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It’ll be any day now.
There’s still preparations, and a lot of discussion, but the mass exodus is like a wildfire now—voracious, inexorable, rolling steadily forward. The underground is iridescent with hope. The king and queen are both so happy—to be free, to have their son back—that they’re even making a visible effort to tolerate one another’s presence during public addresses. Papyrus and Undyne are raucous with excitement; Alphys is remarkably cheerful given her loss of a job, catching up with old friends she hasn’t seen since her experiments failed. Even Sans seems optimistic for once.
Asriel still has his moments of guilt, but he’s glowing with joy too, happier than you remember him being for a long time. And Frisk… they smile so much nowadays. When you two looked into mirrors together, two hearts crowded into a single body, their expression was always so closed.
Excitement, impatience, anticipation: Emotions on high sweep over the underground like the tide. And why shouldn’t they? The monsters have been locked down here for thousands of years. They’re about to be free. They have a right to their hopes and dreams.
So you spend most of your time hiding in the garden, listening to the birds’ distant singing from across where the barrier used to be, surrounded by flowers and dappled light. It astounds you, how calm you always feel here. Asriel worries; you don’t blame him. He and Frisk come whenever they can to keep you company. But if they’re not around to get you out of your own head, this place is the only refuge you have left.
The locket’s weight against your chest is everything. When Frisk did the impossible and brought you back—well, after a lot of crying and hugs and apologies—they took it off and slipped it over your head straight away. You remember the weight and warmth of Asriel’s arm around your shoulders; the tip of Frisk’s nose bumping into your overwarm cheek when they kissed you there. It felt like a promise. It felt like even you were allowed to hope again, after all this time.
You can’t take the locket off unless you’re sleeping, because otherwise your heart and lungs feel like they’re expanding, breaking your ribs from the inside, thudding thudding thudding in your head. Otherwise you stop being able to breathe.
Because—you don’t want to go. You don’t want to go, you don’t want to go, you don’t want to go. It’s safe here. You and Frisk are the only humans here. But out there—
The old panic ties your guts in knots. You don’t want to go. You don’t want to go.
Your hands shake all the time, now, a uselessness dissimilar but equally frustrating to when your scars were still blisters and wheals and open sores. Knitting to distract yourself is out of the question. Frisk and Asriel will cuddle you or play with you; Asgore will sit you in the crook of his arm and feed you tea and chocolate; Toriel will read to you. But they’re always so busy, and anyway it’s not enough.
The knife fits in your hand comfortably, more like a curiously detached body part than an old friend. Logically you get that you’re not in danger yet, but it still makes you feel better to cling to its worn hilt, to raise it mechanically and bring it down. All the blade fetches up against is dirt, but the repetitive motions help you detach yourself from your body. If this were a battle, it’d be the moment you get into the zone; it isn’t, so it’s really just your mind going blank.
This morning, Toriel and your friends were talking about surface business, exodus business, the stages in which you’ll move everyone outside and how to establish Frisk as ambassador.
So today, too, you hide in the garden, doing repetitions with your knife.
It’s satisfying.
The give when your knife sinks in, the resistance when you pull it back out, the buzzing of the muscles in your arm, the soft sounds of impact. It’s as soothing as Asriel’s old music box—more than, since you can’t hear that music box without crying these days.
You bring the knife down again and again, and it feels good, it’s so mindless, just you and the motions. You could go on like this forever.
The rustling footsteps probably register, faintly. After all, the sound Frisk makes doesn’t actually scare you out of your skin. You turn to look at them, vaguely confused; they’re pale, covering their mouth with both hands. Next to them, Asriel is wide-eyed and grim.
“Chara,” he says, in this odd careful tone of voice— “please put down the knife.”
“Huh?” is all you come up with in reply, the dreamlike feeling dulling your wit.
“Your leg,” Frisk squeaks.
You stare at the two of them blankly for a while—what about it?—and then you turn your head to look down at yourself.
Your whole pant leg is soaked through with blood, choked with stab holes; your thigh is so much pulped and shredded meat.
“Oh,” you say. Your blade is still upraised, level with the side of your head. Attempting to raise your chin to turn back to your friends, you catch sight of it; bright red blood glitters on the blade like liquid rubies.
“Toriel,” Frisk is saying. “Asriel, we—we have to get Toriel—”
“If we tell Mom or Dad they’ll freak out,” Asriel replies. “Get their knife—no, go ahead, it’s okay—I think I’ll be able to heal that.”
You go on staring at your knife in a stupor, your hearing going tinny, until both of Frisk’s hands fold around your left. They peel your scarred fingers off the hilt very gently, and toss the knife into the dirt behind them like they’re afraid it’s going to bite them. You lift your head and blink up at Frisk. They look like they’re about to cry, which is disconcerting, because it takes a lot for Frisk to actually cry.
“I’m okay,” you try to say, “it doesn’t even hurt,” which is true because you don’t really feel anything, but maybe your words have come out wrong because Frisk’s mouth crumples and they make a whimpering noise that squeezes your heart like a fist.
“Try to hold them still,” Asriel says from your other side. He’s closer than you thought—you’re really off your game today. “Chara, can you hear me?”
You frown at him. “Of course I can, stupid.”
He sniffles some, and you feel bad, but he smiles kind of lopsided and grabs your hand, rough pad against rough scar.
“I’ll do my best, but I haven’t really practiced a lot, so,” he shrugs, helpless. “I’m sorry if it hurts.”
You’re maybe two seconds away from sassing him, because how does he think healing you is going to hurt you when you’re perfectly fine through all this, but then Asriel holds his hand out over your leg and closes his eyes and starts to speak an incantation and—
The ground smacks you as you whip your head back. You twist your body. You think you scream. You don’t even know what happened, except that whatever Asriel did somehow—slammed you back into yourself, ripped that protective layer of unfeeling away. It hits you all at once—the pain, yes, but also the fear—and you arch your back, grabbing for something to ground you.
Then everything is just an echo, and you’re gasping, half-crying. Asriel wraps his arms around you and holds you to his chest, his claws bright little stars of pain along your shoulder and back. It’s a welcome distraction.
“I’m sorry,” he keeps saying. You take deep breaths and tuck your face against the soft furry curve of his neck, one floppy ear velvet on your forehead. Timid human fingers lace through yours, and Frisk huddles up against your back as you shiver.
You stay like that for a while.
“—tell Mom and Dad tomorrow, after they’re, um, less of a mess.”
Asriel’s voice rumbling in his chest rouses you from a doze. His locket is a hard warm lump against your cheek, and he’s patting your hair, which is nice. You close your eyes and drift.
Or, you try, but now Frisk is talking, and instinctively you strain your ears to listen.
“Has this ever… um.”
“It’s why Mom took Chara’s knife in the first place, actually.” Asriel sounds tired. You slowly take stock of your surroundings: There’s light against your mostly-closed eyelids and you smell earth and flowers, so you’re still in the garden. You’re wedged up against Asriel still, his legs hedging you in on either side of your waist. Frisk is nearby, judging from the sound of their voice. Your leg doesn’t hurt, but your pants are wet and crusty and gross with caked blood. Even so, you’re very comfortable here. You want to purr like a cat. “Sometimes we’d find them spacing out and pretending to stab things, or hurting themself like now. Chara wasn’t very happy about it, but they calmed down after they figured out they were safe here.”
It’s quiet for a while aside from the birds.
“I still think we’ve got to tell Toriel,” Frisk says.
“We will.” Asriel sounds a lot more severe than you’re used to hearing him. “It’s okay for now, but I don’t know if this is something we can handle on our own. I’m not losing them again.”
You start to blush. They’ll notice anyway, so you smack Asriel lightly. “They’re right here, you know,” you say. It comes out kind of creaky, sleep still evident in your voice. “It’s rude to talk about people who are listening.”
“You’re rude too, what do you care,” Frisk says, but they sound fond instead of exasperated. “We’re talking to Toriel and Asgore about this tomorrow. We’re going to do it together, okay?”
“I don’t really want to,” you say.
Asriel squeezes you a little. “Sorry. You’ve been acting kinda weird for a while, though, Chara. I don’t think you’re okay. I know better than to keep quiet about it now, so even if you get mad at me I’ll still tell on you.”
You’re—annoyed, relieved, you don’t know. “I don’t want to die anymore,” you inform your best friends, cross. “I know you know that. I know you know I know that.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re okay,” Frisk says, mulish. “I know you, I see you avoiding saying anything about okayness.”
You groan some, clench your fist to stifle your desire to flip them the bird because it’d make Asriel upset. “Whatever. I’m tired.”
“We should go back to our room anyway,” Asriel says. “You need to change clothes if we’re gonna try to avoid Mom, and then we can take a nap or something.”
Once upon a time you might have teased him for that suggestion, but you do just want to go back to sleep: Secure in the circle of his arms, his heartbeat stuttering its vague morse code against your shoulder. Frisk on your other side, between you and anything that might try to hurt you. There’s nothing left in this world that bears them any ill will anymore.
“Okay, fine,” you say. Asriel eases you upright, and you crack your eyes open reluctantly. A cursory glance down shows you that your wound is gone. You stick your fingers through the holes in your pants and feel around, but all your fingertips hit is unmarred skin.
There’s rustling behind you; Asriel has gotten to his feet. As you crane your neck to look back, he leans over a little and holds out a hand.
“Here, get up,” he says.
