Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clover wakes with blood on their hands and a heavy thudding against their skull.

The pain of it whites out their vision, already blurry, and when they try to cry out they can’t get the words to work, can’t remember how to move their jaw. Everything aches. It is their hands that come into focus first, and they think they’re throbbing like a heartbeat: they’re smeared across with drying blood that’s crusty underneath their nails. Sharp crinkles below them are revealed to be bits of glass when they manage to stumble to their feet. Their knees clack against each other. The world is still spinning, ebbing, pulsing, a constant barrage against their throbbing head.

Move. You can’t let them catch you lying down.

They trip, more than walk, sideways. Glass crunches beneath them. They can taste something metallic in the back of their throat and something tinny rings out in their ears. The world refuses to solidify. Instead it keeps changing right before them: from white to black to white again, and they press the palm of their hand against their eyes like maybe that will stop the throbbing behind them.

They’re…

When the next pulse of pain comes ringing from their skull they do cry out, a sound that catches against the edges of their throat before being wrenched out. They don’t know where they are. They don’t know what’s happening. All they see is the ever-throbbing world and glass all around them, and when they clutch their hand to their chest, twisting it in the rough fabric of their shirt, their heart is pounding erratic.

There was—

Darkness. Silence. Chaos. Pain.

—a battle. They think—Ceroba. Everything hurt. They just kept hoping. She said, please. Their hands are shaking now. Blood-crusted still. When they gnaw on the tip of their finger they can taste it, bittersharp. Their mouth is gauzy. The world goes momentarily white.

They don’t think their hands were shaking then. Not at first. Maybe when Starlo walked away.

When…

Away…

With a shuddering gasp of air, they claw their way back standing. Them and shaking air and broken glass. When their hand slips down to their gun, they find it in its holster, still. It can hold six rounds. None are left.

Just one foot in front of another. That’s how you get out.

Clover limps out of the room.

It’s almost a joke when they emerge from shifting bright-dark into just light, into a room coated with golden flowers. The little plants bend under their weight, softly rustling leaves. The only shadow cast is that from an empty throne, and it makes them shudder to see it.

They think, because they cannot get their words out, Flowey?

He was always there. A glimmer of light they could reach out to. Every time they fell he nudged them back up, said, you’ll get it this time!

The golden flowers are silent and still.

It’s a bad idea to stay here.

Clover continues on.

When they emerge into the empty streets of New Home they don’t know what they’re supposed to do. It’s dark, save for a few flickering streetlights, and every step is like another fall, and they aren’t so sure their legs will keep supporting them. There was Ceroba, and Starlo leaving, and…

And…

Throne room.

Throne room. They were in the throne room somehow. And the room of ever-shifting darkness, and somewhere deep inside them like two puzzle pieces fit together, they know, barrier.

They were at the barrier to…

To…?

But they weren’t alone. There was—

“Mar’let?”

The name comes out muzzy as sharp pain blooms behind their right eye, but it comes out, as they catch sight of a blue figure slumped against one of the buildings. She’s asleep, they think, but despite their half-formed words she jerks up, blinks wide, and when her eyes catch onto them, she’s moving before they even have time to process it.

“CLOVER!” she wails, and throws herself around them in a hug. She’s warm and they can feel the magic of her where it buzzes against their skin, where her feathers fret over their face, flattening their hat down against their hair, and their heart is beating a mile a minute but they sway into the warmth of her. “Clover, Clover, Clover.” Her voice cracks. She doesn’t let go. The sharp edge of her beak tucks over their head as she sinks down, pulling them against her chest. Their fingers find spaces in her feathers, grip, don’t let go.

“Mar.” They swallow. “Martlet.”

“Clover,” she chokes out, “I thought—you were—” she pulls away only enough to look at them, and the weight of her gaze is too much, so they press the side of their face against her chest and just breathe there. Magic sparks and crackles all around and some part of them begs run, but they won’t move. She takes one of their hands in hers, tracing the edge of their nail, stained dark with blood. “I thought the King was going to kill you.”

The King? They don’t…they grasp for their memories, for anything, but all they know is waking up, and hurting, and glass crushed underfoot. A battle, because there must’ve been one, but… “You thought…?”

“It’s…” Martlet studies them for a moment. Some bits of them squirm under her gaze, worry what if she does something, but mostly Clover finds a comfort in it, in being seen and held. She’s not trying to push them away. “What happened in there, Clover?”

“Dunno…” Talking still hurts, like bone scraping against itself, and Martlet moves in a flurry of feathers when they stumble, collapsing into her side. There was a battle. There was shattered glass. There was a gun, empty.

He must’ve let you go. How else could you have survived?

Right. That makes sense. They wouldn’t…they couldn’t…

They shiver and suddenly Martlet is too-warm, and her magic too-close, and when they pull away from her the world sways.

“Clover, no no no, it’s okay!” Martlet’s voice is light and cheerful as she reaches out for their arm, and, when they swallow back a flinch so she can’t see it, takes it to steady them. “You—you just went through a lot, what with the King, and—we can figure this all out later! You’re here, and that’s…that’s what’s important.” She takes a breath. Her feathers are puffed out all down her arms, as if she’s twice her size. “For now, I think…”

The world ebbs to momentary darkness, and when they come to they’re still standing, and her hand is still on their arm, but now they can taste the magic that crackle-pops in the air, they think, like shards of nail pressing against them. It makes their headache worse and their legs scream at them to run, run, run. Through it all they fumble for Martlet’s hand and squeeze it tightly.

She squeezes back, and it smothers out the pound of their heart, and the hum of her magic against them isn’t so loud as that all-over elsewhere. “I think we need to get someplace safe,” she tells them, her brows knitted with worry. “We don’t have that much time until morning, and everybody waking up.”

“Safe…?”

“Yeah.” Martlet kneels down to pick them up; they go limp and let her. They won’t hit so hard if you’re cute. Wait for your moment. If you can get her to lower her guard a bit more… “I’ll bring you to my house. Is—is that okay? It’s not the biggest, but I promise nobody will find you there.”

Clover nods, jerky. It’s getting harder to keep their eyes open. They can feel their heart pounding in their throat, a constant strobing, and it makes the edges of their vision blur in-out, black-white. “You. House. Far though?”

They’ve come so far, and now you’re just going back? After everything?

But they hurt. And they don’t know why the King…why he let them go. He let them go, and they think there’s glass stuck in their legs and palms, and Martlet is warm. And she keeps brushing a hand over their forehead, and they sway against her when she walks. With their ear pressed to her chest comes the pounding of her soul, faster than their own.

“It’s okay,” Martlet says, and her voice is shaking. Or maybe that’s them? They can’t really tell. “I can fly, remember? It won’t be that long. You just…sleep, okay, Clover? You’ve—been through enough. I won’t let anything else happen to you.”

“M’kay.” It really is a lot of effort to stay awake. Why are they trying? Why force their eyes open and burning, when darkness and warmth is right there? You can’t trust her, but they can and they do, and they fist their hands in the ruff of her feathers as she shifts them to one arm. Magic fizzes up around them, faint constructs that stir the dead underground air.

“Hold onto me,” she says, and they grasp harder. Her voice drops lower, something quiet they can only hear through the thrumming of it in her chest as she talks to herself. “Okay, Martlet,” she starts. “You just have to fly home. While holding an injured child. In your wings. That you need to fly. Without dropping them.”

She shifts, herself and them, too, and when they mumble out half-formed words she whispers sorry, sorry. Moved now to her back they adjust their grip accordingly, wrapping their arms around her neck. Martlet flaps her wings once, twice, and with a swirl of magic wind to buoy her, they’re in the air.

Clover’s mind drifts, somewhere near sleep and very dark, dimming the world around them. All they feel are Martlet’s feathers, brief reminders of softness, of not being alone, and they remember, hold on. They think gorillas, a documentary seen once. Baby gorillas who gripped onto their mothers, while their mothers swung with great strength through the trees.

It was their most important skill. The first thing they learned to do. So they wouldn’t be left behind.

Clover’s head throbs. They don’t know anything about gorillas.

It comes out of their mouth while Clover stares up at the cavern ceiling stretched impossibly far above them. I was trying to leave, that they remember. I wanted justice, and it’s an aching in their head as they keen and hide against the rise of Martlet’s shoulders.

“Shh, shh,” she says. Her soul beats erratic. “You won’t fall. You’re safe now. It’s okay.”

They don’t let go. They watch rock ceiling above them, and blue feathers cloud their vison, until it’s all they know. Through it they hear Martlet, the rise and fall of her voice, something to anchor them through the pain.

“You won’t drop them,” she’s saying to herself, “and if you do, it’s a long way down, so you’ll notice, and catch them, and—gah!” She jerks sideways around a hanging rock formation. “How did Mom ever fly around with me before my flight feathers grew in? Was she not constantly terrified she’d drop me on my head, and I’d burst to dust then and there? Who invented children who can’t fly!?”

You have to get out of here.

Clover blinks, once-twice. The Underground looks so small, this high up, a smear of color.

She’s going to drop you.

Clover mumbles around feathers, name slurring in their mouth. “Mar’let?”

She’s going to kill you!

“Nnn…” Their eyes, heavy, fall shut. Faintly they’re aware of Martlet speaking, less words and more vibrations of sound. “S’Mar…safe…she’s safe…”

They drift off tucked against Martlet’s back, and despite the fear that coils tight around their gut, a fluttery sort of terror, they know Martlet wouldn’t ever let them fall.

And so they sleep, dreamless.

Clover wakes to blankets pressed around them and feathers tickling their nose.

They sneeze, pawing at the sheets as they stumble up onto all-fours, shaking themself. Someone has taken their hat, and they have blue feathers stuck to their cheeks and hands, that float through the air when they’re dislodged. Everything hurts, but less-so than it used to, and they slide down off the bed, their feet landing on carpeted floor. They’re…inside. The room isn’t huge, and it’s a bit messy, and when they turn back around it’s to take in the bed: still full of blue feathers, and they fell asleep on Martlet’s back, so…

“This is her room,” Clover says, aloud. Their throat is dry and they swallow, but that doesn’t do much to help. Their hat has been left atop a lamp, and they grab it, fixing it back on their head, brushing their hair sideways and out of their eyes. “I’m…”

When they pad over to the window and push open the curtains it’s bright outside, snow! look at the snow! but they aren’t sure what time it is, or how long they’ve been sleeping.

They’re hungry, though, that much they can tell, digging through their pockets to find a bag of mostly-crushed Popato Chisps. It must’ve ripped sometime, because crumbs stick to their fingers as they pull it out, but it’s food, even if they do taste sort of like eating plastic. They got these back…back at the Steamworks, with…

With…Ceroba…

She wanted to kill you. You did the right thing. Besides, she was a monster! It’s not like you killed someone who matters.

She asked. Their hand is shaking as they crumple up the bag and shove it back into their pocket. What else were they supposed to do? They were—shaking. Their hand was shaking. She wanted them dead. She’d been tricking them.

Their head aches and they stumble over to the door on legs that are still a bit wobbly, pushing down the latch to let it swing open. It spits them out into a hallway, and to the left they can make out faint voices—not Martlet’s, and too quiet for them to understand any exact words.

You should stay put. What if something comes and attacks? At least in the room you’ll have some warning.

“Martlet?” Clover calls out, swallowing down the flutter of fear building up in their chest. Their voice cracks halfway through and they cough, following the voices. “M—Martlet?”

“Clover!” The hallway opens up into a living room, and Martlet, sitting on the couch, shoots up, vaulting over it and to them. Behind her a TV drones out, though she waves a wing and fires off a constructed feather-attack to hit a mute button. “Are you okay? Did you just wake up? Does anything still hurt? You were pretty out of it when we got back, and I sort of had to do my best to heal you on my own…”

“‘m…okay.” Clover rubs at their arms. Are you stupid? Don’t get its attention! “My head still hurts.”

Martlet frowns. “That’s—worrying. I promise I didn’t drop you or anything!” She kneels down, hovers a hand over their hat. “Uh—can I look? To make sure you aren’t, um, bleeding, that’s what humans do, right?”

Clover shrugs. Martlet removes their hat and hands it to them, so they turn it over as she checks their head. When she stands and backs up they cram it back atop them, as she says, “well, I don’t see anything. Maybe rest will fix it?” Her voice creeps up a few notches. “I can probably run into town and find some sort of, head pain medicine?”

“…might be nice,” Clover says, ducking their head under Martlet’s gaze. And then, before they even know they’re saying it, lifting their hand to point at the TV behind her, “what’s that?”

“Huh?” Martlet turns to follow their gaze. “Uh, the room? It’s my living room. Oh! I guess you wouldn’t remember this, since, again, out of it, but this is my house!” Martlet gestures out with her wings, hopping back slightly. “It’s not much, I know, but! You can sleep in my bed, so that’s covered, and I never get any visitors, so nobody will know you’re here!”

She’s…right. It’s really not the biggest house: they’ve seen her room, the living room crosses over into a small kitchen and dining room, and there was one more room back down the hallway, but that’s sort of it. They wrap their arms around themself and continue, not entirely sure why they’re asking, “no, um. TV. S’was on?”

“Oh. Oh!” Martlet pales, her feathers drooping. “We, um—oh boy. Here, do you want to sit for this? You should sit, and—you must be starving! Here, sit and, don’t—” She darts over and snatches the TV remote, shutting it off. “Okay. You just sit right here, I’ll go get you food, and then we talk. Okay?”

“Okay…?” Clover allows Martlet to set them down on her couch, watching her as she bustles about in the kitchen, though they can only do that for so long before the pain in their head is near-throbbing, and they have to lie down, face pressed into the pillow. And more feathers. Clover picks one out, long and blue.

“Sorry about all of the mess!” Martlet calls back, which really doesn’t help their headache, but she’s already…she’s making them food. Nobody’s ever really…done that before. So they don’t mention it. “I, er, just molted, like, a week ago? Two weeks? And the aforementioned no guests, and I’m sort of always losing feathers for one reason or another, and feathers break down to dust after a bit, but—I’ll sweep soon!”

“Not…bad.” Clover threads the feather between their fingers. “Okay.” And they repeat it, rolling onto their back to stare at her wood ceiling, letting the feather drop onto their chest. “It’s okay. Don’t…don’t mind.”

“You can tell me if you mind,” Martlet says. “Please tell me if there are feathers in your food. That is a problem.”

Clover giggles, a bit. Birdie is nice. Don’t drop your guard, ‘cause that other shoe is gonna drop faster than you get out of this. Make sure she eats whatever she makes first, in case she tries to poison you. It hurts their head more, but—okay. Okay, they think, you can do this.

They drift, mostly, while Martlet cooks, dimly aware of her talking to herself, of the clatter of pans. They didn’t even know she could cook. They don’t know why she’s still stuck with them, after seeing what they’ve done. Their hands fist into their chest. I don’t wanna be alone again. They can’t let her find out, find out—

Find out…?

“Okay!” Martlet drops down on the couch next to them, and Clover is jostled out of their position, flailing as they open their eyes. She sets a plate onto their chest, and Clover scoots back, grabbing it so they can sit up. “I made pancakes! Wasn’t really sure what you wanted on them, but I have some fruit, nuts, seeds…and I hope they’re, um, okay? It’s…it’s been a minute since I’ve cooked for someone else.”

Clover takes the pancake and shoves the entire thing into their mouth.

“And I’m never been the best cook anywa—and you’ve eaten the entire thing.” Martlet stares at them, wide-eyed, as they chew and eventually swallow the pancake. “Is—is this a human thing?? Is this how humans eat??”

Hungry, Clover tries to tell her, with their eyes, and then, once they’ve swallowed, “hungry.” The pancake is good, too. They grab for another one, though they do at least pause to tell Martlet what she can put on it, and wait an excruciatingly long ten seconds before they scarf that down too. What if it’s poisoned? Man who fucking cares I could die happy right now it has been SO LONG SINCE FOOD—

Clover grins up at Martlet, and throws their arms around her in a hug. “T—thank you,” they say, “thank you. Ma’am. Thank you.”

“Ha, ma’am?” Martlet’s laugh is a sharp-pitched click. “That’s a first.”

Clover flushes, tugging the brim of their hat over their eyes. “Just—bein’ polite.”

“No! No no no it’s fine! You be however you want to be. Just, um, I…I meant what I said back in New Home. I’m going to keep you safe here, okay? You don’t have to—to repay me or anything. I’m. um…” She sniffs, rubbing at her eyes. “Clover, I’m just…really, really glad you’re alive. I—I just kept thinking,” and here she swallows a sob, “when you were still at that stupid barrier, I just—I kept thinking, I led them here. And…I led you to…”

Clover scoots closer to her, resting a hand on her arm. She jerks at their touch, her feathers fluffing out. “Here.”

“Yeah.” She says, and scrubs her eyes one final time. “Okay. Yeah. We—um, we should probably. Talk about everything. Do you—do you remember anything that happened with the King? Anything at all. It can be small.”

He let you go.

“Lemme…” Clover pauses to think, to try and grasp for anything in that dark void of empty memory. “You walked me there.”

Martlet doesn’t meet their eyes. “Yes. Clover, I’m sorry—”

“I…said go,” and it’s all impossible to grasp, and they think—the King must’ve said something, right? Martlet… “You…I…I don’t…” they ball their hands up into fists. They don’t know. They don’t know!!!!! They don’t!! Even!!! Know!!!

Something keens in the back of their throat. Martlet reaches for them close close and they lash out at her, and that makes the keening even worse, thinking that they’ve hurt her. That’s Martlet!!! Martlet!! I don’t want to hurt Martlet I don’t know what happened I don’t KNOW—

“Clover!” Martlet is saying, and somehow they’ve ended up with their arms around her, and she’s petting down their back, safe safe safe, except every muscle is tense and their head hurts, it hurts, why does it hurt they just don’t want to hurt—

They say, somehow through all the pain and somehow without knowing they’ve said it until they hear her response, “he let me go. The King let me go.”

