You flip through your notebook, carefully, eying the words you've written throughout your travels. The words are there, written delicately on each page, but you don't really pay attention to them. Instead, most of your attentions focused on the small body sleeping in the bed next to you.
Siffrin lies on his back in bed, the covers pulled up to their chest. His pale face - paler with everything he's been through - is bright with fever. Every now and then, he shifts in his sleep, whimpering and whining against things only he can see.
You sigh, and hopelessly flip another page in your journal. Ironically, it mentions the first time you met Siffrin, the mysterious and suspicious traveler.
Siffrin had collapsed in the midst of the celebration in Dormont for defeating the King. His fever, which seemed to have dissipated earlier, had returned with a ferocity.
(Isabeau held them close to his chest, his usual bashfulness with Siffrin's closeness overridden by his concern. "Do you think they used Craft again?" He asked, his eyes watching as you pressed a hand to Siffrin's forehead.
You frown. "It's possible," you state, pressing your hand to Siffrin's burning cheek. Your heart definitely did not break a little when he leans into your touch. "It wouldn't surprise me. Siffrin doesn't know how to follow directions."
Isabeau smiles weakly, and he draws Siffrin ever closer to himself. Then, he freezes and looks down at Siffrin again. "What?" You ask, observing as Isabeau stares down at Siffrin.
Isabeau doesn't answer, but the look on his face unnerves you. "Isabeau," you press. "What's wrong?"
Isabeau shifts Siffrin in his grip, and he holds out a hand to you.
His digits are covered in blood.
Isabeau gulps. "Sif's bleeding.")
You annoyingly read the same page three times before you pull your glasses off and rub your tired eyes. You're pushing your glasses up on the bridge of your nose, when you hear muttering coming from Siffrin.
When you look, Siffrin's tossing and turning in his bed. You watch the rag that was plastered to Siffrin's forehead fall on the bed beside him. You sigh again, this time not of out of annoyance. Gingerly, you rise to your feet, head to Siffrin's bedside, and re-wet the rag.
"Calm down now, young one," you find yourself whispering soothingly. You place the back of your hand against Siffrin's forehead, brushing aside his sweaty darkless strands, and tsk at the warmth that's still there. You gently brush the rag against Siffrin's face, ignoring the way he tries to move away. You're careful to avoid the scarred skin around what's left of Siffrin's left eye.
As you work, you find your eyes drawn to the bandages wrapped around their chest. Without thinking, you find yourself drawing a jagged line over Siffrin's small, bandaged chest.
(Siffrin - tiny Siffrin, who was the second smallest in the group - stood above you all, staring down at you with a shade you've never seen. Your heart beats loudly in your ears as you watch Siffrin wail and throw the Head Housemaiden to the side.
A quick burst of fear twists your thoughts and, before you could stop yourself, you bring up your hand and summon a Paper Craft and -
You blink, and Siffrin's crying out in absolute pain. He staggers back, grabbing at his chest as his blood - a horrible new shade - bleeds through his cloak. You stare at your outstretched hand in shock.)
You clench your fist so hard, your fingernails dig into your palms.
There's a sudden sharp sob that drags you from your thoughts, and you immediately crane your head to look at the source. Siffrin's face is screwed up tight and wrought with fear, and small tears fall from behind his closed eye.
"Oh, Siffrin," you mutter in concern, and you gently wipe the tears from Siffrin's face.
"What?" You lean in closer.
"I'm sorry," Siffrin babbles, incoherently. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Your heart twists tightly in your chest, and you hush him as best as you can.
"No, Siffrin," your eyes begin to water. "I'm sorry."
You think Odile ever regretted slashing Siffrin in Act 5?