Memory strikes you, powerful; you shrug, trying to shake it off. But when you take his hand, he’s every bit as gentle as he was with you that day.
“I’m done,” you tell them once your clothes are in a pile on the floor and you’ve pulled your sleepshirt over your head. Asriel and Frisk both turn around obediently.
You still get self-conscious, being the only one who has to have them look away while you change clothes. Asriel has never minded being seen in his underwear, and Frisk apparently doesn’t care about privacy since you’ve been in each other’s heads for so long. But some animal instinct curled up in your hindbrain bristles whenever you think about taking clothes off with anybody looking. You feel too much like you’re making yourself vulnerable.
But neither of them says anything. Frisk turns down the covers on your bed, and Asriel turns down the lights. You stand still for a moment longer, rubbing your arms, but Frisk plucks at your sleeve like come on, then and you follow them into bed. Asriel gets in on your other side, and pulls the covers up around you all.
It’s cramped just with you and Frisk, and you have to share your bed because Frisk has trouble sleeping without you. Asriel piling in too means that you’re all three wedged up together like sardines in a can.
Right now you don’t mind, though. Asriel is warm and soft as he hugs you around the middle; Frisk lines up their forehead with yours and holds your hands. You have never felt so safe as you do when you’re with the two of them.
Maybe that’s what does it. You close your eyes and say to the pillow, “I wish I could just stay here.”
“We can stay for a while, but we have to get up eventually,” Asriel says.
You elbow him. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Do you wanna talk about it?” says Frisk. They’re running their fingertips over your scars, a little gesture that goes right to your heart.
You’re quiet for a while, trying to gather up your words. “I still hate them,” is what you say at last. “I know that the individual people who hurt me are either old or already dead by now. I get that in my head. But I still can’t forgive them. I still want to wipe them out.”
I’m still scared, you say in your heart, because you can’t bear to speak those words out loud, even to Asriel and Frisk.
“It’s not safe out there,” is what you say out loud. “Not for me, not for you, not for anybody. We all know how much nicer it is down here.”
Both of them are quiet.
“I’m not ready to leave,” you admit to them. Your voice is quivering and you hate it. “I don’t think I can do it.”
The silence stretches on. Frisk squeezes your hands. Asriel nuzzles the nape of your neck.
“It’s okay,” Frisk says at length, you guess when they realize you’re done.
You wrinkle your nose and make a disgusted noise. “No it isn’t.”
“It is too okay,” Frisk goes on. “Nobody ever said you’re not allowed to hate people. There’s nothing wrong with that. You just shouldn’t hurt them if you can help it.” They pause for a minute. You think you can see them make a face in the dim light. “I’m scared of leaving too. As long as I’m down here… the things I left behind in the human world won’t be able to hurt me. But we can’t stay here forever.”
“Frisk’s right,” Asriel supplies. “And I’m worried too. I mean—I have enough trouble just dealing with other monsters. And I know that not all humans are as nice as you two.”
The because they killed us goes unspoken. You’re weak against Asriel when he sounds so vulnerable, so you don’t say it for him. Instead, you try for a joke: “Asriel, you could never accuse me of being nice.”
“You are nice,” he says, and bumps you in the shoulder with his nose. “You’re very nice.”
“I like to stab things,” you refute. “I do mean things sometimes because they’re fun.” I messed you up a lot when all you were trying to do was help me.
“Yeah, but you’re still nice,” Asriel goes on. “You’re nice to people who need it. You’re nice to the people who count.”
You make a hhhhhh noise and roll your eyes. “Frisk, tell him I’m not nice.”
“Yeah, Frisk,” Asriel chimes in. “Tell Chara how nice they are.”
Frisk starts to giggle. “Chara is the nicest mean person I’ve ever met.”
“This isn’t settling anything at all,” you snap. “Ugh, let’s just change the subject.”
“Okay,” says Frisk, but they sound like they’re grinning. You’d cross your arms, but they’re still holding your hands, and you don’t want to pull away. “Um, I think what we meant is, we’re worried about stuff too. All of us wish we could stay here longer. But I don’t think we get to. And we still have each other. We always will.
“So let’s talk to Toriel about this tomorrow, okay? All together. You don’t have to worry about this all alone anymore. You can tell us.”
You take a deep breath and blink a lot. “…Okay.”
“Mom and Dad will be able to work something out,” Asriel says. He sounds so confident, even you can’t help but believe him a little. “So please come talk to us next time. Or anybody. They all… everybody loves you, too.”
The traitorous pillow is wet under your cheek. “……I guess.”
“Good,” Asriel says.
You sigh and close your eyes.
It’s still hard to believe that you’ll be able to make it back in the outside world, especially after all this time. But—your friends are at least right about one thing.
You’re not alone anymore.
Safe in the arms of the people you love more than anyone else in the world, you relax and let yourself drift back to sleep.