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“The boundaries between life and death are, at best, shadowy and vague; who shall say where the one ends and the other begins?”
—Edgar Allen Poe
You awake to a cackling flower.
Some infinitesimal part of your mind is confused. You had not — could not have — slept standing up. Certainly not in an open hallway in the Ruins. Where any insignificant little creature could take your life in an instant. If they so desired. (The current circumstances imply that they do. Naturally.)
But then. Your form moves on its own. Cowering before the circle of bullets that has materialized around it. All is clear, then: you must be dreaming. Even your dreams wish to torment you now… hm.
And yet the bullets disappear. As soon as they had appeared. A fireball collides with the flower, having been hurled from quite literally out of thin air, and the flower itself is uprooted. It disappears into the darkness with an undignified squeak. And Toriel steps in to replace it. Not a dream, then. You would be dead if it was.
“Greetings,” she says. Your body refuses to obey your commands; it does not return the greeting. Nor does it smile and step forward. It merely stares. “Do not be afraid, child. I am Toriel, caretaker of the Ruins.” Caretaker. Caretaker? A discrepancy. Curious. What happened as you slept?
You focus. And memory returns sooner than coherency. Asriel is dead. Someone deliberately consumed the buttercups in Asgore's garden, and the poison killed them. You were involved in a merging between Human and Monster. (Asriel is dead?) “I don't like this plan anymore…”
Ah. Right.
Then… your plan has failed. (And Asriel's dead.)
The realization brings you no grief. You are uncertain why. Toriel leads you through the Ruins in relative silence, and then a Froggit manifests itself before you. Your body flinches violently at the sight and your mind laughs aloud when Toriel directs a glare at the offending Monster. And then you go very still. Fear resonates through you; fear that does not belong to you.
You suddenly realize. If the plan has failed… then this is not your body.
Under their breath, the Human child whose body you seem to be inhabiting (sharing, observing, what are you doing with them?) murmurs a hesitant “Who's there?” and tightens their grip on Toriel's robe. You can visualize her glancing down at them in curiosity as they speak. Or perhaps worry.
It doesn't matter; you remain silent irregardless. Their heart palpitates at the lack of a response, and you attempt to reassure them with some sort of positive emotion. It does not help (you are uncertain as to whether they felt the sensation at all; you certainly did not) but you decide that trying once is good enough.
Toriel continues walking. And then she stops.
The dummy before you feels strange. It affects the ambient magic in the air in a way all Monsters do. As if it bears a SOUL. A ghost, you mutter. The child flinches— an observer could rationalize it as an instinctual reaction to their SOUL being drawn out of their body, but you can tell that it was in actuality your quiet realization that elicited their fear. Don't worry, you tell them. You are not in any danger here.
The child takes a deep breath and steps forward. “What's your name?” They ask, quietly. It could be interpreted as being directed at the dummy. But you know better. (It doesn't seem much for conversation anyway.) Toriel looks pleased— and then they lean in close, as if sharing some incredibly important secret. And they whisper “Mine’s Frisk.”
You wait for a moment. Toriel continues on ahead; she expects the child, Frisk, to follow her. They do not. You presume it is because of their unanswered inquiry. Greetings, you say. I am Chara. Though you obviously cannot shake hands with them… they stick a hand out anyway. “Hi, Chara.” Then they realize what they are doing. And retract the hand with an awkward giggle. “I— I've never met a ghost before,” they tell you. “Are you a friendly one, like Casper?”
You are confused for a moment, before realizing they mean you. They thought you had referred to yourself as a ghost. They thought… hm. Fitting. I suppose so. Yes. Like Casper, you agree, having only the faintest of recollections as to who Casper is.
Frisk nods, bouncing up and down a little on the balls of their feet. “It's nice to meet you, Chara.” They are sincere. In the way only a young, oblivious child can be. After a moment, you say It's nice to meet you, too.
The Dummy tires of your aimless shenanigans then. And its spectral inhabitant abruptly floats up and out through the ceiling. Frisk cries out. Takes a full five steps back. And stares in shock for a moment, before you helpfully chime in with To be clear. That was the ghost I had been referring to.
You feel as if you should laugh at their timidity. As if this should be funny. (But you feel nothing at all.)
* Playfully crinkling in the leaves fills you with determination.
Their brows furrow. “What's that supposed to mean?” They ask. Though they have indubitably felt the same sensation as you, their confusion is still evident. Exactly what you think it means, you reply. As if that explains anything.
