine, it was fine! There wasn’t time for silly things like that anyways, right?
Though… it was nice to hear the others chatter, joking around a bit. Really cut the tension! And it was nice to just quietly listen to their friends talk.
Everything was fine up until, on the second floor, there was a choice to be made…
Maybe it was the way their instincts said there was no safe path, maybe it was being forced to choose between his friends, maybe maybe maybe…
“Sorry Mira, sorry Isa, but Age over Beauty!”
They chose wrong.
They tore the infirmary apart looking for a key, but it was too late. The moment they all walked in there, he could feel their options constrict. It was always a hard thing to explain to people, but it was like, like…
Well, it was similar to when they popped a limb off and went far enough away that it lost connection. Not painful, not to them, but suddenly he felt smaller. He felt cut off, pressed into a smaller container, missing something.
They’d messed up, and it went from no good way forward to no way forward at all.
It was hopeless, but some desperate part of them searched anyways, looking around for any kind of key, any clue, anything…
They pull a broken, porcelain doll from the cabinet. It’s cracked, half of their face missing… if he had the rest, or even material, they could mend it, but there was nothing to work with. So instead he just slowly brought them ( it, there was nothing inside, it was hollow) to his chest, cradling it and stroking what hair remained.
Everyone was staring; he didn’t want to know what expression was on his face right now that they all looked so sad, so scared.
“I’m sorry. There’s- there’s nothing here. No way forward. I-I… we can’t…”
You feel a tug…
“I failed you.”
On your core…