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How horrifying. How tragic.
This wasn’t what they wanted; this wasn’t the ending they had wished for. But they stood now at the edge of the world, their dreams in ruins at their feet. Once upon a time, their young heart had turned cold and jaded—embittered by the cruelty of the ones who called themselves “strong.” And once upon a time, they had learned how to let hope back into their steel heart, stumbling back into the light, guided along by their new mother’s gentle smile and warm amber eyes.
But a world built upon kindness and mutual understanding was not strong. It could not stand on its own. It must be abandoned once and for all. They allow themself just one moment to grieve, before turning away to—
“Wait, wait, wait.” Frisk sat up suddenly, frowning. And interrupting Chara’s carefully rehearsed monologue.
Chara frowned back at them. “What are you doing?” they asked. You’re supposed to be dead.”
Frisk successfully brushed the woodchips from their shirt and attempted to do the same for their hair, though most of the woodchips stayed stubbornly clinging to their messy curls. “You did it again,” they complained.
“Did what?”
“Took control over the whole story!” Frisk crossed their arms and stuck out their lower lip in a pout. “We’re supposed to be playing together.”
Chara scoffed. “We are playing together.”
“Noooo.” Here we go, Chara thought. “It doesn’t count if Brightpaw dies and I have to lay here while you talk to yourself!”
“But Brightpaw has to die,” Chara protested. “Thornpaw’s character arc doesn’t make any sense otherwise! You know that!”
Frisk only stuck out their lower lip even more. “Maybe Thornpaw needs a rewrite.”
“But I don’t want to rewrite them!” Chara leaned against one of the sun-warmed railings. They were standing on the bridge that connected the two halves of the multi-colored playground, while Frisk sat on the woodchip-covered ground beneath them, representing the deceased Brightpaw. “Thornpaw is cool and awesome and perfect as they are. I am not rewriting them,” they continued, glaring down at their sibling.
Frisk huffed loudly. “Then I’m not playing Warriors with you anymore. Or ever again,” they declared. Once the Stubbornness Train started chugging, there was no stopping it. Frisk meant that, and they were not going to be dissuaded.
Chara groaned and lowered their forehead onto the topmost metal bar of the railing they stood against. It was hot, so they pulled back in less than a second. “Can I at least finish this story?” they grumbled.
“No! I hate this one. I wanna start over.”
“Ugh. Fine.” Frisk’s furrowed brow vanished immediately, replaced with a bright (and only slightly smug) smile. Chara rolled their eyes. Once again, their cool lore was going unappreciated. Asriel knew how to appreciate their intricately woven plot lines, but he hated Warriors (he called it ‘dumb’ and ‘unrealistic’—like the God of Hyperdeath was any more realistic?? Fights broke out regularly over this topic), and he refused to make an OC to play with them.
They crossed the bridge and slid down one of the exit poles to meet Frisk on the ground. Hands on their hips—mimicking one of their mother’s stern habits—they said, “Alright, you start this time.”
And thus Brightpaw and Thornpaw’s adventures began anew, with considerably less dramatic, character-arc-defining deaths.