They just laugh and continue making… leaf-angels. Yes. That's what they are. Their pointless diversion lasts for a grand total of exactly seventeen additional seconds. Before their body goes limp, and they let out a contented sigh. “This place is nice,” they murmur. “I never thought I'd wind up here, when…”
They trail off. You do not inquire why. That would be useless at best; detrimental at worst. Toriel has a home at the other end of the cavern, you inform them. Its name is Home. In fact. They giggle, at that. And sit up. You brush the leaves from their hair, out of habit. Then you freeze. (They freeze.) “C-Chara?” They whisper, sounding as if they might faint. “Did you…?”
You respond with a quiet, tentative Yes. Then, when they fail to calm themself, you continue. I had not intended to do that. It appears… as I regain my awareness. I also become capable of controlling your limbs. This is a new development, you assure them. Otherwise you would have greeted Toriel when she first revealed herself. I had attempted to, myself.
Frisk sits there for a long while. Staring blankly at their hand. It has begun to quiver, you note. “I…” They draw in a deep, rattling breath. And then they sigh. “Promise you won't do anything mean with me unless you have to,” they request. You shrug with their shoulders, and they glare at their left hand with such intensity that it could very well disintegrate a Monster where they stood. “I’m serious!”
You laugh. (It's an empty laugh. But it will suffice.) I understand. As you wish; I swear upon my SOUL that I will not assault another being physically or psychologically with your body, unless failing to do so would kill both of us. You had not intended to do that, anyway. They do not deserve it.
Frisk smiles and nod, then stand up. “Good,” they say. Their previous fear forgotten in an instant. “Let's keep going, then!”
Toriel grants Frisk their own room. You are slightly dismayed by this revelation, in truth. But you choose not to voice your opinion. Frisk does not seem like they are in the mood for that, as it is. Their breathing has begun to stutter and their heartbeat has sped up. And you can feel the familiar sensation of a face desperately attempting to hold back tears… when they cannot be contained. Frisk? You do not seem very pleased to have your own room. What is the matter?
They do not respond. Instead they step forward, running a hand along the smooth wood of railing at the foot of the bed. This was Asriel's bed. Once. Your own makeshift hospital bed, as well. A lifetime ago. You know every inch of it from simple overuse; for a long time, you and the young Prince had shared a bed. It had been a point of embarrassment and vexation alike. Until Asgore crafted your own bed for the room at New Home. But it had ultimately caused no problems. Regardless. You… had enjoyed his company. Somehow.
The toys are familiar, as well. Asriel had always enjoyed playing with them. Hey, you prod, inquisitively. Look at all these cool toys. But Frisk barely glances down at them. You dryly note They don't interest you at all, and they giggle. It sounds broken. In a way. It reminds you very much of yourself— of how you once laughed at a painful fall, or a ruined pie, or burns in the back of your throat and poison in your mouth. It should worry you. Yet it does not. Because Frisk knows what is wrong and you do not; and because they are much more vulnerable to the enigma that is emotion than you are at the moment. Than you ever were, really.
After a while, they sit down on the bed. It is as soft as you remember. Linen and silk. Frisk feels overwhelmed now, in a way. You don't understand why. Or how. It is just a room, nothing more. Your hands are shaking, you observe. They begin to wring their hands instead. It does not help. What is the matter?
“Nothing,” they say. You scoff. I find that answer vague and unconvincing. They chuckle at that— or is it a sniffle? “Yeah… I just— I've never had a room like— like this, before. It's— it's probably stupid…” As Frisk speaks, memories rise up from the depths of their subconscious. A man with their skin and their hair; but not their eyes. None of the light. A broken promise; “I'll never hurt you.” A wooden door ripped off of its hinges. The smell of blood and alcohol. A blinding sun occluded by the dark canopies of a massive forest. “Dad? Do you think… maybe things’d have b-been better if I'd never been born?” The shadow of the Mountain of Spirits looming above you.
“Those who venture up to Ebott’s peak never return.”
It is not stupid, you say immediately. To reassure them. This is what you deserve. You ventured up to Mount Ebott for a reason. I know. The words ‘I did, as well’ go unspoken. It is unnecessary to say them. You have escaped that reason now. You have escaped Humanity entirely. You will not be deprived of basic necessities any longer. Stop worrying. The words are empty. But you force them out anyway. After a long while, they shrug. And a choked noise leaves their mouth before they can formulate a reply. This is not working. A failure. Damnation. What else can you do?
…
Perhaps. Yes.
You attempt to call upon your memories of corporeality, and reach out with your dominant arm. And Frisk’s arm moves, obediently. So you reach up and place their hand on their shoulder. It is an awkward movement, and rather unsettling for them— the sharp inhalation that the sensation elicits is an unmistakable indication of that— but it is better than nothing. It's okay, you reassure them, not as sincerely as they might like. Toriel is a far superior caretaker to… him. You will be happy here. You'll be happy.
(and you won't be.)
The air is thick with the stench of Dust and ash and blood. And Frisk is crying. “Toriel? I-is this some kind o-of magic? W-where’d… where'd you go? I didn't mean to hit you… I'm sorry. I… I don't know why…” They are trying to convince themself that she is alive. It is time to burst their bubble, then.
It was me, you say. Frisk’s breathing hitches. She was going to kill you. I did what was necessary for our survival.
“Wh— n-no, no no no no, you didn't d-do that— y-you promised you wouldn't! Y-you— you promised, Chara!” The concept that Toriel is dead has begun to set in. Their voice breaks. You feel empty, as you have since Frisk awoke. (This scenario does feel… familiar. However.) Frisk’s own ambient emotions continue to churn like a hurricane just beyond your consciousness, giving this situation a more somber air. But you don't feel somber. Sad. Most certainly not hysterical like them. Why should you? (You promised.)
She tried to kill them. To kill her own “child.” You know now that the Dreemurrs are prone to duplicity as much as any Human. Worse, even. They assure you that nothing is wrong, when your very world is built upon an unstable foundation; they give you a castle, massive and meretricious in its splendor. And say that it is your New Home; they make the simplest of promises… to do what is right. And then they grow conflicted about taking the lives of a few Humans, and they leave you to die. Even if it drags them to the depths of Hell alongside you. And now this. This… betrayal.
No. Toriel does not deserve your pity. Never did. Never will. Never. (You promised.)
Frisk jolts you out of your thoughts with a small whimper. Their hands are digging through the small mound of Dust as if assaying to find something solid. As if to try to reach in and pull Toriel from the abyss. But it merely sifts through their fingers, as Dust is wont to do. “P-please,” they plead. “I'm sorry! Chara's sorry too!” (You are not. Most certainly not.) “C-come back! T-Toriel?”
Frisk, she is dead, you snap. She is not coming back. Cease your pointless attempts to resurrect someone who does not deserve a second chance.
There is an almost ephemeral pause. And then Frisk gives in. They fall backwards and collapse on the stone floor, their small body wracked with sobs. And they begin to beg. “P-please, don't— don't say that… she does deserve a second chance!” Every syllable speeds up their heartbeat. “I just h-ha-have to give her one! And I need your help to do it!” Every sob makes their chest grow tighter. “I know it! Come on, h-help me do it!” They curl up into a fetal position. “Please!”
(You promised, Asriel!)
You say nothing. There is nothing to say. (Hypocrite.)
And they simply stop. Their breathing is shallow and their mind is empty. Silent. Nothing but overwhelming fear. Frisk?
…you may have made an error. You can feel yourself beginning to panic. How intense are these feelings? You quickly say Frisk, we can get through this. Get up. Go out the door. Calm down. I'll help you. Go!
But it is no use. Frisk does not exist anymore. All that you feel is overwhelming panic and a sensation as if you cannot breathe. Their heart beating several hundred times per minute. You are drowning. What is this feeling? You're drowning! You're—
"The Surface is… so much prettier than you made it sound, Chara…”
You… are in Asriel's old bed in Home. The lights are dim. And the air is cold in the comfortably chilling way that the Ruins invariably become after nightfall. A dream? …Frisk’s. If anyone's. (You are uncertain as to whether it was truly a dream at all.) Their first and only indication that they also experienced what you just witnessed is a desperate, hoarse gasp. As if they had been rescued from an ocean, with their lungs full to bursting with water.
Not desiring a repeat incident. You intervene immediately. Frisk. It was only a dream. Calm yourself. Calm down. After a few seconds, they begin to listen. Their breathing slows. Their heart feels as if it has stopped altogether; but you know that is not the case. Toriel is alive. The thought elicits some incredulity. From you as well as them. But it is truth, as far as you are aware. And so. It also elicits no small amount of joy… from them.
In fact. Frisk nearly scrambles out of bed and rushes out to see her with their own eyes. You stop them. (It takes you far more effort than you care to admit.) Do you really wish to interrupt her sleep, Frisk? They settle down then, feeling rather ashamed. “Sorry,” they mumble. “We can talk ‘bout it tomorrow, I guess…?”
You sigh. You have nothing to apologize for, Frisk.
They do not respond. They simply bury themself in their blanket, laying on their stomach. (And undoubtedly praying that they will not asphyxiate themself in their sleep with the pillow.) When you are certain they have ceased paying attention, you allow yourself to feel a small flicker of relief.
Toriel's death, despite your apathy... had not felt pleasant at all.
(You broke your promise, a voice whispers out at you. It does not sound like your own. It isn't a nice feeling, even when you aren't on the receiving end. Is it?)
“G'night again, Chara,” Frisk mumbles, and the voice is gone as if it had never existed. (It never did.) You are irritated to note that they are grinning from ear to ear. But it fades in time. Good night, Frisk, you say. Eventually.
And then you know nothing at all.
“Charaaaaa! C’mon! This is a family photo, and you're part of the family!”
“No. This is the fourth time you have informed me of that; please refrain from doing it a fifth time.” You despise having your picture taken. You ruin everything you appear in. You always have. (After all. Demons are not oft known for their mesmerizing appearances.) And you do not want to have the Dreemurrs find this out the hard way. They will probably blame you for it, as it is.
That does not mean Asriel will let it go without begging you. Of course it doesn’t. “Please? I'll talk Mom into getting you some chocolate later, I promise!”
“Toriel will see through you instantaneously. Even if she does not, I have no desire to appear in your next group photograph.”
At this, he sighs, crosses his arms and… squints at you. His attempt at replicating Toriel's terrifying Mom Glare is truly atrocious, and it makes the corners of your lips twitch upwards. But then… “Why not?”
You let out a small sigh. “I am not exactly photogenic,” you carefully explain to him, in a tone oft reserved for when one is speaking to very small children.
To his credit, Asriel has the grace to respond as if this is a genuine revelation to him. “Photo— what? Are you saying you think you look bad? Chara, you're the prettiest Human I know,” he says. The declaration takes you rather off-guard, though not nearly as much as it appears to have surprised its speaker; while Asriel himself goes bright red beneath his fur… you merely tilt your head.
“I am also the only Human you know, Asriel,” you remind him. But he just shrugs. You continue, averring “And I am not lying. I have been derided for my appearance in the past.” So much more than simply derided. Honestly. But you are not telling someone like Asriel about that. The potential consequences drown out any satisfaction you could find in such an action, anyway.
“Well, then, um— those people have no idea what they’re talking about! I m— I mean—” he pauses, looking around. Then he drags you in front of the room’s lone mirror. Contrary to popular belief, you possess a reflection. You still dislike looking at it. Asymmetrical pupils dot your dull red irises, resting upon dark circles and obscured by disheveled chocolate-brown hair; and Asriel seems to pay attention only to them. Of course. “Look, o-our eyes match!”
Amber and crimson. Yes. Indubitably. “The only similarity between our eyes is shape. Not hue. Nor anything else.” After a second, you sigh and turn away from the mirror. “This is not something that can be debated, Asriel. I am not going to be part of the picture.” In your peripheral vision, Asriel opens his mouth to speak, then hesitates. When you turn back around to fully face him again, his lip is quivering slightly and his eyes are misty. At the sight, you are overcome with the urge to slam your head into the mirror, again and again until the glass cracks and your skull splits and—
Quiet.
Asriel's voice jolts you back into reality. “Please? It’s j-just… y-you…” his voice breaks. Somehow. Despite him having been perfectly calm mere seconds ago. You step forward, and he directs his gaze down to the floor, sniffling and scrunching up his face in a vain attempt to hold back tears. “I— I—… o-okay… y-you don’t have to if you d-don’t wanna,” he mumbles.
You put an arm around him. It is an awkward and stiff motion, but he looks back up at you when you touch him. So it still works as intended. “Are you crying?” He shakes his head, then sniffles and nods anyway. You scoff. “Asriel…” your sentence trails off. Not for any genuine good reason. But because your mind refuses to provide you with anything to say.
Presented with no alternative options, you opt to simply acquiesce. “Fine. I… stop crying. I'll let you take my picture.” A cynical part of you expects it to have all been a ploy to play on what little empathy you have. And for Asriel's tears to dry within milliseconds. But they do not. He just forces a very strained and very shaky smile onto his face, then nods.
There is a brief respite. Asriel wipes at his eyes with the collar of his sweater, for some inexplicable reason. Then chuckles. And then— “Y-you shouldn't say that stuff about yourself, y’know,” he murmurs. He sounds as if he is having second thoughts about speaking… in the middle of his sentence. “Your eyes are, um… r-really pretty.” Then he slaps both hands over his mouth. You sputter for a moment, and he lets out a noise that can only be described as a humiliated bleat, and then both of you are laughing hard enough that your chest begins to ache and your knees begin to shake.
You know you will regret relenting so easily. But you also believe that you can just enjoy the moment. For now. The consequences will come later.
(They never did. Unless ‘consequences…’ is the Monster word for ‘free chocolate.’)