“Okay,” Martlet says, voice unsteady, and Clover shivers against her. “Deep breaths, Clover. I’m—I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Why,” they manage, “why.”

“That I…” she moves as if to let go of them, and Clover’s hands grasp tighter at her feathers. It has to hurt—they think they feel her flinch—but everything inside of them hurts anyways and this is something to hold onto. “For making you relive this. Clover, don’t—earlier!” And there’s a forced cheer to her voice as Clover struggles to keep looking at her. “You asked about the TV! Well, uh—that’s. Sort of related to what’s going on, and, why don’t I tell you and maybe that jogs your memory, and maybe not, and it’s fine either way! Okay?”

“Okay,” they parrot, “okay okay.”

“Good,” Martlet says, smoothing down the hair standing on-edge at the nape of their neck. “So, er—the King has vanished.”

Every part of their body goes tense.

“He left a note, apparently,” Martlet continues, “that’s, uh—I was watching the news. And the note says he—he took the human souls and crossed the barrier. To…to get the last souls we need.” She giggles. It lasts a bit longer than they think it should. “I think we were, um, the last people to see him?”

“Oh oh oh,” says Clover, shaking.

“But!” Martlet’s hands flutter over them as if she’s unsure what to do, so they grab one and wrap around it like maybe if they hold her tight enough things will make sense and stop hurting. “But! That’s, um, good! Because—because it means you’re safe, and, I mean, you must’ve said something to him, right? To convince him not to take your soul, and—and I—I’m glad, whatever it was, and. We just. Have to wait here. Until he comes back. Because! Once the barrier is broken, it won’t matter that you’re human! We won’t have any reason to fight you if the barrier is broken, right?”

She laughs. Clover isn’t sure what’s funny.

“So it’ll…be us two,” she continues, “for—for a while. You can get my bed, I think I mentioned that, and so long as you stay inside nobody will find you, and…”

She goes on. Clover sort of loses themself, a little. The world is blurring at the edges. They don’t know why.

She wants to keep me trapped here.

Their head still hurts.

I won’t let that happen.

Clover looks up at Martlet. They want to tell her everything hurts. That they can’t see straight. That they don’t even know if they’re looking at her face because she’s mostly a blue blob and they think she probably isn’t supposed to look like a blue blob.

“Martlet,” Clover says, “I want—”

“—is a stupid way!” their voice is saying.

Clover blinks. Or—tries to blink, but their vision doesn’t change, not even for a second. They’re shivering, but they’re not shivering, but they can’t tell what they’re doing, or what they aren’t doing. They are—outside. Where is…? They were just talking to Martlet, how did they…?

It’s not stupid, idiot, I want to get out of here as much as you! I’m saying, if you keep running blindly into the snow, then you’re going to die!

“Well stop following me, then,” says their voice, and it’s not them. They aren’t talking. They aren’t—they don’t—everything is too-close and fuzzy and they feel fuzzy, and Martlet was right there and they were sitting on her couch and leaned against her as the news droned on, and then—

And then—

Wha….? Clover tries-to-think, goes to rub at their eyes but they can’t, they can’t, what’s happening?

“Oh hey!” their voice is bright as their body kicks at some of the snow, leaping up over a snowdrift and glancing around. “You’re awake! Awesome. I saved your life, man.”

Not…man…

“Person?” Someone who is not them but sounds like them frowns down at the snow. Clover doesn’t know how they know this. How they are seeing what someone else is doing and why they can’t do anything. “Well, whatever, point is I saved your life.”

You…what? Where…what…?

There’s a rock ahead.

“Thanks.” Not-them hops up atop a rock, balancing on it with their arms windmilled out. With—Clover’s arms. Those are Clover’s arms. “Anyways. Yeah, you were like, stuck in a monster’s maw! But bam!” Their hands clap together and Clover feels the reverberation as it shakes up their arms, but they didn’t clap their hands together. They didn’t do that. They didn’t do any of this they don’t know how they got here— “I got us out of there. I know, I know, I’m amazing.”

Did you know there’s snow under the mountain? Their body leaps off the rock and lands heavily in the snow, dropping down to roll onto their back. Snow! Snow! Underground!

Hey, uh, says a voice and it’s them but not-them and now they are not making snow angels, except that is what their body is doing. And Clover is not sure where they are. And can only sort of feel the chill. They try to close their hand into a fist and nothing changes. I was sort of breaking us out of here?

But snow!!!!! Their body rolls onto all-fours and gives itself a shake, grinning up to the cavern ceiling far above. Can we see the birdie again?

The “birdie” is actually a monster, and she was trying to kill us. They’ve…none of this is them. It’s not them. They aren’t doing this. I’m not doing this, they think, and still their head pounds, that pain hasn’t gone anywhere. Can you keep moving? Just keep going forward. If I remember right there should be a bunch of ruined houses somewhere, I think that’s where we fell.

Okay fine maybe, and then, coming out of their mouth, a different voice now, them-but-not-them, and Clover cannot grab at their hair and pull pull pull until things make sense again, “woah. Weird. ‘kay, we’re heading out!”

Please go faster. Clover feels a twist of fear in their gut. It’s not their fear. They aren’t scared. Not of this. We’re out in the open! That monster can fly, what if she finds us? It’s—it’s not good when the monsters find you.

“Uh, I’m awesome, so she won’t.”

Another rock.

Their body trips and falls face-first in the snow, and Clover manages a grunt at that, their fingers flexing. Their—their!!! They did that!

Damn it, look what you did. Clover stumbles standing. Every limb is foggy. They’re shivering. Really shivering, too. Where’s Martlet? They haven’t…they didn’t come through this part of Snowdin, before. They…they don’t even know where her house is.

Haha. Clover swallows.

“I’m.” It hurts to talk. But not as bad as their head aches. “Martlet?”

I told you, I got us out of there. You did good at getting her to let her guard down, though. Bolted the second her back was turned. She’s not catching us again.

Clover repeats, their voice trembling, “Martlet?”

They mean, I didn’t want to run. They mean, does she know where I am? They mean, I’m scared. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Yeah!!!!!! They stumble at the throbbing of their head, leaning against a tree. The bark is rough against their palms. Birdie birdie birdie!!! I wanna see her again!! I like her!

Well, she was going to EAT US if we stayed any longer. Their vision is swimming. Everything keeps throbbing in-and-out, in-and-out, like when they were at the barrier. She was already starting! Fattening us up and if I wasn’t so quick about escaping—

That’s Hansel and Gretel.

Then we would’ve—huh?

The eating. That’s what the witch in Hansel and Gretel does.

Wasn’t that story based on old monster legends?

Even if it was, she’s a bird. Birds eat fruits and seeds.

There are birds that can carry off and eat children.

Does she look like a bird of prey?

Uh, YES? She’s a monster! It’s in the name!

Clover pulls their gun out of their holster. They don’t know where they are. They don’t know what’s going on. Their head throbs like a second heartbeat. But they do know one thing, if nothing else, so they growl out, “what did you do to Martlet. And what did you do to me.”

For a brief, glorious moment, their head is quiet.

And then it erupts into noisepainchaos.

I’ve been saying, I broke us out turns into I don’t know but I just want to go home to there is a way out of this mountain, and I will find it to can I make snow angels again, and it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS, and Clover doesn’t know where to fire their gun, and doesn’t know where Martlet is, and doesn’t know anything, and so with no other options they shove their gun aside and slam their head into the tree because maybe, maybe, maybe, if everything will just SHUT UP—

Hey. C’mon now. You’ll get through this. Promise.

Clover sinks down and wraps their arms around their knees. They can feel that. They can…feel. They aren’t…trapped. Just. Have to.

You really don’t know what’s going on, do you?

“I—I dunno—” Clover digs their nails into the skin of their legs. “Wanted…wanted everything to make sense. I don’t—know—it’s not fair. It’s not fair. I don’t know what’s happening. It’s not fair.”

Well, er—

Man, fuck this. I don’t know jack or shit either. I was sorta hoping you would.

Clover sniffs. “W—why?”

No idea. You led us into the monster’s den, so.

“She’s. Good. Martlet’s good.”

The voice in their head huffs. Keep telling yourself that.

“You…brought me. Here?”

Yeah. Saw my chance and took it. Bird-brain didn’t suspect a thing. Just blabbed a lot about being worried and blah blah blah, and I said I wanted to be alone, and she left. So I ran.

Clover scrubs at their eyes. The pounding is…a little better. The cold numbs a lot of the pain. “Who are you?”

They get the distinct impression that the voice is grinning, and when they next speak, they sound…different. Not like them anymore. Their drawl isn’t so pronounced. They think they can almost see them…striking a pose? Clover’s not so sure about that one. They don’t see, they just…know. Like they know what an apple looks like, kinda sorta vaguely, without seeing one.

The name’s Cowboy, the voice says.

Clover’s hand goes to their hat. “No.”

And I—wait. What? NO? They can taste the stomping, like something in the back of their throat. That’s my name!! I picked it all brand new and everything! You can’t go saying no to a name! Ain’t you nonbinary too?

“Yes,” says Clover, scowling, “but—I’m a cowboy.”

The hat I’m wearing says otherwise.

Clover jumps to their feet. “That’s my hat!”

A hand that is theirs but not currently theirs reaches up and flicks the brim of the hat. “You sure?”

OUT!! Clover snarls against the sides of their brain. Get!!! Out!! OF!!! “My—”

They stumble, throwing out their hands to slow their fall.

Damn. Fine. I’ll be Outlaw. He/they.

Clover crosses their arms. “That’s not better.” Outlaw stays quiet. “You aren’t the only one.”

I’m SNOWFLAKE!!!! The next voice is bright and cheery, and Clover knows she’s a she without her saying anything. I’m six years old and I like snow and pretty flowers and birds and when can we see the birdie again??? Everyone’s yelling but I don’t get it! She was really nice!!

“Yeah, she is,” Clover says, as Outlaw mutters, no, she’s trying to kill us. Am I the only one with sense around here?

No, and this voice huffs, and Clover’s head turns up without them wanting it to, and they think they’re sort of maybe starting to put a name to all the headaches: like a pressing, like there’s a little bit too-much crammed into their head. This voice reminds them of Ceroba’s, a little bit, when she first went with them to the Steamworks—like she knows what she’s doing. It’s clearly me. You can call me Perseverance. I’m going to get us out of the Underground.

Persa what now, asks Outlaw, as Clover scratches at the side of their head, because it kinda dulls the headache, a bit. They don’t know what the word means, either.

Per—Persuh—

Her voice softens around the edges, and Clover’s hands, which they didn’t notice were clenched, unfurl. You can call me Purple.

Cool. So, Purple, what does—

I said Snowflake can call me Purple. Their voice goes back sharp, and Clover bites at their own hand to stop it from moving without their permission. It doesn’t work, and their hand jerks back before they can bite off their own finger. Clover, don’t do that. Outlaw, unless you are also six years old, you have to call me Perseverance.

I don’t even know what it means! Clover’s pretty sure Outlaw throws up his hands, or would, if he had any. They rock back against the trunk of the tree they’re leaning against, and watch their breath fog out in the cold. And how dare you think I’m six. I’m like. 11. 12. Something. I don’t know.

Well, as the oldest one here, you have to listen to me.

That’s some stupid shit. Clover, tell her she’s being dumb.

Clover mumbles, “I dunno what Perseverance means either,” and hugs their arms around themself. Thinks, I didn’t know one of you was my age.

Hey! 11-and-or-12 buddies!

I’m twelve, Clover thinks, and then, wait, I thought that to myself. How did you hear?

For the love of—have you not figured out that we’re sharing a body? Clearly we can hear each other’s thoughts.

Says the kid with a name none of us know anything about.

It’s—Perseverance. It’s the continued effort to— Clover twitches. Perseverance cuts herself off, and continues, it means that I keep trying to achieve a goal despite any difficulties. It’s my soul trait.

Clover asks, “soul?” as Outlaw asks, you mean the thing God gave you?

Perseverance bristles. Somehow. Clover just sort of knows she does. They rub their hands together to try and keep warm. When they tilt their head back to look through the foliage the shifting leaves make their head throb. The thing—no, it’s my soul! The cumulation of a human’s being? A collection of memory and identity? The energetic part of a human body, thought to interface with the nerves to assist in the creation of the conscious mind?

That still sounds like what God gives people.

God didn’t give it, SCIENCE gave it! Perseverance metaphorically glares very hard at Outlaw.

I don’t think science is a guy????

YOU STUPID—

Um.

The new voice is so soft Clover nearly misses it, under the yelling of Outlaw and Perseverance, not doing anything to help their head. They grasp onto it like a lifeline, and literally haul themself up standing, snapping off a branch of the tree they’ve been leaning against in the process.

“You,” they manage to say, “new.”

I think I’ve been here the entire time…

—all I’m saying is that science was clearly just too slow to find the soul ‘cause God knew that way before they did—

Ahem. Somebody is trying to talk.

You literally started this fight!

Clover throws their gun against the nearest tree, and Outlaw shuts up.

Oh. Now you’re all…listening to me…uh….

As Clover stoops to grab their gun and brush snow off it, the new person begins to speak.

I’m, um, well I use ze/zir pronouns, I remember that. And…I’m Indigo. It’s. Nice to meet you all? I think?

Indigo? Perseverance’s voice has a questioning lilt to it, like she’s tilting their head. Integrity souls like you are more of a dark blue, aren’t they?

I’m—not— Clover’s hands begin to shake, and they step backwards, pressing up against the trees. Or, Indigo does it. Clover—doesn’t. Their mouth feels very fuzzy. That’s just my name, how do you know what color soul I have?

Well, because— Perseverance pauses. Clover’s body hasn’t stopped shaking. Because I…

“Can’t see each other,” Clover manages to say, but it’s like lifting up a boulder, and they know they stumble backwards even if their body stays shaking, so they pretend-swallow and continue, only me.

I…I just know. Perseverance is tight around the edges, like a wire pressed up against Clover’s brain. Like I know Snowflake is cyan, and Clover is yellow…

What about me?

Orange. But—

Wait was it orange?? Outlaw’s voice drops into a panic, and Clover can feel that panic as it builds up in their chest, sudden vibrant real, and the world goes loud as all the colors snap into focus, as the chill bites into them, as they are thrown full and entirely into their body, and it is so very loud. I don’t even remember that! How do you know that?

We’re sharing a body, Perseverance starts, and her voice is this thinking-thought and it isn’t Clover’s thoughts, and she says a like it like it is all of us and it’s not, it’s not, it’s Clover’s, theirs theirs theirs, and the voices in their head are still talking, and they think somebody is crying, cyan-bright tears. So—I guess there’s overlap? In what we know. In just knowing things, because somebody else does. The knowledge is accessible, to some degree.

Well, don’t access it! Clover wants to go home. They want to find Martlet. Instead all they can do is go in circles, around around around, their footprints crushing down all the snow, the snow white-blinding and spots dancing in their eyes. Every breath they manage is labored. Snowflake is still crying. They think the tears are spilling out of their eyes. Get out of my thoughts!

I’m trying to! You’re the one who’s being loud all over!

I was here first!

You have no way of knowing that!

Yeah, I do! ‘cause there sure weren’t any other humans down here when I fell!

Oh, says the guy who thinks GOD gave humans SOULS, as if—

You think science is just one guy!

It was a turn of phrase, you absolute imbecilic!

Oh, it hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts, and they think they’re screaming maybe, or maybe that’s someone who is not-them, and everything is overflowing, and Indigo cries stop yelling!!! louder than the others are already, and Clover tries to scrub the blur out of their vision but somehow just makes it worse. They look but everywhere is trees and snow and nothing they recognize, and even if they did they can’t focus, not with Outlaw and Perseverance fighting, not with their head, not not not, not, not, and it’s theirs, this is theirs, they just—want—

“Get out of my HEAD!” they shriek, and dig their nails into their skin because maybe they can rip the others out that way, blood beading up where their nails pierce flesh. “Out! GET OUT!!!”

You think I want to be stuck here? I would if I could!

You’re the one keeping all the rest of us out of the body!

“Mine! It’s mine!!! I wanna go home!!!!! You—you—” Clover heaves in a choking gasp, coughing around Snowflake’s tears. “I want Martlet,” and she probably thinks they’re dead, and they’re going to die here, and then their soul will shatter and break and they won’t even help monsters with it, they failed to help monsters with it, they’re bad bad bad bad bad bad bad—

Okay, everyone. Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths.

Clover pants, their hands balled into fists at their side. They’ve trampled the snow angels Snowflake made so long ago into dust, dust like that which creeps over them, dust like looking into Ceroba’s eyes and knowing she wanted them dead and wanting to live so bad it hurt, hurt, hurt, HURT—

In and out. That’s it.

“What.” They nearly choke on their own saliva. They think someone is holding them even though they’re alone in the snow. They can feel Outlaw and Perseverance dim. Dim dim dim. Their limbs are a bit less fuzzy.

Indigo’s voice comes hesitant, a prickling behind their eye. Who…are you?

Thyme, he says, quietly, and then, louder, firmer, someone distinct from them, Thyme. Clover, are you alright? I know this is all really scary.

“I wanna go home,” they sob out, sinking down into the snow, hiding their face in their knees. They feel shame shame shame, and aren’t sure whose it is.

We can do that, Thyme says. The prickling becomes a jab.

But the monster—

We can do that, Thyme repeats. Clover hugs their knees harder, splaying their fingers across the skin. Clover, do you remember when you—when you encountered the King?

“Dunno,” they say, and then, like they told Martlet, “he let me go.”

Right. Thyme is quiet for a moment. A good sort of quiet. It’s—easier. They count their fingers, and feel each of them. But most of those memories, you don’t—you can’t access them, can you?

Clover shakes their head.

Hey, I can’t either, Outlaw cuts in. There’s a whole lot of nothing. Then I’m sobbing into some bird monster and don’t know why I can’t get my body to run away.

I think it was very loud, adds Indigo. The news said the monster king crossed over to the surface. Do you think he’s going to attack humanity? I hope not…did we fail to stop him?

There was a gunshot. And I could see again.

I don’t wanna think about it, says Snowflake, very small.

“Martlet thought he was going to kill me,” Clover says, and this they know sure as they know that they’d never let their hat get lost, that it’s some integral part of them. “She thought she led me to my death. I…I found the human souls, and then…”

It comes to Clover all-at once, and they say—Perseverance says—Outlaw says—Indigo says—“we’re the human souls.”

Yeah, Thyme says. He pauses for a moment. We are.

But—that doesn’t make sense. Clover frowns alongside Perseverance. Clover, six humans have gone missing on this mountain, right? Something prickles up their spine. Like, why do you know that. Like, I never wanted you to know that. Like, get out of my head. Clover says nothing at all. But…there’s just five of us. You can’t be the sixth. You’re still…

Alive, Indigo breathes, and then, zir voice shaking, I died. Monsters killed me and I died.

You came after us? Outlaw huffs. And you still want to go back to the bird?

Clover shakes their head, backing up. “She didn’t kill you,” they say, “she didn’t kill any of you. The monsters are, are trapped. That’s why they have the souls.”

The missing humans were what led them up the mountain, blazing in their chest: the sharp line of justice that carried them through the Underground. Now they’ve found the humans, and now the fire is a few faint embers stirring. They aren’t sure they can really reach it anymore.

All I’m saying, continues Outlaw, is that you can’t trust a monster. One betrayed you, right?

Clover stiffens. Ceroba…

“That’s different,” they whisper. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Well, neither did I. And they kept my soul caged.

Their gun is still out of ammo.

The…missing soul, Perseverance says, and Clover jerks, feels Outlaw do much the same, too, a twitching of their fingers. The bird-monster told us…the King crossed the barrier. He must’ve taken the final soul.

Glass littered the throne room floor.

But why would he not kill us?

“I shot the containers.” Clover’s voice doesn’t shake. “That’s why there was glass. Why I’m out of bullets. He—he showed me the souls. And…”

You couldn’t leave us in there. And in all the chaos, the King must’ve thought it was a better idea to slip out. He even prepared for it, clearly. Perhaps he got a heads-up. Other monsters knew you were down here.

“Martlet wouldn’t tell him.” Clover shakes their head. “She didn’t—she didn’t know.” But they clench their hands together. It…makes sense. How they lived, when they weren’t supposed to. The humans talking to them now. The sixth and final soul, missing. They remember old legends of Mt. Ebbot, an empty body left behind. It hurts their head. “I want to go home.”

I think if we keep going we’ll eventually find the way we fell in. We can climb back up to the Surface.

Clover, again, shakes their head. Takes a breath. Feels each and every limb, and the fuzziness, too. “I want to go home.”

It’s not going to last, Outlaw says. She’s going to turn you in. She probably already did.

“I trust her.”

Oh, so only your feelings matter?

Clover ignores him. Ignores Perseverance, nagging against their skull. The lilt of Indigo’s worries. The tears still in Snowflake’s voice. The weight against their back, Thyme’s watching.

They don’t know where Martlet’s house is. But I don’t care, they tell everyone else, I’m going to find it.

And unsaid but said, where thoughts bleed together: and none of you are going to stop me.

Chapter Text

Clover’s not really sure how Martlet finds them, in the end. If they’re being honest they aren’t really sure how much time has passed, and they aren’t sure how to bring themself to care, even though they’re so, so mad they were brought out to the middle of nowhere. But their limbs are fuzzy and heavy, and they think they only walk maybe part of the way. Thyme keeps saying soft-comfort words, like you can trust me, like I think I remember the way back, and Clover is too tired to fight it. Mostly they just trudge through snow.

But it’s Martlet who finds them. Martlet who comes careening out of the sky, and nearly bowls Clover over in her attempt to grab them, and Clover grabs her back just as tightly. Her voice comes and goes in fits and starts.

“I was terrified!” she tells them, as Clover doesn’t let go, won’t let go, and against their mind Outlaw and Perseverance both grumble, Outlaw’s like a sharp prodding, Perseverance’s something slimy they can’t scrape off their hand. They fist them in Martlet’s feathers, instead, and hope they aren’t pulling too hard. “I—I looked away, and you were gone, Clover, I thought…I thought the Royal Guard or something…”

Against her, Clover mumbles, “aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but I’m different. I’m very bad at the capturing-humans part of my job.” She glances around them, though she’s practically half-curled around them already. “Clover, is…is everything alright?”

She looks at them with big sad eyes. Clover ducks their head, staring at their feet.

All that running away for nothing. We’re right back where we started.

Oh, Outlaw, come on. It was a bad plan anyways. She’s a bird. She can fly. She was always going to have the advantage.

You went along with it!

What choice did I have? It’s not like I could walk us the other way!

“Didn’t wanna go,” they say. A flutter of something small and excited brushes against their side, but when they glance that way there’s nobody there.

I wanna hug too!

Clover hugs Martlet a little tighter. Snowflake squeals and runs imaginary circles around their brain. At least that doesn’t hurt, so much.

“Oh, Clover.” Martlet says. She brushes the edges of her feathers light across the scrapes on their knees, scrapes Clover didn’t even notice. “I’m…I made a promise to myself, but I want to make it really, really clear, okay? I’m—I’ve chosen to protect you. If there’s anything you’re—scared to tell me, because you think I might turn you out—I won’t, okay? You’re…just a kid, and you’re trapped here same as any of us. You aren’t to blame for what you do when you’re backed against a wall.”

Perseverance huffs. Can you believe this nonsense?

I dunno, says Indigo, zir voice trailing off. It’s nice if it’s true.

Don’t worry. Outlaw rolls his eyes. I won’t let us get trapped by this.

They sort of want to curl up and close their eyes and never open them again. They want to tell Martlet everything, except they don’t, because they don’t know how. How are they supposed to say I think I have most of the human souls with me, and I barely even remember how it happened? How can they tell her that? She’s…she shouldn’t even be letting them stay with her. If other monsters find out…

Find out that she’s not just harboring a human, but most of the collected souls to boot…

Maybe stop worrying about what happens to the monster, and start worrying about what happens to us?

Clover tucks their face against Martlet’s side. “Can we go home?”

They don’t register that Martlet’s picked them up until they’re back at her house, and she’s setting them down on the couch and covering them in blankets. Everything feels float-y, there. Like the world is just a bit out of their grasp, but they can move their hands, sort of, and holding one above them they clench and unclench their fist, watching the wood of Martlet’s house twist and change.

She’s really nice, Snowflake says, very soft. They can feel her, they think, in some odd sort of way—like she’s sitting right next to them, rolled against their mind. Their hand drops down and grabs a blue feather off the couch, twisting it around, and it’s not them who does it. The birdie. I didn’t know there were birds out here.

How… Clover swallows. How much do you remember? Of, um, before. When you—had your own body.

Dunno. Their shoulders shrug. Or—Snowflake shrugs? They aren’t…sure. They don’t know the language for this. I think falling maybe. Do you think the birdie wants to be my friend??? I wanna say hi to her but she’s all sad I think. She keeps looking at me weird.

Oh, Clover thinks, and hopes Snowflake can’t hear them. Oh like, it’s not fair this happened to you. That she fell, and died, and was six, and was kept in a glass cage for so long, and now she’s alive, sort of, maybe, and she’s stuck with Clover. And Martlet is worried about them, so worried even the kid has picked up on it.

Clover rolls sideways to glance at Martlet, currently slumped over at her kitchen table. She must think they’re asleep, because she’s not even pretending to be happy anymore.

Why can’t any of us remember what happened with the King? Clover asks.

It was…scary. Sometimes scary things are hard to remember. But we know the broad strokes of it. He let you go, Clover. You don’t have to worry about it. He won’t go after any of you again, and I think coming back here was the right idea.

It doesn’t really make them feel better, the voice—the soul—in their head. Clover wraps their arms around themself and flips around so they’re staring at the couch cushions, and can pretend like they aren’t ruining Martlet’s life by being here.

Her name is Martlet, they tell Snowflake, and she’d love to be your friend.

Snowflake claps her hands together, on the inside, and Clover see-knows it like a background thought, there without any effort from them. It drags a small smile to their face, that at least one of them is happy. At least someone can be okay.

They close their eyes. They don’t sleep.

A day passes. Martlet tells them to please, please stay inside, because if anybody finds them, things will be very, very bad, and scary, and she just wants them to be safe. Clover watches her leave for her morning patrol, hands on the glass window, like their hands pressed into broken glass underneath the strobe of the barrier.

I am absolutely not about to listen to her. We aren’t listening to her, right?

Oh, no. Not at all.

But what if we do get found out? What if we’re killed again?

Clover turns away and hides under the covers of Martlet’s bed until she comes back and coaxes them out for dinner. They didn’t even know they missed lunch. Their stomach twists in on itself and they barely manage more than a few bites. The bickering in their head doesn’t let up. Outlaw and Perseverance, talking over each other, the tremble of Indigo’s voice, and sometimes they’re so scared it’ll slip out into the world, and they’ll be somewhere else, again, with no memory of what happened in between. They start scratching at their arms just to prove they’re still real. Martlet makes worried noises over them. They don’t hear Thyme at all.

Think of it like…a carriage, he says, later that night, when Clover is still displacing Martlet from her bed, and still can’t sleep. He pops up with no warning and makes them jump. The horse, that’s your body. And you’re sitting up in the driver’s seat, telling it where to go. Outlaw and Perseverance are sitting in the back, but right near your seat, and sometimes they get up and grab for the reins. Indigo and Snowflake watch from the middle. And—and I’m way in the back, and it’s really windy. So sometimes it’s hard to hear me.

A carriage? Outlaw snorts. How old are you?

Like you can talk, Mx. I-don’t-know-what-souls-are—

I already SAID they come from GOD—

Their head devolves into throbbing. Thyme doesn’t speak again. Clover doesn’t get much sleep, but when they do they dream of being a horse, pulling a carriage, and they think Thyme was wrong, in his metaphor. They aren’t so sure they’re the driver. Pulling at their binds, dragging a heavy carriage uphill, where each footfall brings them just barely closer to their goal, before the weight of the carriage drags them back down…

Clover wakes up sweating.

Two days pass. Martlet calls in sick to work even though Clover tells her I’m fine, it’s fine, but she just shakes her head and says, I’m staying home no matter what. Maybe I’m the one who needs a rest day, hmmm?

They curl up against her on the couch. Snowflake climbs up over the driver’s seat, pets down their flanks. Outlaw grumbles, it’s a stupid metaphor. But I guess it gives us okay language. If Clover squints and crosses their eyes they can see it, sort of. Like the faint hints of something real, sort of like imagining but with something solid to it. They can’t see that Outlaw is sprawled across one of the seats, kicking at Perseverance, but they know he is. They’re on Martlet’s couch but they’re also pawing at the grass, and aren’t sure where this road will lead them.

All the channels wonder how the King is doing, across the barrier. If he’s collected the final souls he’ll need yet. Martlet keeps flipping through them.

“There has to be something else on,” she says, but ends up back where she started, and huffs, throwing the remote and a gust of magical wind at the TV, killing its power. She claps her hands together. “Well! No more TV for us. Clover, is there anything you want to do?”

Get away from you, you creepy, kidnapping freak.

I would love to climb out of this hole, actually, and go back to the human world.

I kind of want to hide under the covers again…

I wanna fly!

A faint smile spreads across Clover’s mouth, Snowflake’s joy bubbling over. They can see her, they think, in the carriage, and it’s not so sharp when she grabs for the reins, because she doesn’t pull, just flaps a hand excited. She scrambles right up to the edge, where Clover’s head goes a little bit fuzzy, scraping a hoof across the ground.

Her grip on the reins tightens as she tumbles over the edge and out into the world, where she reaches out their arm to tug at Martlet’s, and says, her young voice tripping into their own, “can you teach me to fly?”

“No,” Martlet says, “you’re too young.” She pauses. “Also, I’m pretty sure humans don’t grow feathers. Double also, I once tried to help my aunt teach my little cousin to fly, and she kicked me out of her house and I haven’t been invited back. She won’t leave me alone with my nephew. Which is rude! I’m not that bad at babysitting. Well.” She tilts her head. “I guess there was the knife incident.”

Snowflake’s jaw drops. There’s MORE BIRDS????!?!?!

Clover giggles, inside, but it escapes outside, too. Outlaw joins them, a snicker-snort, as he stands and picks up Snowflake, setting the little girl on the seat next to him.

I think I have to agree with the monster here. Humans can’t fly.

Snowflake crosses her arms. I think we can fix that.

Martlet says, standing from the couch, as Clover follows her, “I was sort of thinking something more food-based? Or a game, or I guess I could dig out the child-proof woodworking stuff…you’re probably old enough to handle a knife, I mean, you do have a gun…”

Clover says, nudging against her, “pancakes maybe?”

You’re giving up a chance at freedom for food?

I mean, those pancakes were pretty good….

Oh shit I forgot food was a thing. I’m changing my vote to pancakes. You’d better appreciate it, Clover.

Martlet grins at them. “Pancakes it is!”

Three days pass. Clover wakes staring up at the ceiling, and superimposed over it, as a horse with their head craned back as far as it can go to see the sky, where impossible swirls of stars stretch overhead, somewhere they won’t ever reach. Metal and leather digs into their sides, restricting their movement. Behind them the carriage rattles as Outlaw and Perseverance tackle each other through it, Indigo fleeing up onto the driver’s box, Snowflake sat in zir lap.

They never get tired, ze muses, where do they get all the energy? I think I am tired all the time. Even being here makes me exhausted. I wish I knew where Thyme hides away.

Clover rolls over, pressing their face into their pillow. There’s still feathers scattered about, even though it’s been a few days since Martlet’s slept here. Inside they plod forwards, dropping their head down, because they have to pull, and they can’t see the stars while they pull.

Martlet takes the day off, again. They’re very bad company. But she peeks outside and says probably they can play in the snow so long as they run for cover if she spots any monsters coming, so they do that, and Snowflake makes a snowman, and Clover only loses a little bit of time. They blink pressing snow together and come to with a mug of hot chocolate in their hand, Outlaw slowly sipping it.

Inside Outlaw rests their head on their hand, the reins tangled around their arms.

Clover says, you didn’t run.

“Snowflake was having fun.” Outlaw uses their voice different than they do: his comes out a bit lower, a bit rough. Them, but slightly rightward. “She’s just a kid. Besides,” and he huffs, taking another sip of hot chocolate. “the monster was flying overhead. She’d notice if I booked it. I’m not that stupid.”

Mostly distracted in headspace, Perseverance looks up from the book she’s thumbing through, lying across a carriage seat, and says, debatable.

It’s my body, Clover says, and their sides are rubbed raw from a harness they can’t take off, you shouldn’t take it over at all.

“Yeah, well.” And Outlaw goes quiet.

Four days pass. Martlet returns to work, but leaves them lunch and says she’ll be back on her break to make sure they actually eat it, this time. She’s barely out the door when Clover blinks, and then—

Oh, Indigo says, hi, Clover.

Clover tugs sideways. The other. I can’t move.

I think all the straps and such will do that. Indigo’s voice is soft and sorry. I don’t think Outlaw or Perseverance are listening to us, really.

Clover tosses their head. Tug against the weight they are forced to pull, at the reins that yank sharp at the sides of their mouth. The reins say, go this way, and sometimes no, that way, and Clover walks, and knows nothing of outside at all.

Usually you don’t talk when you’re in here, ze continues. You just walk and walk and walk.

It’s really scary! Snowflake pops up alongside zir, leaning over the edge of the carriage as she waves to them, and Clover flicks an ear back. Even here they still have their cowboy hat, though it’s different from their real one. This one has holes cut for their ears. I like talking to you better! ‘cause I tried to talk to Outlaw ‘n Purple but they’re all like, go go go! She sticks out her tongue. I dunno why they do it. I think Mar—Mart—the birdie, she’s really nice!!

Yeah, Clover says, and their mouth is dry as they try to speak around the bit. She really is.

Inside they walk circles around the land, wearing down a dirt path, grass crushed underhoof. Around and around and around. The world is grass growing over, dark and shadowed, and they’re encircled by pine trees like those that surround Snowdin, but these loom taller, their branches like claws extended. Around and around they go, the grass crushed shorter, the branches reaching further, and when they lift their head they catch sight of old, abandoned things, sometimes: a wagon dividing the path, crashed and half-buried in dirt; a cabin up on a lonely hill, shuddering against the wind.

Sometimes they hear Indigo and Snowflake, breaking through, but mostly they hear the reins, and they are the body but they cannot go where they want to. Only where they are told. Outlaw and Perseverance cast long shadows over them, up in the driver’s seat.

When they blink and can see the outside again they’re at the door to the ruins, and someone is banging their fists against it.

“God damn it!” their voice yells, though they are not the one doing the yelling. “Stupid—motherfucking—”

Don’t you mean science damn it, chides Outlaw, kicking his legs up in the driver’s seat, since you yell at me whenever I mention God and the souls he—

“I,” Perseverance growls, “am going to kill you, and I do not care if you are my only ally in getting us out of here. Why is this stupid door one way!!!”

She bangs Clover’s fists one more time against the door, before turning sharp on their heel, and storming over to sit down on a nearby rock, where they cross their arms and dig a notepad out of Clover’s back pocket. It’s patterned with little snowflakes and already has a good amount of things written on it, mostly scratched out, in two competing handwritings: one a messy, wide scrawl, the other small, looping cursive. Neither is Clover’s handwriting.

Gimme that, Outlaw says, wrestling the reins out of Perseverance’s hands. Outside, he digs a pen out of Clover’s other pocket, and scratches out an addition to a map on the other side of the paper: it’s Snowdin, with Martlet’s house marked with a black dot and labeled, freak who captured us.

Martlet, Clover says, huffing, their lungs aching for each breath. Her name is Martlet.

“Oh, great, you joined us,” Outlaw mutters. They draw on the ruins door and add a frowny face with angry eyebrows next to it. “Our only way out is bust. The hole we fell through, it’s back through those doors.” They point a hand to the large, purple doors of the ruins, “and those stupid things won’t open. So, I guess you win! We get to live with the monsters until they eat us.”

Clover’s voice is very low. Get out of my body.

Technically, it’s also our body now, because our own have probably decayed. Perseverance takes one end of the reins from Outlaw, and jerks them sideways. Inside Clover’s head is yanked along with the motion, and the corner of their mouth bleeds blood sharp against the bit. The monster will probably come back to check on us soon, anyways. We should head back. Outlaw, do you think if we go the other way next time, we can make it to the barrier?

Outlaw shudders even as he stands in Clover’s body and begins walking, shoving both paper and pen back into Clover’s pockets. He twirls their gun as he does so, and Clover’s eye twitches. “Dunno,” he says, aloud, “I feel like it’s pretty far away. And—what if that King guy comes back? I mean, obviously we can take him, but.”

He shakes. Clover does, too.

…you’re right. We should stay away from there. Inside, Perseverance glances back over her shoulder. Clover’s jaw aches. Thyme? You seem to know the most about the King. Did he tell us how long it would take?

It takes a moment before Thyme speaks, walking alongside the carriage. He takes Indigo’s offered hand and climbs up, sitting in the seat furthest back. No, he says, I’m not sure. Outlaw, why don’t you let Clover do the walking?

“Clover does all the walking,” Outlaw grumbles, but loosens his grip on the reins.

They make it back minutes before Martlet does. She chides them for skipping lunch again, but sits down and eats hers with them. Clover wants to crawl into her lap, close their eyes, and pretend like there is nothing and nobody that could drag them away. They want to beg, please never leave me alone again.

Indigo says, do we really deserve that?

“Miss you,” Clover mumbles into her feathers, hugging her right before she goes.

“I know, Clover,” Martlet says, “I miss you, too. I’m sorry you’re stuck here. I—I’d quit if I could. I’m just. Really scared of who they might assign to replace me.”

It’s really, really hard to let her go. But Outlaw picks up the reins again.

Five days pass. Clover opens their eyes and it’s already midday, and their body is sprawled out on Martlet’s living room floor, surrounded by paper. Outlaw is tracing out the lines of the map he started yesterday, magnified across many different papers. Little bird-doodles litter the side. Inside, Snowflake sits on his lap at the driver’s seat, and waves down to Clover when their ears twitch her way.

Clover manages, what’s happening?

“Makin’ a map,” says Outlaw. “Bigger ‘n better.”

Perseverance adds, standing from her spot back in the carriage as she takes Outlaw’s offered hand to join him up at the driver’s seat, I was talking to Martlet, earlier. Apparently there’s a whole upper Snowdin, that’s where we ended up yesterday! Outlaw and I are trying to piece things together based on what we remember from when we fell. To see if there’s another way out.

You called her Martlet. Perseverance purses her lips and says nothing. Clover thinks very hard about rubbing their eyes. Outlaw pauses in his drawing to do it for them. What did you see before?

I saw… Perseverance trails off. I know there’s a marsh, and it’s—hot, past that.

Waterfall, Clover realizes, Martlet tried to take me there. But the boat crashed. And—the Dunes is better, anyways. I met…

They swallow.

Waterfall, says Indigo, when Clover cannot find any more words. I think that’s where I died.

Depressing, much? Outlaw draws a smiley-face alongside the corner of the map, passing the reins to Snowflake as he turns to face the rest of them. Snowflake giggles, and begins to draw more birds. What were the Dunes like?

Clover twists around best-they-can in their harness, the hitch tugged as far to the side as it can get, so they’re nearly, sort of, alongside the carriage. …I don’t want to talk about it.

The monster you killed was from there, wasn’t she? Perseverance hums. Well, if you can add it to our map, it would be good. I’m not sure where Thyme is, and other than him, you made it the furthest.

Outside, Snowflake yells, “birdie!!!”

“Aww, hey, Clover,” says Martlet, as Snowflake barrels their body directly into her. She only stumbles a bit, peering out at the map. “What’s all this?”

“Uh…” Snowflake blinks. Inside, she throws the reins to the side, jumping down into the carriage. What do I tell her?

I’ve got it, says Perseverance, and then, swinging up and catching the reins, she jerks Clover back to the front of the carriage, and says, “I’m trying to make a map from what I remember. You don’t happen to have any lying around, do you?”

“Hmm.” Martlet tilts her head, stepping around the map and dumping a bag of various bits and bobs on the kitchen table. “There might be something in the library. I can stop by and see if I can pick anything up.”

“Library…” Perseverance trails off. “Right. There’s a town here, isn’t there? How, um.” Perseverance’s voice pitches up. Inside, Clover rears up, jerks their head side-to-side, but Perseverance doesn’t drop the reins.

Mine, they snarls, their hooves thudding onto the ground, and they can hear their heart beating in their ears, stop. Stop. Mine. This is mine.

Inside, Perseverance looks away from them. Outside, she says, “the monsters in town—what do they think about the King crossing the barrier?”

Martlet’s expression falls.

“Martlet?” Perseverance asks.

“It’s—oh boy. You picked a really big topic, Clover. Things are…” Martlet drops down at the kitchen table, and Perseverance sits across from her, frowning. “I mean—nobody’s heard anything from him since. I…I try to watch the news when you’re asleep so you don’t have to worry about it, but…he just needs two more souls. Nobody knows what’s…taking. So long.”

Get OUT! Clover shrieks, and throws their entire body sideways, slamming their flanks into the carriage, where their hooves fumble. They thud back to the ground, on their side, twisted up in wires and harness. The carriage teeters but doesn’t flip.

“Oh,” Perseverance says, standing up, “I’m, uh—going to my room?”

She rushes out before Martlet can even finish saying wait, Clover, and closes and locks the door just as Clover manages to jerk the reins out of her hands, and is thrown back into their body so hard they crash directly into the wall, and stagger back, woozy.

Perseverance slides back down into the carriage. Sorry for actually trying to learn something.

Martlet’s—

Oh, why are you so mad? We’re not going to do anything to her! I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on!! If you didn’t notice, we’re all stuck here! And you’d think this monster king would’ve come back by now!

It…is kind of weird, Indigo says, hesitant. I mean, the news—the note he left—it said he took all the souls, right? But…obviously he didn’t.

Well. Clover swallows. Tries again, out loud, now, flexing their fingers, refusing to look inside, to see the harnesses, the wires, their sides all cut up, “Well. He. Alarm. Would alarm everyone. To say there’s a human roaming still.”

I guess, says Perseverance, though she doesn’t sound convinced. Thyme, what exactly did the King say, when he let us go? You remember the most, right?

Inside is only silence. Outside, Clover hears a faint knock on their door.

“Clover?” Martlet calls. “You ran off really suddenly. Is everything okay? I know the news is—scary, but we’ll figure something out. I’m…I’m sure everything will turn out alright.”

She’s sad, says Snowflake, right?

Yeah. Clover limps over to the door and opens it. Martlet looks at them as if they’re already halfway to breaking apart. Maybe they are. They sort of just want to go to sleep.

Martlet carries them to the living room. Tells them she doesn’t want them to be alone. Tells them nobody is going to hurt them here, and that even if the King doesn’t come back—if something happened to him—she’s not leaving.

Clover closes their eyes, opens them inside, and doesn’t fight it when Perseverance, cautious, picks up the fallen reins.

The King wanted to keep you all safe, Thyme says, that night, when Clover is right on the cusp of sleep, that’s why he said he took all the souls across the barrier.

Outlaw huffs. Why would he care about a bunch of human kids?

Clover lifts their head and looks back across the carriage. Thyme’s already gone.

Six days pass. Martlet dawdles in front of her door paces back and forth, flaps her wings but never actually takes flight, before she says, “do you want to come to work with me?”

Clover’s head jerks up. Inside, Outlaw narrows their eyes. What game is she playing?

Perseverance touches their arm before they can make a run for the reins. Wait. We might be able to use this.

“The.” Clover fumbles for the words, shaking their head side-to-side. Even outside they can feel the reins, they think. They ball their hands together. “Other guards though.”

“Well.” Martlet pauses in her pacing. “This part of Snowdin—I’m really the only guard assigned here, and my station isn’t that far from the house. I was thinking, you can hide in my booth, or run home if it comes to it, and…and you won’t be left in a big empty house for another day.”

She really doesn’t want you to be alone, says Indigo, softly.

Clover sniffs. They aren’t sure why. Everything is always sort of too-heavy, but here in the doorway they tremble, and when their knees give out underneath them Martlet yelps, diving forwards to catch them. Her arms are firm around their waist. She doesn’t let them fall. Holds them up until they’re back on their feet.

Inside Snowflake wraps her arms around Indigo’s wrist. Outlaw huffs, looking sideways. Perseverance sits, legs crossed, and stares out across the same landscape they’ve been circling since the start, with the looming trees encircling them and abandoned cabin right at the center.

Outside, Martlet brushes away their tears. “Clover, if there’s—anything you want to tell me—”

They press their head against her chest. “Why did he let me go?”

“I…” Martlet brushes her wing over their head, smoothing down their hat. Clover whimpers against her, lip trembling. “I don’t know, Clover. But I’m glad he did.”

They whisper, “I want to go to work with you.”

Seven days pass. Clover turns on the news.

King Asgore still missing, reads the text scrolling at the bottom of the screen, as well-dressed monsters debate what sort of human society the King might’ve found, across the barrier. Where has monsterkind’s hope gone?

That night they creep out of their room, pin their ears back and ignore everyone talking inside. One foot after another, dragging the carriage along. The reins are jostled by the uneven road. They side-step a broken wagon-wheel.

“Martlet,” they whisper, pawing at her asleep on the couch.

“Wha—Clover?” She squints at them through her sleep, rubbing at her eyes with a wing. “What happened? Did someone find you? Do I need to beat someone up?”

Clover shakes their head. “I need to go somewhere.”

“Clover…”

Their voice leaves no room for argument. “I need to go to the Wild East.”

“You’re sure?” Martlet asks them, again, just like she’s been doing since last night, since this morning, since she let them climb onto her back, and flew many circles around Snowdin before finally banking starboard for the Dunes. “Clover, you—you don’t have to put yourself in danger like this.”

And, echoes Perseverance, as they’ve been doing most of the day, if you’re going to go anywhere, why not, I don’t know, the barrier? So we can maybe jog our memories a bit? That’s surely more important than some fake-cowboy town!

“Need to,” is all the answer Clover can give them both, staring down at the blur of the Underground below them. They flew this way once before, or part of it, at least, from New Home to Snowdin, but they don’t remember a whole lot of that trip. This time they feel a lot more. The way their hands are shaking. How Martlet’s feathers splay under their weight, and the individual tiny bits that make up the feather as a whole. How up this high there is no missing the yawning, gaping maw of the cavern, that has swallowed them all.

“I don’t like it,” Martlet says. With their ear pressed against her back they can hear her heart, or soul maybe, the faint thrum of it. Can feel the rise and fall of wing-muscles, that keep them aloft. Magic sparks sweet around them, manifested wind. “The last time you saw Starlo…”

She doesn’t have to say, he all but said he wished he killed you. Clover knows.

If you’re here to enact revenge, I’m all for it, says Outlaw, watching with narrowed eyes, but you’re sort of freaking everyone else out.

Clover says, not revenge.

Indigo won’t meet their eyes, inside. Ze’s gathered up Snowflake, the two of them sheltering in the far back of the carriage. Clover’s hoofbeats rattle on. Perseverance has her hand dancing over the reins. But Clover grinds the edge of their hoof sharp into the ground, and she never grabs them. Always lets them drop loose again.

“I have to,” they tell Martlet. She comes to a landing near the old well that they threw gold into a lifetime ago. Flowey was here, once, they think. But they haven’t seen him, and the golden, glowing point he waited for them at is nowhere to be seen. Just sand that blows by.

“I don’t...” She looks at them for a long moment as she kneels for them to slide off their back, straightens up and brushes some of their hair that got loose back under their hat. “I’ll go get him. You stay here, okay? Yell if you need me. Do you—want me to tell him anything?”

Clover shakes their head. Balls their hands into fists.

“Okay,” she whispers, but she lingers. Doesn’t fly off immediately. “Clover…I…”

She takes a breath. “I’ll go get him,” she says, and takes off. Clover doesn’t watch her go. Instead they slink to the far side of the well, slump down against the cool desert stone.

You better have a plan. Perseverance’s voice comes tense as the carriage rattles, up-down as Clover drags it over the vine-covered corpse of a smaller wagon. Their hooves crunch down onto metal. They press on. Because if you jeopardize the rest of us getting home…

“You’ll what.” Clover’s voice falls like a rock sinking.

Perseverance turns away, going to join Indigo and Snowflake. Just—don’t be stupid.

It leaves Outlaw the only one up near the front with them, kicking his legs back-and-forth where they dangle off the edge of the driver’s seat. He makes no moves to grab for the reins, and Clover makes no moves to stop, even with their heaving chest.

So, Outlaw says, how much you want to bet dear ol’ birdie is in there selling you out right now?

Clover says nothing.

Now would be a great chance to run. Kick, kick, kick. Outlaw’s boots thud dully against the wood of the carriage. Make a break for the barrier. Who cares why the King let us go? Just means there’s nobody left to stop us, this time.

I killed her.

The fox? Outlaw pauses for a moment. Clover can feel the brainmeat of them, they think, where Outlaw knows what they know, and so Outlaw knows what happened, underneath that blooming tree. Knows how the wind whipped at Clover’s hair, and blew through the disintegrating form of Ceroba. They knew monsters fell to dust, when they died. But they knew it the same way they knew Mt. Ebbot existed. It wasn’t real until they were standing on it. She was trying to kill you.

Digging it out of their holster, Clover holds their gun in their hand. Traces the patterns etched into its metal. Starlo got it for them. And their new hat. And they still have their deputy badge. Probably back at Martlet’s house somewhere. Inside, they stumble over something sticking out of the dirt: it’s a long beam, and hooked onto it is torn brown fabric. Remains of some old hat.

They jump at a hand on their flank, rearing backwards. The front of the carriage hits their hindquarters. Outlaw grunts and throws out his arms to keep his balance.

Thyme stands in front of them, a frown drawn across his face. He’s taller than they are, than any of them are: his face is lean and grown in a way Clover’s isn’t, in a way nobody’s is, here.

From up top, Outlaw yells, where you’ve been, dude?

Thyme doesn’t spare Outlaw a glance. He rests a hand on their muzzle, right between their eyes. His hand is cold and it makes their fur stand on-end, their tail flick. Outside their nails curl into their palms. Inside, they shift, stomping a hoof into the dirt.

Things are good, here, Thyme says, his voice barely more than a whisper. Clover has to strain to hear it. You have someone to watch after you, someone to protect you. Why push? Why do you have to see North Star?

I’m. Inside Clover never speaks. Just thinks, very loud, thoughts that take shape into something like words. They toss their head, and with it, Thyme’s hand. I have to. I have to know.

Know what? When Clover walks Thyme walks with them, untangling the ropes that attach them to the carriage, all the places where they’ve twisted across each other. It doesn’t loosen the weight, but it makes the pulling a bit easier. I know it’s scary, not knowing when the King is going to come back with the souls. But he left that note. He let you go. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.

Clover says, where do you go, when you aren’t with us?

You’re just a kid, Clover. Thyme pats their muzzle. You shouldn’t have to worry about all of this.

Clover blinks. Thyme is nowhere to be seen. They throw down their head and keep pulling.

Outside, they scrub their arm across their eyes, sniff. Stand up to peer at their reflection in the water of the well, distorted and blurred.

Man, Thyme’s full of shit, Outlaw grumbles, thinks just because he shows up and spews vague nonsense we’re going to listen to him.

Clover sniffle-laughs, and digs a bit of gold out of their pocket. I hope we get out of this, they think, and flick it into the well. It lands smack in the middle of their reflection, the water rippling out from it’s point of impact, and sinks dead.

I hope you have a plan, Clover.

“Yeah.” Clover dips their hand in the water to trace the motion of their reflection. “So do I.”

Chapter Text

They hear Starlo before they see him.

“I sort of thought I’d never talk to you again, Feathers,” he’s muttering, his voice growing louder as he approaches, and Clover freezes up, inside and out, their heart pounding in their ears. “Will you tell me what this is about?”

“You still haven’t promised.” Martlet’s voice is high-pitched and worried. “That you won’t tell anybody about this, Starlo, and you’ll—you’ll give it a chance.”

“Been saying, Feathers. Can’t promise nothing if I don’t know what I’m promisin’ for,” he grumbles, and then he and Martlet come around the corner, and—

Huh, muses Outlaw, I thought he’d be bigger.

Clover’s hands ball up into fists. Not on-purpose. There’s just nothing else they could do, under the force of Starlo’s gaze. Martlet must’ve pulled him right out from the middle of Feisty Five business: he looks just as they remember him, when they were playing cowboy, running through town, laughing at Flowey with his stupid little hat. Starlo treated a guy dressed in a train costume like it was a real train, and Clover fell into that energy. He smiled at them. They had fun.

Starlo isn’t smiling now.

“Starlo,” Martlet says, very soft, “they just want to talk. Give them a chance?”

Starlo says, “I fucking did. And look what that got me.”

Clover opens their mouth. Wants to say, I’m sorry. But they don’t know if they really feel it. They don’t know what they felt, then. Even less-so what they feel now. Inside they’re shaking, which means outside they’re probably shaking, too, and Starlo is still looking at them.

You killed his friend, Indigo says, zir gaze downturned. Of course he hates you.

Outlaw stiffens, and Clover’s mouth works around the bit. You’d rather Clover be dead?

Surely there was some other way out.

Maybe monsters should, I don’t know, stop killing children!

Clover stumbles forwards, reaching out a hand for Starlo. They want to say, hi. They want to say, I don’t know what I did. They want to say, I thought I wanted to be good.

They say none of that. Instead Starlo has his revolver out in an instant, and he fires. Martlet shrieks, but the bullet wasn’t aimed at them—it wizzes just past them, smashes into the sand, kicking up dust. Clover stands, shaking, every single part of them trembling.

He’s… In the quiet that is Outlaw and Indigo both shutting up, argument forgotten, Perseverance’s voice shakes. He…he isn’t…you aren’t getting a second chance, are you?

“Don’t you dare,” snaps Starlo, yanking his arm up, “get near me. Martlet, what the hell?”

Martlet puts up her hands, but her eyes remained trained on Starlo, her feathers all bristled up. Clover tries, “wanted—wanted’ta…”

Their voice comes out thick and tear-strung. Inside, Outlaw touches a hand to the reins. Doesn’t tug on them hard. Just enough that Clover can feel it, like a heart in their throat.

“I don’t care what you want.” Starlo’s still got his revolver aimed near them. It’s kinda old-timey, different from the one he used when things were good, they think. Somewhere, delirious, they think they laugh, a series of sharp, high-pitched nickers. They aren’t so sure if it’s inside or outside. Aren’t so sure if there’s really any difference. Their legs give out from underneath them and they sink down, hands digging into the sand. “I care what Ceroba wanted. And you murdered her.”

Outlaw says, she nearly killed you.

Clover echoes, the edges of their jaw aching with each word, “was gonna—kill us. Me.”

“You think there’s an us here?” Starlo’s voice is low, dangerous. Magic crackles like a thunderstorm coming in. Inside pine trees loom, and the sky grows dark, blotting out the stars. Snowflake whimpers and tries to hide underneath the seats. “You think you got any right, strollin’ right up here as if you didn’t—”

“I want.” Clover can’t look at him. Not at his eyes, steely-cold. Not at the flashes of orange-blue magic. A blue construct gusts through them and they feel it right in their soul, still shaking. Outlaw’s leaned so far over the edge Clover’s pretty sure he’s gonna fall, and they’re gonna keep pulling, and the wheels are going to crush them all. Their voice cracks. “Didn’t know what else to do.”

“Well,” says Starlo, “that really makes me feel all warm ‘n fuzzy inside, doesn’t it? You killed my best friend, because you didn’t know.”

She said, please. Their hands were shaking. Their vision blurred in-and-out. They were still seeing Martlet, who tried to flee with them. How Ceroba’s attack threw her unconscious into the wall. What were they supposed to do? “What…what was I…S—Starlo, you, you weren’t there, she made it so you weren’t there, so I was, was…alone…I didn’t—don’t—"

Starlo levels his revolver at them. Clover looks up, blinking, vision tear-stained, where they can see him over the sights. Starkly lit by the light, his edges cast in gold, he stands tall compared to Clover, curled in small on themself. Like a five-pointed star. Like justice, burning. They can’t see Martlet. She probably left them. She should, they think, before I just hurt her too.

“I missed last time,” says Starlo. His hands aren’t shaking. “Not about to make that same mistake again.”

He pulls the trigger.

Clover’s eyes squeeze shut.

RUN!!! Perseverance shrieks, and her scream echoes in their ears so they pin them down, grinding their hooves into the dirt, their hands into the sand. Clover, you idiot, he’s going to kill you! But you can run, please, please run, don’t—you can’t end here, please, PLEASE, you can’t want to die, I don’t want to die—!

She throws herself at the reins. Oh, does it cut into the soft parts of Clover’s jaw. The metal bit grinds and tears flesh. Their tongue is coated with blood and their saliva froths red. But they dig their hooves into the muddy ground, let the carriage slam into their backside, and refuse to be moved.

Clover, and Outlaw tugs at the reins, too, takes them from Perseverance, jerks them sideways, begging, please.

Snowflake sobs, high and loud, six-years-old and Clover’s ruined her life, like they ruined Starlo’s, Martlet’s, monsterkind’s. Indigo says, quietly, it’s better this way, and zir soft voice is like the sand choking their lungs, or, no, not sand, dust, because that’s what they did, wasn’t it?

They can’t, they can’t, they can’t. Dust in the air, choking their lungs. Glass in their hands, trailing smeared bright blood. A head that never stops hurting. A carriage they can’t stop pulling. Wood crunches like bone underneath them. Their sides heave. The humans they tried to save were all long dead. They don’t know where their souls go when they die. Hopefully monsters will get their soul, at least.

Maybe then they’ll finally be good for something.

Please, Perseverance sobs, broken, slumped against Outlaw, who’s just barely holding them up, please, Clover. Move.

Clover tastes dust, gritty and coating the back of their mouth.

I’m sorry, they say.

The shot from Starlo’s revolver echoes loud all around them, and—

And—

Is it just me, and Outlaw’s voice comes careful, or is that bullet taking a hell of a long time to get here.

I don’t… Indigo pokes zir head over the edge of the carriage. I can’t see anything. Clover, you have to open your eyes.

Clover breathes in. Breathes out. The air is thick, tasting of sand and desperation.

They open their eyes.

Martlet’s stood right in front of them, her left hand clenching her right shoulder, fizzing apart into dust. All her feathers stand on-end, and she’s leaning dangerously, as though she might collapse right then-and-there, but she doesn’t. Somehow, despite the dust that spills from her shoulder, she stands.

The bullet should’ve hit us.

She…protected us?

She took a bullet for us.

Clover, their voice little more than a rasp, says, “Martlet?”

Starlo’s voice is the sharp edge of a knife, drowning them out. The ringing in their ears after a thunderclap. “Step aside, Feathers.”

“N—no!” Martlet’s still panting, and that much dust-loss can’t be good, not if it’s right here, cutting patterns through the air, settling over Clover, her dust on them, and they want to scream but they don’t know how, don’t even know how to move, and Starlo’s revolver is pointed at them so it’s pointed at her. She moves her hand and it comes away coated with dust, her blue feathers stained white. She shudders. But she stands. Without her wing covering it Clover can see the wound: the bullet went in. Didn’t come out.

“Step aside, Feathers,” Starlo repeats, and he steps forwards.

Martlet’s feathers are all on-edge. But she doesn’t look much bigger—she looks small, and hurt, and despite it she doesn’t move. Fluffs out her feathers a bit more. Hiding Clover from Starlo’s view.

Starlo throws up a hand. “They killed Ceroba, Feathers! And they probably killed the King too!”

“You know he crossed the barrier,” says Martlet, her voice sharp, and it doesn’t shake despite her injury. Clover coughs, choking in a breath. They don’t want to breathe. They’re breathing in dust.

“Oh.” Starlo barks out a laugh. “Yeah. Because I believe that.”

“Didn’t take you for a conspiracy theorist.” Her wound sparks and bubbles-over, as though the dust inside her is trying to start scabbing it over. Martlet’s beak clicks sharp, and her eyes are lidded over with pain.

“And I didn’t take you for an idiot.” Starlo huffs, lowering his revolver. “Why are you defending the human, Martlet?”

“They’re just a kid!” Martlet says, gesturing out sharp with her uninjured arm. “Just a kid,” and her voice cracks. “They were scared. And they’re a kid.”

“So that excuses murder, now?” Starlo shakes his head. “It’s a fine line you’re walkin’, Martlet.”

“I never said it excused anything.” Martlet glances back at them, to Starlo, and when Starlo doesn’t move, she scoots back to kneel at their side. Clover slumps against her, even through the dust. “But it means they were scared and Ceroba wanted them dead. We tried to run, Starlo. She’s the one who pushed the fight.”

“And she should’ve died for it?”

Martlet shrugs. She traces the line of Clover’s face. Her feathers are soft. She’s the injured one, and she’s checking over them. Clover hides their face against her side, and when she next speaks, they can feel the rise and fall of her voice in her chest.

“I don’t know, Starlo. I’m just—they’re a kid. They were scared. There’s your explanation.”

Starlo scoffs. “Cause that’ll bring Ceroba back from the dead.”

Martlet stays quiet. Her heart is a-flutter, but not so bad as Clover’s own, pounding like nails in their ears. She tucks her beak over their head, drawing them in for a hug.

Starlo laughs again. This one sounds a lot more tired. “I could report y’all, you know. You sure aren’t gonna go far on that wound of yours. Think the Guard might find it a bit interestin’ one of their own is harboring a killer.”

Around them, Martlet stiffens. Lifts up her head, probably to look back at Starlo. Clover grabs for her. Like, don’t let go. She wraps one arm around them, tugging them further into her side.

“If you try,” she says, “I’ll fight.”

“With a kid to protect?” Starlo kicks at the dirt. They hear the shick-click of him sheathing his revolver. They have blue feathers stuck in their hair, and dust like freckles smattered across their face. “To the death?”

“I’ll do what I have to.”

Clover paws at Martlet’s face. “Mar—”

“Shh.” She presses her beak to their forehead. “Shh, Clover, just—I’m okay. We’re okay. She nips at their hat to straighten it out. “It’s okay. Starlo’s—going to leave. He’s going to leave.” She moves only enough to look at him. “Because you are a child who was scared.”

No it’s not, Clover sobs, inside, nothing is okay.

They think, why did you protect me?

“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, Feathers.” Starlo’s voice comes sharp. Everything about it screams hatred, and when Clover lifts their head from Martlet’s side just long enough to see him, it’s to see that anger reflected in his eyes—hand on his holster, other sparking with magic. “But Ceroba won’t be the only one to pay for it.”

He turns on his heel. He leaves. He doesn’t look back.

The moment he’s out-of-sight all of Martlet’s feathers droop, and she closes her eyes as she sucks in a breath, pressing a wing against her wound. When she pulls it away strands of dust cling to her feathers, and she winces.

“Okay,” she says, more to herself than to them, as she struggles standing. She carries Clover with her, and they just sort of let her. “Okay. I—we have to get out of here. Have to, I don’t know if he’ll—follow through. Fuck,” and her voice cracks, and Clover can feel her shaking, terrified. Martlet’s terrified.

“Clover?” Martlet shifts them in her arms. Her voice comes to them as if underwater, drifting and muffled, and Clover stops trying to keep their eyes open. “You’ll have to hold on again. We have to fly.”

Inside is quiet. Clover drops their head down to the ground, staring at their dirt-stained hooves. They’ve got some rocks stuck in there, they think. Bits of metal. They want to go home. They want to stop existing.

Their voice breaks. I don’t know what to do.

It’s Indigo who moves. Who tucks Snowflake, carefully, on the carriage seat, and spreads zir own jacket across the girl as a blanket. Picks zir way up to the front of the carriage, where Outlaw and Perseverance shift to make room for zir, up in the driver’s seat.

When Indigo picks up the reins, zir grip is light. Ze doesn’t speak. Just listens quietly to Martlet, wrapping Clover’s arms around her neck. When Martlet barely makes it out of view of the well before her right wing gives out, she gathers up wind underneath it just long enough for them to stumble a landing, into some part of the Dunes Clover doesn’t really recognize.

“I’m sorry,” she says, setting them down. Indigo sticks to her side. “I—” She sucks in a breath. “Okay. That’s—deeper than I thought it would be.”

Indigo says—zir voice in their mouth is a faint whisper—“the bullet is still in there?”

“It was magically infused. It should break apart. E—eventually.” Martlet stumbles, her hand fisting up. “I’m sorry, Clover. I don’t think I can get us home.”

Clover thinks, oh.

“So—here.” She stoops to pick them up, again, makes her way over to a row of scrubby brush. She sets them down behind it. “Just—I’ll keep watch. You…you get some rest, okay? I think if I just wait for a bit I should be…okay.” She stares for a moment at her wound. Indigo follows her gaze. It…it looks really, really bad.

Martlet repeats, “I’ll be fine.”

When Outlaw nudges Indigo for the reins, ze passes them over, and Clover doesn’t react. Doesn’t know how, anymore. Just keeps watching the ground.

“Martlet?” Outlaw asks. He lifts Clover’s hand to reach, hesitant, for her own.

“Yeah?” Martlet sits down with them, and Outlaw scoots a bit closer to her. “Clover, about what happened—even if we are reported, there’s, um, a lot of Underground. We can find somewhere to lie low, and—hey! Once the King is back, things will, um…I mean, monsters will be free. So…”

She doesn’t believe that.

Clover paws at the ground.

Yeah. I know.

But Outlaw wraps their arms around her. “You saved my life,” he says.

Martlet’s feathers puff out a bit as she returns the hug. “I mean—yeah.” She laughs, a tad. “I promised, didn’t I? I’m in this for the long haul.”

“I know.” Outlaw’s voice shakes, a bit. Inside, Clover manages to lift their head, watch as he rubs at his eyes. Stupid, they can almost hear him muttering, and then, to them, you were right, weren’t you, Clover?

Clover jerks. Huh?

Outside, Martlet nudges her beak against their head. “Get some rest, okay?”

“Yeah.” Outlaw curls up against her. “…I trust you.”

Nothing weird for Clover to say. But for Outlaw—

Clover draws in a breath. Another.

Thank you, they tell Outlaw, for…

For making your life harder? Outlaw snorts. I’m…monsters are a hell of a lot more complicated than I thought. And I’m not sure how I feel about most things. But Martlet…she’s a good one.

Outside, Clover’s smile is small. But Martlet watches over them, and inside Outlaw drops the reins, so Clover lifts up their head, and remembers to breathe.

Clover dreams that they’re lying in a broken mound of dirt and budding flower sprouts. They hurt, all over, but in the distant-way they hurt when they aren’t entirely in their body, when they’re bleeding but it’s not real, not in a sharp, heady way, so mostly they know they hurt but don’t really feel it. Sat next to them is a little girl with dark skin and a ribbon woven through her hair. Her chest is illuminated light blue by a soul threaded through with fracture lines.

On their back Clover can see, barely, the surface world above: the thinnest sliver of sky they fell from. It’s so far they can’t tell if it’s night or day.

The little girl shifts beside them, pulling up her knees to hide her soul. “I’m really scared,” she says. “I didn’t wanna fall. I was trying to find Mama, but then…”

Clover knits their fingers together. “It’s a real long fall,” they whisper.

She says, “I don’t wanna be scared anymore.”

Clover pushes themself up sitting, opens their arm, and the girl burrows into their side. “I’m scared too,” they say. They don’t know how they’re supposed to keep someone safe, when they can barely keep themself safe. But she grabs for them like maybe they’re good enough at this, at something, somehow.

They ask, “do you think this is how Martlet feels?”

The girl shrugs. Her soul rises and falls with the motion of her shoulders. Clover watches the magical ebbing of it: the places where it shattered, the lines it broke upon. Faint bits of yellow fill in the gaps, a different sort of magic: it pulses off-rhythm. But her soul doesn’t break. Not this time.

Clover hugs her close. “Well, you—you won’t be alone anymore, Snowflake.”

She hums, and together they lean back and watch the stars, far-distant. “You neither, Clover.”

Clover dreams they’re backed against a wall and panting, blood roaring in their ears. Their heart pounds in their chest, a thousand beats a second, and they feel it in their throat, their wrists, the ache of their neck, from checking behind them, over and over again. Bristled up next to them is a kid about their age, with tan skin and unruly hair that tumbles down past their shoulders, coated throughout with snow and dust. His knuckles are bloodied, both with fresh blood and old wounds torn open again, and his orange soul flickers where he’s got it fisted in one hand, refusing to let the pieces of it flake apart.

“It’s kinda funny,” the kid says. With his other hand he rubs the broken bridge of his nose, leaving behind a smear of blood. “I really thought I outsmarted them. Rolled around in the snow ‘n everything. But I guess you can’t get rid of human-smell that easily.”

Off in the distance, a dog brays. Another answers with a returning howl. The kid’s nails dig into the magical skin of their soul, bits of orange leaking out. It thrums in time with their heartbeat.

Clover asks, though they know the answer, “why did you fight?”

“You think I had another option?” The kid huffs, opening his palm. His soul floats above it, casting his form in an orange glow. It’s pockmarked with little wounds, bleeding something that looks a lot like dust. The kid rubs some off on his jeans, flecked with white. “They were all trying to keep me trapped. They all wanted my soul. And I thought, fuck that. I’m not giving up to anybody.”

From the dark emerge two dog-monsters, shrouded in shadow and armor. They encircle the kid, pen him in from either side, so that there’s only one way for him to run. And, before the kid can move, tensed, eyes narrowed, a third shape approaches: a massive, looming shadow. Face hidden by armor. Wielding a blood-red trident.

The monster king is not smiling. The kid bares his teeth in a ferocious snarl, soul sinking back into their chest.

“We came for similar reasons, I think.” They cast a final look back at Clover. “I thought nobody else was brave enough to save the girl who went missing. But now I wonder if…if anybody even cared enough to try.”

He lunges. The dogs bray. The trident thrusts forward, into the kid’s chest, and against it his body goes limp. His nails gouge into the fur of the King’s arms, dust beading up gritty underneath. But they, too, fall limp, as their soul is shoved out by the trident, and falls right into the waiting paws of a dog-soldier.

The dogs grunt to each other, then to the King, who works the kid free and sets his limp body down into the snow. One dogs shakes their head. The other pins their ears back. The King looks at the kid, for a long, silent moment. But he takes their soul, and leaves.

In the remaining dying silence, Clover kneels down in the dusty snow, and picks out the bleeding pieces that remain, fitting each little piece together.

“I cared,” they whisper, as a little heart takes shape in their hand, Outlaw’s broken edges held together with yellow. “I tried.”

Clover dreams they’re trudging through marshy, water-covered land. Tall plants brush against their arms, but they can’t react fast enough to jerk away from it. It’s like every step drags their body down, further, further, further. Limping next to them is a kid a year their senior, warm skin covered in scars, with zir hand clutched to zir chest. Blood spills out through the gaps in zir fingers. Zir soul is a deep blue, lagging behind.

Ze trudges through marsh and puddle and pond, kicks through twisting underground rivers. Finally stumbles to a stop behind a waterfall, that roar and rumbles before them, blurring their view.

“I’m being chased,” ze tells them, when they sit at zir side, watching the world through the tumbling shriek of water. “I…tried to avoid the monsters. I tried, but…they were in the way. And I needed them to be gone. And I was scared. And it was so easy, to reach out, and…” Ze looks down. “Then I was running, and…I don’t want to run anymore. I just want…to go to sleep.”

Clover whispers, “you gave up?”

“Maybe.” Ze reaches out a hand and sticks it into the stream of water. It diverts a small section of falling water, though not enough to make a difference. Zir soul settles in the space between them both. It beats slowly, one, pause, two, pause, three, and then it repeats, the length of the pauses growing longer, the only sound the water. “I wasn’t going to ever make it far, though. Why would I keep pushing? I…I don’t like who I am when I’m scared. This way I can’t hurt anybody, and…maybe then the pain goes away.”

“Does it?” Clover asks.

Ze laughs so hard ze starts coughing, and with it comes flecks of blood. Zir sides heave. Zir soul trembles, cracks creeping up from the edges, making their way to the center.

“Of course it doesn’t, Clover.” Ze rests a hand on their own, and smiles, zir eyes crinkling up with the motion. “You’d know that better than most. Though…” Ze tilts zir head, turning zir gaze back out to the water. It blurs the world, but not in the same way tears do: there’s something almost melodic to the rush of it, a heartbeat when their own is faltering. Zir soul flickers, in-out. Faint hints of yellow knit together at the center, preventing the cracks from spreading any further. “I will admit. It’s…nicer, this time around.”

Zir voice cracks as a shadow falls over them. “Do you think the person who killed me was just as scared as I was?”

They squeeze zir hand. Indigo squeezes back.

Clover dreams they’re sat on a rock, seeing only by the dying light of a bioluminescent mushroom. All around them darkness looms, and every sound is magnified: the scrape of claw against rock, of monsters rushing through. Next to them, with their head in a notebook, is a pale kid a year or two older than them. She has her hair pulled back though frizzy stands of it escape their tie and hang in her face, and her glasses are cracked and broken, just barely staying on her face.

“There’s guards at the entrance to Hotland,” the kid is saying. Absently she pauses in her writing to rub the lens of her glasses over the lip of her shirt, though the dust stuck to the lenses refuses to let up, and she shoves them back onto her face with a disgruntled huff. “But even if they’ve got me cornered, they have to still swap out, sometime, and that’ll have to be my way through…”

Clover taps their shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Planning.” The kid glares at her notebook and kicks the mushroom next to them. When it grows no brighter, she scowls and closes her eyes, coaxing out her soul. The dim purple light it casts illuminates the paper, and she lets it float carefully near her knee. “The monsters think they’ve trapped me. But I won’t let them succeed. I’m going to get out of here.”

Her soul, on a closer inspection, is actually missing pieces, like bits cut-out of an ear. A skinny slice on the left side, like a lightning-bolt; a half-circle punched out from the top, small holes peppered throughout the center, as if magical bullets punched through and left faint scars. Clover’s not sure how she’s managed to keep herself moving, through it: it’s the sort of pain that takes someone out, they think.

They ask, “is any of this real?”

“What?” she glances sideways at them, rolling her eyes. “Of course it isn’t. I died. You’re dreaming.” She writes, leave pieces behind? Fake death?

“But…you’re here.” To prove their point, Clover pokes her side. Solid as anything else. “Are you not real?”

“Honestly, Clover, you’re asking the wrong questions.” She stands, clapping her notebook shut. “I am, I’m not, this happened, it didn’t—we’re here, and we’re not. It’s real, and it’s not.” She tucks her notebook into a pocket, brushes dirt off her hands. Her soul hovers at her side, punched through with empty space. “We’re here. That’s what matters.”

They blurt, “how did you survive any of this?”

She laughs, a tad. “That’s my name, isn’t it?” She holds out her soul for them, removes her hands so it is just theirs, holding it up. The broken pieces begin to fill, slowly, with yellow. “Perseverance. I pushed forward.”

She steps backwards, and her soul stays with them. Turns around and walks off, vanishing into the darkness, swallowed by shadow. But her soul glows, illuminating them. Clover rubs a finger along the jagged edge of it, and watches the yellow fill in.

Clover dreams they’re standing in the throne room. Golden flowers tickle their ankles. Golden light spills down through cracks in the rock, and if they really, really focus, they think they can hear birds. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. In front of them stands a teenager, tall and gangly, nearly 18. He’s trying to calm his breathing, in, out, in, out, until his shoulders stop shaking.

“This isn’t somewhere you should follow,” he says. He doesn’t look back at them, but Clover can make out a faint green light, spilling over his sides. “You can still turn back.”

“But you aren’t.”

“No.” The teenager laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “No, I’m not. But that’s my burden to carry. You’ve got a good home out there, Clover. Please don’t forget that.”

“Thyme—”

But Clover is too late. He’s already stepped through into the next room, to the barrier, somewhere Clover could never reach.

Clover dreams that they’re standing in the center of a raised hill. Around them a worn dirt path circles the base, stuck between the overgrown grass of the hill and the looming shadows of pine trees with branches that reach for their soul. The sky is pitch-dark and the stars are unfamiliar pinpricks, though none enough to bring light to the ground. Broken bits of wagon-wheel and wood litter the path, crushed by time.

Before them stand the four walls of an old cabin. The windows are all boarded up. Nails stick out of the door, and it’s missing its handle. The paint is cracked and peeling. The roof has caved in. Kudzu chokes out the corners.

They reach out their hand, and—

Clover wakes up with their head in Martlet’s lap, her hand in their hair, humming some soft song to herself. Outlaw’s thoughts stir against their own. Perseverance yawns, breathing out a greeting. Indigo leans against the side of the carriage and smiles. Snowflake dozes to the thrum of Martlet’s song.

“Hmm—oh, Clover?” Martlet pauses when they stir. “You up? You can keep sleeping if you want. I, uh. I’ve got a bit more time left until I’m okay to fly again.”

Memories tumble against each other in Clover’s mind. Snowflake’s lonely death. Outlaw, dust-covered, snarling, and terrified. Indigo, listening to the quiet movement of water. Perseverance, drawing out plans she’d never live to see fulfilled. Thyme, and all the places they can’t reach.

An empty, broken cabin, right at the center of their mind.

“Martlet?” Clover breathes, in, out. “Do you think the King crossed the barrier?”

Martlet’s feathers go stiff-scratchy against their skin.

“…Clover,” she says, and the heavy silence between them lingers, like dust that sticks to skin. Clover’s hands ball up in her feathers, the edges of them jabbing into their skin. Inside Perseverance has gone stiff, and Outlaw’s got one hand on the reins, not tugging, not pulling, but a pressure enough to say I’m with you. Indigo closes zir eyes, and looks off, far, far, up and to the hill in the center of this internal world, where there is only one structure that stands.

“I don’t remember.” Their voice cracks. “I don’t know what happened, Martlet, I just—I was scared, Martlet, and I was scared with Ceroba, too, and—and I hurt, and, and I had. My gun was empty. I was out of rounds. There were six rounds. I only have five souls. Martlet, if—if I can’t find a sixth soul—what did I—shoot—”

“Clover,” she whispers, and her feathers lie flat when she breathes in, stay that way when she breathes out. She doesn’t move away from them. She doesn’t let them go, even though…

Something is wrong. They’ve known something was wrong since they woke up surrounded by glass and with unfamiliar voices in their head, know it now like they knew it then, and nobody tries to pull them back, tries to say stop, don’t. Inside Thyme is nowhere to be seen, but Outlaw reminds them of their presence, a gentle hand; Indigo steadies their breathing, and they follow zir, one—two—three—and repeat, again; Snowflake wakes and stumbles through an echo of Martlet’s lullaby, some small grasping reminder that whatever happens inside they have Martlet, out here; Perseverance flips open her notebook, stares at the blank pages, the torn-out pages, the gaps none of them can fill.

Clover’s the one to say, I don’t want to hide from this anymore.

Inside Clover lifts their head, and watches as the others join Outlaw up front. Four hands rest on the reins. Nobody pulls them. They pull themself.

Martlet swallows. “The letter is—real,” she says, and her voice shakes. She tries again. “The letter is real. I—I mean, it was all over the news. And—if it was faked, somebody would’ve found out. So, Asgore left something. But—we only needed two more souls. And it’s…there’s this old, um, well, not legend, because we know it’s real, but, it happened well before my time, and…basically, the king, um, he had kids? At one point. And one of them was a human, but the human got sick, and—and died. And the monster child, he absorbed their soul, and they crossed the barrier. But…humans killed him, too. So…we know there’s humans nearby. Outside.”

That’s our missing soul. Indigo sits up straighter. That’s why there’s only five of us. The first human, their soul is long gone. And the rest of us…

But if that’s true, says Outlaw, what about that sixth bullet?

Clover wants to say, Ceroba. Wants it to be that easy.

But they reloaded their gun before entering the throne room. Shaking, and terrified. They clipped it shut.

“And—Clover, I don’t…blame you.” Martlet is still petting through their hair. They want to run, maybe. Run away, so they don’t have to look at this. He was going to kill me. Just like Ceroba wanted them dead. “And I’m not saying you did anything, because—I wasn’t there. And the note was. But.” She swallows. “When I saw you,” and her words come careful, “and I realized it wasn’t a dream, but you were real, that you were alive somehow—you had dust stuck to you.

“Clover, the King…I don’t think he’s a cruel man. But I think he was going to do what he needed to, and if he didn’t, and if you lived, then…then I wonder if that means…”

Clover’s head throbs. A white-hot pain that blacks out their vision for a moment, and they double over on themself, grabbing their head, and everyone inside is clamoring, yelling, scared, and hurts, hurts, hurts, HURTS, they want it to stop hurting, they never wanted this, they just wanted justice, justice for the fallen, justice for monsters, and there’s a pounding in their throat, and Martlet’s saying something, and they’re trying to grab for it, trying to say Martlet, help, trying to say Martlet, I’m sorry, trying to tell her everything they’ve kept from her, trying to figure out everything they’ve lost, and they have all the pieces here—the six used rounds, the five souls, dust stuck on them, an unfulfilled note—but they cannot fit them together, cannot do anything, can’t, can’t, it hurts, it HURTS, please, somebody, just help me, please, please,

please, i’m trying to be good,

please, i’m trying to remember,

please forgive me for what i don’t want to remember,

for all the people i’ve hurt,

because i think maybe i’m not actually so strong,

but i’m stuck pulling all this weight.

Clover sways. Martlet cries out their name.

The world outside goes shadowed, dark, and then fades away to nothing at all.

Inside Clover comes to, in the dirt and tangled up in their harnesses, and fuzzily they can hear thought-voices coming from all around them, feel imagined hands on their imagined sides, ghosting gentle over all their scars.

They’ve never just passed out like this before!

Yes, so clearly freaking out about it isn’t going to help, Outlaw, if you would just listen to me and work on removing all these stupid bits and bobs—

I’ve never ridden a horse in my life! Why do you think I can do any of this?

Clover! Clover, wake up, please! It’s okay! We’re all here with you!! You don’t need to be scared ‘cause I’m here!! Clover!

Snowflake, they’re—

Why aren’t they breathing??? They aren’t breathing that’s bad make them better! Make them better!

The not breathing is actually fine. This is an intangible space, we just pretend like it’s tangible. I think. I actually don’t know a whole lot about why we’re like this.

Oh, but you put yourself in charge anyway?

Outlaw now is NOT the time to start a fight—

Clover blinks. Everything is heavy, but it’s slowly becoming less-so. Outlaw is slipping the metal collar off their neck, while Indigo holds up their head. Perseverance is undoing the knots of the ropes attaching them to the carriage with a deft hand. Someone must’ve given Snowflake a knife, because through her sobbing she’s carefully cutting some of the thinner bits of gear off them.

Everyone! Shush! They’re waking up!

What… Clover’s thoughts muddle together, opening and closing their mouth. It’s dry. I’m…

Inside. Outlaw kneels next to their head, resting a hand on their muzzle. They stare at him, cross-eyed, his hand just above the ring of the bridle. It’s cool against the fevering warmth of their skin. You’re inside. All of us are.

Martlet…?

We…aren’t sure. Indigo’s voice is hesitant as ze comes over to sit near Outlaw, criss-crossed in the dirt. Ze begins to brush out the tangled ends of Clover’s mane. You…passed out, I think, at least in here. None of us can access outside. I’m…I’m not really sure what’s going on in that regard, but the important thing is that you’re up.

And we’re getting all this dumb gear off you. Outlaw’s hands trail down, and he begins to slip the bridle off their face. You never asked to be stuck to that carriage. It’s not fair.

They open their mouth as Outlaw removes the bit, and with it, the entire bridle. Perseverance cheers when she finishes the last of the knots, slips off every thin bit of rope and gear attaching Clover to the carriage. Snowflake throws her arms around their neck in a hug, and, with Indigo helping them, Clover gathers their legs underneath them and stands.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, because of course it does. Their skin has been rubbed raw where harness and metal have bit into them. The edges of their jaw still ache, where the reins cut into the thin flesh of their cheek. Their mane is matted, there’s rocks stuck in their hooves, and they sway when they walk.

But at the same time everything is so light. They turn a circle, can turn a circle, because nothing is being hauled behind them. Standing there they glare down the carriage, ears pinned flat. It sits there in the middle of the dirt path, this thing they’ve dragged with them for so long. This thing they never asked for.

Outlaw rests a hand on their neck. You can, uh. He scratches behind his own with his other hand. Be yourself now. A kid.

Clover lifts up one hoof, sets it back down. Turns their big head to look at everyone here with them in turn: Snowflake, who hasn’t stopped hugging them, and they huff, their breath ruffling her hair; Outlaw, smiling at them, head inclined, giving them space; Indigo, who offers them a thumbs-up, a gentle pat to their side; Perseverance, kicking all their torn-up gear to the side, though they pause and nod when they catch Clover’s eye.

Okay, Clover thinks, closing their eyes, be yourself. You aren’t stuck pulling that carriage anymore. You can do this.

There should be something Clover-like they can pull from, some sense of their identity, of who they are outside, of they body they live in. Their hat, that’s important. Their gun, maybe, but—six spent rounds—so maybe not. Sometimes they wake up still with Martlet’s feathers stuck to them, despite her attempts to sweep them up. They’ve never minded. They like it, sort of: like there’s this thing they can hold that ties them together.

When Clover opens their eyes they’re themself again, the themself they are outside: two legs, two hands, pale skin. The brim of their hat falls over their eyes and they push it and their hair back. But they don’t look entirely like they do outside: missing their gun and holster, for one, and they’ve brought along some of Martlet’s feathers, or some impression of them, at least, feather-patterns pressed into their wrists.

Snowflake barrels into their side. You’re short!!!

Not that short, they tell her, punching her lightly in the shoulder. She giggles as she leans against them, wrapping her arms around theirs.

You’re shorter than Outlaw ‘n Indigo ‘n Purple and Thyme too I bet!! She tilts her head and glances backwards towards the carriage. Where’s Thyme? He didn’t help us!

Outside? Perseverance offers, frowning. If none of us are, he must be. Clover, I think you should try leaving. Martlet’s probably freaking out.

And she’s done that enough for a lifetime, Outlaw says, offering them a faint grin and a hand. Clover bumps their fist against his. Probably best to like, say sorry.

If I knew all it took for you to warm up to her was us nearly getting shot, says Clover, I would’ve asked to see Starlo sooner.

Outlaw winces. What, Clover says, I can joke about it.

Snowflake grabs their arm tight enough it starts to sting. No. It was bad and scary and I don’t like him!

Yeah, uh. Outlaw scratches the back of his neck. …just. Yeah.

Clover shifts, scratching at the dirt with the toe of one boot, and says, so, going back outside?

Yes! Perseverance claps her hands together. Chop chop, Clover.

Pushy, Clover mutters, but with a bit of a smile to their voice. It’s…nice, here, in a way they never thought it ever could be. With nothing biting into them, and everyone—here, on their level. They’re…

Well. They should—do what Perseverance says. Closes their eyes, and nobody is keeping them out of their body so it should be pretty simple to just go on their own, tell Martlet they’re okay, stop thinking about what she told them, about dust, there was dust on you, six spent rounds, Clover, and you know what you’re capable of—

Clover’s eyes jerk open and they’re still standing on the muddy path encircling a hill.

Um. Close their eyes. Open them. I. I can’t. I don’t—I can’t get back into my body.

That’s…worrying, Indigo says, frowning. Snowflake twines herself against their side and pokes at the patterns across their skin, and Clover stays inside, and sees nothing of the outside world at all.

Well, try again. Perseverance’s voice is sharp. Because if I can’t, then it has to be you.

I’m— Think, they tell themself, just THINK, Martlet, and the Dunes, and the sand in the air like dust in the wind like dust in their clothes, it was stuck to their clothes, they came to shaking, crunching shattered glass, five human souls and six spent rounds and a note left but no king, and he was going to kill them, why didn’t he kill them? Why did they keep their soul, why did they keep every human soul, why would the king of monsters ever let them do that? I—I CAN’T, I don’t know how, I never know how!

Yes, you do, Perseverance snaps, you kick me and Outlaw out of the body all the time! Just—do that again!

Not on purpose! Clover’s breathes come quick and sharp, shaking Snowflake off of them. I just freak out and it’s not THE body it’s MY body, and if you want to see outside so bad why don’t you do it! Huh? Huh!!!

I WOULD if I COULD! Perseverance’s thought-voice rings in their ears as she paces, back-forth, kicking at all the discarded gear. Outlaw’s frowning, inching around her and back to the carriage, where he climbs up into the diver’s seat, but shakes his head. Nothing. Clover scurries after him, thinks, maybe if I’m there? But there with wood biting into their skin nothing happens at all. Just pine trees looming, a hill blocking the horizon, a sky of empty stars. Clover—

She turns sharp, glares at the empty space they once stood in, spins on her heel and squints at them and Outlaw up in the driver’s seat of a now-horseless carriage.

Someone, she says, her voice calculated, has to be able to get outside. Because if it’s Thyme, he’s not telling the rest of us, and I don’t particularly like being left in the dark!

Fighting isn’t going to help. Perseverance whips around to snarl at Indigo, but ze just puts zir hands up. We can’t access outside. Okay. That’s what we have to work with. If we start yelling at each other, we’re not going to get anything done.

Clover slides down out of the carriage; it prickles uneasily against their back. This entire place does, really, if they think about it too hard. The shadowed forest created by the pine trees, some barrier they don’t think they could cross. The path, around and around and around, movement without getting anywhere, and all the broken bits of wagon they’ve had to rattle around. The hill, the centerpiece, and the cabin at the top of it all.

The…

Clover says, cutting off Perseverance and Indigo, arguing, we have to go to the cabin.

The what? Snowflake crinkles her nose. What cabin? I dunno a cabin.

Yeah, Outlaw says, though he looks, briefly, to the hill, before shaking himself and hopping down to follow Clover. Don’t know what you’re talking about. We should focus on getting outside. What if that Starlo guy follows through on his threat? And Martlet is attacked while we’re out of commission?

Didn’t you hear what she told us? Clover wrings their hands together. Can’t really look at anybody, so they look at the ground, instead: a cracked wagon-wheel pressed into the mud underfoot, the spokes snapped. We came out of that throne room covered in dust.

I mean, she didn’t use covered…

Perseverance’s voice is sharp. You remember what happened.

Clover shakes their head. No. But I…I just…

Dust. Broken wagon bits. A cabin on a hill a carriage could never climb.

We have to figure out what happened, is what Clover settles on. We have to remember. What went down in the throne room, it’s—it’s why we’re here. Why I’m…

Clover swallows.

I was supposed to die, they say, I should’ve died there. You guys were all long dead. But now we’re here, and—and don’t you want answers? Want something, even if…

When they look up Outlaw won’t meet their gaze, and Snowflake has hidden herself against his side. Indigo is toeing at the ground. Perseverance is staring out to the hill, overgrown, thick grass, tall as any of them, probably. And that old abandoned cabin, caving in.

Where else would they be, Clover says, but there?

Perseverance laughs. She rubs her hand across her eyes and laughs, and leans into Outlaw when he offers her a shoulder to rest on.

Damn it, she says.

Clover limps over and offers her a hand. Perseverance?

God fucking damn it.

Outlaw elbows her. Believe in God now, huh?

Not at all. Shut up. I hate you both. But she breathes in. Indigo? Snowflake? Are we doing this?

Indigo takes Clover’s other hand, and Snowflake trots up and circles them all, before throwing herself right at the center of them. It’ll be scary, Indigo says, remembering. What if we don’t like what we find?

Clover hugs Snowflake back, feels her weight—a real weight, even in this space that is entirely made-up. But the wind blows, and the stars glint cold, and the shadow the cabin casts is real as any ache in their arms. We’ll find it out together. And—for what it’s worth, Indigo, even not knowing…I’m glad. That I haven’t—been alone. For all of this.

Indigo manages a weak smile. We hitched you to a carriage, Clover. Nearly ran you to your death.

Yeah. They shrug. But I’m not so scared anymore.

Gonna be a hard trek, Outlaw says, squinting up across the hill, hand held up above his eyes as if blocking the sun. Thick grass. Do you think there’s snakes here? Ticks?

Ticks don’t live in pretend grass. But Perseverance frowns. Uh, probably. Maybe don’t think about them?

Clover laughs. C’mon, guys, they say, and take the first step off the path, towards the hill, away from the carriage and the familiar trails they’ve all worn. Let’s break into a cabin.

Chapter Text

The grass is, as Clover was expecting, very, very tall.

The cabin is a looming presence from the path but from the base of the hill they can’t see it at all, no matter how far back they crane their neck: they can just see the grass like a forest, thick and dark, and Outlaw’s worried mutterings about ticks doesn’t do a whole lot to help the unease crawling up their throat.

But they’re scared of a lot more than ticks in their mind: of Martlet outside who has no idea why they passed out, of a piece of their life blocked off entirely from them, from all of them, a gap in their existence they can’t fill. They’re terrified Martlet will be arrested, and it’ll all be their fault. They’re terrified that they’re going to open their eyes, and be weighed down again, metal harnesses biting into their soft skin, frothing at the mouth. They’re terrified they’re never going to wake up again. They’re terrified they’re going to put the puzzle pieces together.

Last chance to turn back, Outlaw says, as if it’s a joke, but his voice is shaking. Snowflake, maybe you shouldn’t come with us. This might be…

Snowflake’s grip on Clover’s hand goes crushing. No, she says, faint. Don’t wanna be alone.

They had to step over and around a lot of broken wagon-carriage, to get here.

I…think safety will be in numbers, though Indigo sounds hesitant. Clover…

We have to know. Their voice cracks. Their hands are shaking. I don’t know how to go outside without it.

And unless somebody figures out how to do it…

Perseverance trails off. Clover shoots her a smile, and she returns it. Hers is a tad shaky around the edges. Clover is sure theirs is no different.

I don’t know if this is a good idea, she continues, but I think Clover’s right. I don’t think we—keep going on, without knowing.

Clover pushes into the grass, and they don’t do it alone.

They aren’t sure how to conceptualize the journey to the cabin. They aren’t sure inside and outside really fit the situation: because they are inside, but their skin crawls, and they feel bugs, even if nobody else sees them. Snowflake offers Outlaw a knife, and he takes the lead, hacking away a path. Clover wishes, vaguely, that they were still horse shaped, because maybe then they could see better, or that they could fly, and bypass it all. But they do none of that. They kick and fight their way through the grass. They drag the others with them. And then they make it through, spat out in front of a cabin, and it’s like Clover is in their dream again, except this time they do not face the cabin alone.

There is still no doorknob. Clover feels the edges of the door. The wood is rough. Kudzu crawls at the edges. Up close the cabin casts long shadows, thrums with a sort of energy that puts all their hair on-edge.

Outlaw kicks against the base of the door. I think we’re gonna have to knock it down.

That’s always a good sign. Indigo’s voice has gone somewhere past panic. I wish we weren’t doing this alone.

Clover whispers, I wish Martlet could be here with us.

Yes, says Indigo, I wish that, too.

Well, she isn’t. Perseverance rolls up their sleeves. So I guess we have to do it on our own.

They push, all five of them, together, and just like that, the door heaves, shudders, and gives in, collapsing. Clover nearly staggers over the edge, only doesn’t fall because Outlaw grabs them in time, and there with its belly torn open before them is the cabin.

The cabin is…

Well, the first thing Clover notices as they step in through the entryway is the light.

There’s no light, here, no sun, and yet through the broken, gauzy windows, faint bits of gold trickle in, beams that illuminate the dust that spins lazily through the air. Clover puts a hand to their mouth, coughs. Can’t breathe in because they can taste it, coating the inside of their lungs, and Indigo puts out a hand to steady them, or maybe they do to steady zir, and they both grip each other tightly.

Everything is covered. The furniture with off-white tarps, in unnatural lumpy shapes, with too many sharp edges, or is crushed underneath the caved-in-roof, sprouting plant-matter like fungi growing over rot. The walls are thick with kudzu, creeping in through the shattered gaps in the wood, and the dark leaves stretch wide and drink up what little light the room gets. Picture frames lie face-down before them. Shattered glass coats the floor. Clover’s head pounds, and they spin, dizzy, nauseous.

Snowflake pokes her head out from around Perseverance’s legs. I don’t wanna remember anymore.

I…I don’t… Perseverance’s voice is faint. Has this been here the entire time?

Her words echo in the empty space, hallowed and lonely. The air tastes of dust and decay. Every surface is coated with it, and the light just illuminates that: spiral patterns of dust puff out when Clover breathes.

Did somebody live here? Outlaw picks his way into the center of the room, tracing a finger across the only bit of uncovered furniture, an old wooden table with a single picture frame atop. There’s a picture inside, but the glass is so thick with dust Clover can’t make it out. If this place is all just our mind, why would we…why would any of us create something like this?

Does anybody remember anything?

Clover shakes their head. They force themself to move forward, to not think about the crunching of glass, and join Outlaw further inside. Perseverance does the same, though she crosses to the caved-in side of the house, staring at the tarp splayed and trapped under a mess of fallen-in shingles.

Outside of the cabin, something snaps.

Outlaw is the first to react, bristling up. Hello? Who’s there?

We’re the only ones here, Perseverance hisses, we’re the only ones here!

Unless you think I’m hearing shit—

I heard it too! But…it can’t…

Snowflake, behind me, Indigo is whispering, Clover, help me, please—

Yeah. Clover’s voice is shaking. A shadow falls over the broken door. They press back against the wall and kudzu crunches up. Yeah. Okay.

Hands shoved in his pocket, stooping to fit in through the entrance, Thyme enters.

His movements are languid as he kneels to pick up a fallen frame, and though Clover can see nothing inside, he traces the edge of the broken glass as though there is some precious memory contained within. Outlaw stiffens. Perseverance puffs herself out, as though she has feathers to draw larger. Indigo grabs for Snowflake’s hand. Snowflake shivers, wrapping an arm around herself.

Clover thinks about breathing. About six spent rounds. About waking to shattered glass.

Thyme puffs out a breath, and dust spirals around him. He shoves the picture in his pocket, and sighs, long and loud. Tired, his pose says, and he has dark shadows under his eyes.

Hey, guys. Thyme smiles at them. It doesn’t meet his eyes. I was really hoping you wouldn’t find this place.

Clover’s head throbs. It sends them staggering into Outlaw, who grunts but catches them, their limbs going weak. It’s like every single part of them is screaming go, go, get out of here, but they can’t. They can’t.

It hurts.

But Clover doesn’t look away.

You knew.

Perseverance’s voice comes cold, breaking the dead silence. Next to Clover she stalks forwards, right up to Thyme, who watches her with that same sad smile, and when she snarls up at him he doesn’t even flinch.

You knew about this place, and you didn’t tell any of us.

That…can’t be right. Outlaw shifts, kicking at the floor. Glass crunches underneath them. The rest of us…I mean, yeah, I…but I never kept anything from any of you. None of us did! Why would Thyme…?

You said you just…hung back. On the carriage. Indigo’s gaze falls. But you were never there at all, were you?

Snowflake whispers, why would you lie?

Thyme steps around Perseverance, and goes to stands next to the table with the picture frame. That, he smiles at, a real smile, Clover thinks, smudging away the dust. The picture underneath shows two figures—older monster and human teenager—and it makes Clover’s head ache. Would knowing have changed anything?

Uh, YEAH? No shit? Perseverance stalks after him, scowling. There’s a creepy dead cabin in the center of our mind! That seems pretty fucking important, Thyme!

Clover reaches out to snag Perseverance’s sleeve when they pass. Perseverance, they whisper, and she stops, turning her glare on them, though it softens. Perseverance.

What, Clover? Her voice cracks. Thyme is still smiling at the picture, not looking at any of them. The air tastes of rot, of crushed glass. You aren’t being mad. So I’ll do it for us.

I just. Clover twists their hands together. Like that they can see their feather-patterns, the shapes distorted by the tugging at their skin. I wanted us to come here. This is…

Hey. Outlaw approaches and bumps their shoulder to Clover’s. This ain’t on you. Gonna be real, I—I really don’t know what’s going on. Why any of this is going on. But. He breathes out. None of us are mad at you. He looks to Thyme. Now, you, on the other hand…

Thyme doesn’t answer. Just shrugs, passes by Indigo and Snowflake—Indigo who inches around him to join Clover, Outlaw, and Perseverance; Snowflake who sniffs back tears and follows zir—and stoops down to enter a deeper room of the cabin, through the half-collapsed doorframe.

Why didn’t you tell us this is where you went? Indigo asks. Even if we couldn’t follow you, why wouldn’t you just…?

Thyme says nothing; he just beckons for them to follow. Clover, after a moment, does, stepping carefully around the glass, and they enter into the next room: it’s a kitchen, or maybe a dining room, some combination of the two, though the edges don’t fit, entirely: the dining room table juts out into the open space of the kitchen, blocking access to the stove. The far wall has a window, nailed shut with wooden planks. Through the gaps where the wood is rotting away, Clover can faintly make out the hill and the muddy path that encircles it.

Outlaw is the next one to come in, studying the table. There’s only two chairs. Big table for only two chairs.

We didn’t need any more. Thyme pulls one chair—the one against the wall—out, and sits, folding his arms across the table. Nobody moves to sit in the other chair, not even Snowflake, the last one in. She leans against Clover’s side and sniffles. You can still turn back.

Clover breathes in, and says, finally, what’s been slowly turning around in their head. You know what happened in the throne room, don’t you.

Thyme’s smile is bittersweet. One of us had to.

Clover shudders. All this time—all this time, and they thought the memories were lost. Gone forever. That they’d never get them back, and Thyme acted like he never knew, either: but then wasn’t he the one who told them the King let you go, a pressing Clover followed, because what other answer did they have? Dark void, and Thyme, right there. With answers he didn’t give.

Perseverance’s hackles go up. You never told us.

Thyme just nods.

You never— She lunges, trying to throw herself across the table, but Indigo grabs her around the middle. Indigo! He never TOLD US, he knew and he never told us, I know you’re mad too! Let me GO, let me—

You’re just going to get yourself hurt. At zir words Perseverance goes slack. You’re…I don’t…I don’t know either, Perseverance. I don’t…

Perseverance’s chest heaves, though they don’t try to attack again when Indigo lets them go. Just slumps against zir, looking away.

What right do you have, they say, to a Thyme not looking at them, to keep our memories from us? We were all there, too.

And? Thyme sighs, shaking his head. Perseverance—all of you—what good would knowing do, really? You don’t have to know. You can turn around, and leave, and let me hold all of this. Go back to Martlet. Live out your lives. Eventually this cabin will become overgrown, and none of you will have to carry this weight, anymore. Won’t that be better?

Clover says, toeing at the ground, dusty glass all around them, it won’t be true.

You just want us to live in a lie. Perseverance crosses her arms. You aren’t getting rid of us that easily, Thyme.

No, says Thyme, I want you to be happy. I want you to have a life. The King will have always just let you walk free. It’s a tragedy, that he was lost trying to collect the souls to break monsters free. But it’s one you’ll recover from.

But you know? Indigo asks. You know what happened to the King. You know why Clover lived. You know why the rest of us are here. I—I thought we hitched Clover to that carriage, but…but you gave us that language, didn’t you? You made them pull. And you left that—you left that all to us. And now you’re acting like…like what you did was, what, a kindness?

Isn’t it? Thyme sits up a bit straighter. In his eyes something flickers—like a soul, Clover thinks, some pulse of a standing-strong. Of not backing down. Thyme speaks, and he speaks truth. It makes something in Clover shudder. Do you want to hold any of this, honestly? If you did, you would’ve remembered, when you first woke up. But you didn’t. Because you didn’t want to, and I’m—I’m not blaming you for that! I’m glad, that it’s just me holding this. You’re all kids.

You are too, says Perseverance. Maybe you’re a bit older than us, but—you’re still a teenager.

Am I? Thyme shrugs. The dying light dapples the dust stuck in his hair, landing on him as it drifts through the house. The only remaining chair is far too big for him, for any of them: something about that makes Clover’s head ache.

They think—they say—I need to know.

Clover.

Outlaw touches a hand to their arm. They jerk, slightly, but it’s not a weight—just an asking, though he won’t meet their eyes. Around them Perseverance and Indigo are quiet, and all they hear from Snowflake are her quiet sobs.

Outlaw, Clover echoes. Outlaw huffs.

Came around on it, huh? But he closes his eyes. Look, Clover, I’ve been thinkin’—and, I mean, this is for everyone, really—but…maybe Thyme has a point.

Perseverance bristles up. What do you MEAN, he has a—

Wait, says Indigo, putting out a hand, let them speak.

Heh, uh, tough crowd. Outlaw swallows. I—I know this ain’t the popular choice. And…dunno. I’m just…back when I fell, I…I mean, I killed a lot of monsters. And what I did, it…it wasn’t all just self-defense. Sure, sometimes it was, but…and even here, Clover, you’re a hell of a lot better than me, and—look what came of it! This North Star guy—what did dealing with that get you? We nearly died. Martlet got shot. And…if we remember this, what if—what if something even worse comes from it? What if…?

Outlaw, Clover breathes, and Outlaw falls quiet, looking at his hands. I…it’s okay. I…knew. Know? I sorta had a feeling, you maybe did some things long ago. But I still came to save you at the start and I’m not about to back down now.

And… Clover trails off. I mean, yeah. Ceroba—I—I wish—but she’s dead. And. That really sucks. Even if she was trying to kill me, I was just—scared, ‘n you were too. And…yeah. Starlo, he could’ve…but not remembering, that won’t make all the hurt go away. It just makes it—hidden. You hurt but you don’t know why. Not knowing doesn’t make anything better, Outlaw. I don’t know what happened in the throne room. But I feel it. And you do, too, I bet.

…you think I want to?

No, says Clover, ‘cause yeah, it’s easier if you don’t. But whatever happened, I did it. I was capable of doing it. And we can’t pretend like we weren’t, not anymore. Probably, yeah, it was bad. But it got you here. You, Perseverance, Indigo, Snowflake, even Thyme—isn’t that good?

Outlaw looks off out to the boarded-up window, where outside the cabin the sky is still empty, the trees still loom, and the path the five of them wore into the dirt, around around around, is far-away and unreachable, right now. Somewhere behind them, out the front door, is the grass they cut and crushed to get here. Maybe it’s already been grown over, but it was there, once. They made it.

Outlaw’s laugh is bitter. I’m supposed to be long dead. What good does bringing me back do?

If nothing else… Clover offers a hand to Outlaw, who takes it. His hand is rough, calloused. Clover squeezes. I’m glad I got to meet you.

Outlaw huffs. But a faint smile creeps up onto his face.

I…I don’t know if this is justice, for your death. For any of your deaths. If this is justice for what the monsters did to you, or what humans did to the monsters. I don’t know if what I’ve done is justice, if what anything I’ve ever done is justice, but—but I know I want to stop being scared. I…I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to be hurt. I just…

In, out. Clover breathes. Outlaw squeezes their hand back.

I want to know what happened, they say. Because that’s the only way I figure out all the other stuff.

Thyme sighs. It drags Clover’s attention back to him, still sat at a table far too big for the two chairs it holds. None of you are turning away, then?

I mean, I really want to. Outlaw shrugs. But Clover convinced me.

Perseverance’s gaze is cold. No.

I think it’s far too late for that.

Snowflake sniffles. Not gonna be left alone. No more.

Not knowing, Clover says, carefully, is going to destroy us.

Alright. Thyme throws up his hands. Fine! I…I don’t have a choice, do I? He runs his hand down his face, slumping down against the chair. It’s not a pretty story. And once you know, there’s no taking it back. I—are you sure, that…I can carry this forever. I promise that. And you guys can go out and live your life.

Clover asks, whose life? Most kids probably don’t live five at once.

Yeah. Thyme sighs. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

He straightens. Once you know, he says, things are going to get…complicated. We’ve been holding it back, but…Clover, human bodies aren’t supposed to hold this many human souls.

Perseverance says, very carefully, we?

What happened in the throne room? Clover asks.

And so Thyme tells his story.

Thyme says, I guess it started like this:

You weren’t the first one to wake up, Clover. Kindness was.

He wasn’t…aware, as a soul, not really. I’m not entirely sure death is the best word for what it was—death is the complete cessation of being, death of body, mind, soul—but he certainly wasn’t alive, either. Kept in stasis, perhaps. And then he woke up.

He was at the barrier, of course, and he knew it was the barrier. But it was like he knew it twofold—Kindness died here, and yet was waking up, here, and the first thing he saw in front of him was the monster king.

Kindness said, I remember you. You killed me.

But things were different, this time. The king didn’t look different, but Kindness felt different. His hands were bleeding, and his skin was all wrong, like he’d gone so pale he lost all the color he once had. There was a gun in his hands, which were shaking. The room was lit like a strobe: the barrier flashing, and with it came glimpses of color, blues, purples, oranges, yellows…it gave him a headache, but his head hurt far past that, too.

The memories came to him all at once. They weren’t his memories. He was remembering monsters he didn’t know, people he never met—there was a grief so thick in his chest for someone he left behind, but it wasn’t his grief. I’m sure you all understand, right? The…feelings, and how they pass through you, and originate within the body you are in, but they are nothing that comes from your own mind. He knew the person he left behind was named Martlet, but the grief didn’t make sense. He had no idea who she was.

Kindness remembered stepping past the throne room, once, as himself, and now again, and how he didn’t look back, because if he looked back, he was going to run. He remembered fire, then, and fire, now, and he didn’t shake then but was shaking now. He remembered that he was going to die. He remembered four human souls, trapped in cages, but he also remembered five, one his own, except it wasn’t his own, because in the memory, it was just a soul. Thinking back on it—our mind was a mess. We were trying to comprehend a whole new set of memories, and Kindness didn’t yet understand how, exactly, he’d even come back to life.

I remember how justice felt, burning its way across my arm. I remember grief. I remember wanting to be worth something, wanting my soul to be worth something. But I also remember fear. I remember looking into the flames of the monster king. I remember how a human body shudders, in its final moments.

And Kindness remembered dying, but, here, now—he remembered wanting to live, something so forceful, that he could do nothing but obey.

The gun in his hand made a lot more sense.

Clover, in that throne room, more than anything else, I think, in the last moment, you wanted to live. You were half-dead, of course. Covered in burns with a soul halfway to shattering. But you still had your weapon. You were mourning the monsters you left behind, but you were also mourning the human souls before you—and I can’t put words to what you felt, in that moment. I wasn’t there, not yet. But, looking back on it—I think you were terrified, and I think you just wanted somebody to be set free.

You shot five glass canisters that stored five human souls. And then you shot the king.

Souls are drawn to living things. You were the only living thing in that room, Clover, if barely, and a human body is not made to hold so many human souls, but to a soul isolated for so long—what else is it supposed to do? The strain of that knocked you out, knocked everybody out.

And that was when Kindness woke up.

I said he saw the monster king in front of him?

That wasn’t entirely true. He saw the soul of the monster king in front of him.

The barrier strobed, still. But now it was only white and black: impossible brightness, and stark darkness. The king’s soul hovered before him, flaking to dust. And Kindness—disoriented, hurting, confused, alive, somehow—he reached out, and took it, and shoved it right into his own chest.

Oh, that hurt. Human bodies aren’t made to hold so many human souls, but they also aren’t really made to hold monster souls, either—that much magic, and nowhere to go, in a human body. Humans aren’t made for it, not like monsters are. I’m not sure when Kindness collapsed, I just know that he did. He couldn’t look at himself, but he could feel what was happening to him—everything was changing. Like…taffy. Like someone had taken his body, made it taffy, and decided to stretch it until it broke.

And he was all alone experiencing it, until…he wasn’t.

Kindness heard the King in his head. It was—different, from how we talk now. There was…ha, some barrier between them. Like even in their mind, the barrier stood, separating humans, monsters. He didn’t expect to get absorbed. I don’t think Kindness expected to absorb him, either.

The King was…quiet. He sounded sorry. I think he knew he was dying, and that there wasn’t going to be much hope for either of us. They knew, both of them, in some instinctual way you know your own limbs, that there would be more people, here, soon—that, Clover, as soon as you were awake, that was it for us. This was not our body, and you did not know we were here.

Kindness said, you killed me.

The King said, yes. I am sorry for that, child.

Well, Kindness told him, now we’re both dead. So I guess that’s that.

But we weren’t, not really. When Kindness closed his eyes, he could see him, almost—we were sitting across from each other at a table, him at one far end, Kindness at the other. There were more chairs, though they weren’t filled, not entirely. Above them floated five other human souls—the five of you.

We were here, of course. Inside this cabin. It was…nicer, then. The windows weren’t yet boarded up. Outside was full of life. It was—warm. The wind couldn’t reach us, in here. It was…good, almost. For a few brief moments, it was really, really nice, to not be alone.

But then Kindness opened his eyes, and saw that we were dying. Which was…not.

They talked, the King and Kindness. He told Kindness to call him Asgore. He told Kindness about what happened, when humans absorbed monster souls. The great beasts they became. About human bodies that engulfed the souls of their brethren, became a body with far too many souls than it was ever meant to support.

You weren’t supposed to live, Clover. None of us were—but especially, especially not you.

Every body needs a soul. For humans the soul is what keeps the heart beating, what makes the electricity of a nervous system spark in all the right places, to create thought. For monsters the soul is what keeps the magic of their bodies together. Too much soul overloads a body. For lack of any better words: humans explode, and monsters melt.

But here we were. Asgore and Kindness. A monster soul, a human soul. And…

They wrote that note together. Kindness figured out how to let Asgore take control, figured out that if he stood up from the table, and paced around the kitchen, Asgore could move our hands while Kindness could not. We didn’t really have a back-up plan, for when Asgore never came back. We didn’t think we’d make it far enough to matter. We trusted monsters to come up with something better than we ever could.

The king was gone. The human souls were gone. What could we give monsters but some hope to grasp?

But time was running out. They knew our body was giving up—overloaded with souls, with energy, and contorting as it tried to understand all this monster magic…

Kindness asked, was this all for nothing? Are we just going to die?

Asgore said, I think I have a way to buy them time, but it will mean we will not exist like this anymore.

Kindness asked if he was sure. But he knew Asgore’s answer before he said it.

Asgore asked if Kindness was sure. That he was a kid, too. That if he wanted to forget…

No, Kindness told him, somebody has to do this.

They locked the doors. Boarded up the windows. Closed their eyes, and someone new opened them.

I’m the one who moved you all out of the cabin.

You were all kids. Asgore remembered each and every one of you. Kindness was the oldest human to ever fall into the Underground, and I was the one awake, right now. I had flashes of memories from all of you, messy and scared and lost, and—how could I leave everything for you five to hold? You didn’t…you didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve any of this. And I was awake, and you weren’t.

I could hold everything. It would be mine, and I’d keep all these memories safe, what might happen to us, what happened to Asgore and Kindness—it would be mine, and mine alone. I’d give you a softer story. I knew you’d have someone to look after you, Clover. I felt your grief. I was sure it would be returned.

They had chosen to carry all of this, and I did, too. I found the softest patch of grass, to leave the five of you on. I wanted you to have something better than an old, empty cabin. I pulled away all the chairs. Covered them in tarps.

And then, Clover, you woke up.

For a long time after Thyme’s story, all Clover can hear is silence.

The silence of their heart pounding in their ears, the throbbing pressure. The silence of Outlaw’s hand in theirs, his nails scratching their skin. The silence of dust settling in an empty house, never to be lived in again.

Indigo is the first one to break the silence, taking in a shaky breath. We shouldn’t be alive here at all, should we?

…no. Thyme’s voice is quiet. I…Clover’s body—Asgore and Kindness bought you time, but…that’s the best they could do. And now that you all know—that time is running out faster.

But, no! Perseverance clenches her fist. That doesn’t make any sense! How does us knowing—knowing that—that we—She bites back a snarl. Clover’s hands twitch. What do they have to say? They…they killed Asgore. They couldn’t die right, and they…

Clover laughs something like a sob. I made it worse, they say, I just made everything so much worse, didn’t I? Now monsters are further from being freed than ever, and—and I’m just going to DIE, and…and break Martlet’s heart…

They sniff. What good is wanting to live if I just die in the end anyways?

Clover… Thyme looks away from them. Souls are…complicated. I don’t fully understand it; my parts didn’t, either. But a soul is alive: it wants to keep living. It’s just energy, at the end of the day. Inert or active, and when it’s active—that takes a toll on the body. Before, it was just me who knew. That’s one active soul. And the rest of you didn’t—you were inert. It was stable. You’ve stayed human, haven’t you? There’s—my soul, and Thyme laughs, bitter, it’s keeping us all stable. But it can only do so much. You know. Your souls know. And all that energy has to go somewhere.

But. Clover swallows.

Snowflake whispers, but you can fix it. Right? Thyme you can fix it.

Indigo says, carefully, you said, Asgore and Kindness knew.

I remember being Kindness more than I remember being Asgore. But mostly I’m just myself. Thyme shrugs. He crosses over to the window, leans across the counter to stare out it, where weak sunlight illuminates his edges. Not golden, though: it’s a faint sort of off-white, tinted green. There’s…there is something you can do. If we all stay here—that’s it. The body inevitably collapses under the weight of our souls. But…Clover, this was your body first.

Clover goes stiff. Like all the blood has drained from their face, they sway on their feet, are caught against Outlaw and Perseverance.

They want to say, no.

Souls can be—ejected. Thyme still won’t look at any of them. I’m not going to lie. It won’t be pretty. And—all of us, we’ll shatter. There’s nowhere else for our souls to go, and no time to preserve them, not with all the soul-containers broken. But Clover, your body will be your own again. You’ll be able to live.

Perseverance, I think you’re right. Outlaw twists their hand out of Clover’s, turning away. Souls come from science. ‘cause if God gave us souls—I can’t imagine why God would—would make it so—

Clover stiffens. What?

I’m sorry, Outlaw says, I’m sorry, Clover, if I knew any of this—

No. Clover tries reaching for him. Outlaw, no—

What do I have to do? Outlaw approaches Thyme. I’ll do it. Whatever I need to do.

Outlaw!

I’ll…yeah. Indigo looks, briefly, down at Snowflake—the little girl is rubbing the tear-stains from her eyes—before ze goes to join Outlaw. Zir voice is a hush as ze says, we’ve hurt you enough, Clover. This is your life. Not ours.

Clover blinks wet eyes. Indigo…

Don’t wanna hurt anyone, Snowflake whispers. You hurt ‘cause of us. Right?

You’re just… Clover stumbles, and without Outlaw at their side they fall, onto their knees on the kitchen floor. They killed the King. Twice over, they think, outside and inside. They lived. They lived. Why can’t everybody else? You shouldn’t…

I… Perseverance sighs. I hate this. But if it means at least one of us will be alright…

No! Clover grabs for Perseverance’s arm before she can leave, reaches out with their other for everybody else, Outlaw and Indigo and Snowflake so far away, and Thyme, furthest away of them all, and Clover isn’t enough, they know this. All they wanted, so long ago, was to find the missing humans. There has to be another way!

Clover, says Thyme, his voice thick with exhaustion, this is the only way you stay as you are. Otherwise, you’ll…

Die? Their lip curls. So what! Clover drags themself to their feet, stomping a foot. I was supposed to die! We all were! They throw their hands out wide. No human cares what happens to us, and no human cares what happens to the monsters, and—and if there’s something I can do, to make this, to make SOMETHING, I…

They rub at their eyes. I wanted to live, they say, and to do that, I…I killed Ceroba. I killed Asgore. I’m not killing you guys, too.

Clover, what have we done but ruin your life? Indigo’s frowning when ze looks back at them, zir eyes adverted. But steal time from you?

We’re…we’re like parasites, Clover. But Perseverance doesn’t shift away from them. We sap off you to live. It’s—noble, what you want to do, but…I don’t think it’s worth your life.

We made you pull a God-damned carriage! Outlaw’s voice cracks, and when he looks back to them there are tears in his eyes, and Clover thinks, have I ever seen them cry, before? We forced you out of your own body, Clover, I tried to pull you away from someone who cared about you. We used you, Clover. I…I can’t do that. Not again.

This is what you want, says Indigo. To be free from us.

They can still feel the sharp edges of the bit. The way their lungs heaved, with every step. Waking up terrified, because they were not where they were when they closed their eyes. Plans that were not their own. An endless stream of thought-voices, throbbing against their soul.

But here—in this broken kitchen, staring at Indigo, Perseverance, Snowflake, Outlaw—

They were alone. For so, so long, they were alone, and the weights they carried were weights forced onto them. They staggered underneath it. Nobody ever bothered to help.

They can feel the pain. But they can remember the little joys, too: Snowflake jumping, overjoyed, through the snow, wanting to fly; Outlaw’s steady comfort, I trust you, and how Clover’s entire being relaxed, because he knew, like they did, that they were no longer alone; Perseverance and how she pushed, kept pushing, but slowed, as she saw Clover’s exhaustion, rolled her eyes but walked them back home; Indigo’s hand on their side, how gentle ze was when ze took the reins, the cool rippling of water, somewhere peaceful to rest.

All of them, cutting Clover free.

Clover steps forwards.

Thyme, they ask, how did you buy time?

Thyme turns around. He doesn’t need to tell them what he did. It’s immediately obvious.

The soul that floats in front of Thyme’s chest is not Kindness’s soul, but it is not the King’s, either. It isn’t a gleaming white or a vivid, pulsing green, but instead it is a little floating heart, beating off-kilter, faint fracture lines creeping around the edges. It is a pale, faint thing, an off-white tinted green.

You have both souls?

Not exactly. Thyme cups the soul in his hands. It’s…one soul, that used to be two souls. Combined. I’m Thyme. That’s my name. But—Kindness, the human with the green soul, and Asgore, king of monsters…they ceased existing when I came into being. A human soul can absorb a monster soul. Not another human. He laughs, a bit bitter. Good thing a monster died with us then, right?

It’s only Perseverance, close enough for Clover to lean against, and she doesn’t push them away as they study the soul. It’s flickering, a fragile thing, and it’s…

This bought us time, Clover thinks aloud, because…a soul that is human and monster can—deal with the magic and the human-stuff. Right?

Yes, says Thyme, but it’s just one soul. It worked for a time. It won’t work forever, not with five other souls. Clover—

I am not, says Clover, letting you all die. They tilt their head. Five other souls…

In the hum of quiet, the only sound that comes from any of them is the faint pulse of the soul, an erratic heartbeat. It’s slower than any heart Clover has ever heard before, they think, and part of them wonders what that means for their body, far-away and outside: are they dying, out there? Does Martlet know?

They won’t do that to her. They can’t.

But they won’t leave their friends behind, either.

Five souls.

What if you had another soul?

Thyme jerks. What?

Another soul, and Clover words spill out as the idea takes shape, a grin spreading across their face. That’s the problem, right? A body can only handle so much soul-energy before it gives up and dies, but—but you bought time by making two souls one soul!! Well, if you absorb my soul, then—that’s one soul, and then four other souls.

Did you—not listen to a single thing I said? Thyme bristles. I can’t absorb your soul. It’s human.

Clover shakes their head. Sure, mine is. But yours isn’t. Not entirely.

I— Thyme takes a breath. You’re talking about—forcing things together. Souls don’t work like that. And even if they did, you—you don’t want to give me your soul. You wouldn’t be Clover, anymore, not really. You’d be—someone new.

But would it be enough? Clover takes a careful step closer to the soul, thinks they can feel the thump-pound of their own, somewhere behind their chest. They’ve seen their own soul shatter before—they still aren’t sure what strange magic brought them back, whatever it is Flowey can do. They know on this they won’t get a second chance. They haven’t seen him since the barrier.

But they aren’t scared. How could they be?

Clover, says Outlaw, and he puts out his hand before they can touch Thyme’s soul, attempt to coax out their own. Don’t you dare—

Save you? Clover bristles. I save who I want. Their voice is sharp, but when they look at Outlaw, his big, wide eyes—it softens, a tad. Outlaw, I’m not going to leave you all behind. No matter what you might’ve done, I—I forgive you. Is that enough?

Outlaw looks away from them. You shouldn’t throw yourself away. Not for me.

For all of you, though, Clover says, touching his shoulder. