Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Name the fallen human

Chara

You only continue to exist from a deafening thump. 

Even in the cold stone and soil, you couldn’t have left this bitter world. 

Even as you watch the flower, with a voice that reminds you of butterscotch, bouquets and the dust collecting on Asgore’s old piano; tears through your Soul.

As your mother, your true mother. The one you had loved so, looks right past you. 

As you follow her line of vision, you see it.

You see them.

Frisk. 

Chapter Text

Your charge is a small child with squishy cheeks, missing teeth, and is probably no older than seven.

They whine like some goody-two-shoes when you finally, finally, usher them to the next room after over and hour of waiting. As you peer back, you see that freakish flower staring right through your middle, eyes boring into the back of Frisk’s head.

They don't notice.

You urge them faster.

You scan the next room, Frisk is talking to a Froggit. Or at least trying.

All those days of Mother teaching you the tongue of every monster did not turn out to be a waste. You are no doubt rusty, but still convey the general message to Frisk.

Almost flinching as Frisk barrels through you, going to crinkle perhaps some of the crispiest leaves you’ve seen. You hide the smile playing on your non-existent lips with with a huff.

*Playfully crinkling through the leaves fills you with determination.

Shaking your head, you peer back into the long room.

The flower is gone.

Chapter Text

Home, oh how you missed Home.

Home is warmth, the smell of baking, and a fire warming the reading chair. 

Home is His old bed and toys; Toriel reading a silly book she has already burnt to her memory thousands of times over, giggling as she shares equally silly facts to the child curled up with their head on her shoulder. 

Home is watching them try to reach and take the burning pie into their grubby little hands, despite your protests that it is cooling.

Home is the fur in the drain, the immaculate stovetop, the bar of brand name chocolate in the fridge that’s only purpose is to ease the heartaches of a sentimental old goat.

Home is the slice of pie beside them upon the bleak hours of waking. 

Home is a mirror, just high enough they can see the scuffs on their round cheeks, as they can see the face of a fallen child.

As, despite yourself, you smile; pointing to their reflection in the mirror and exclaim,

”It’s you!”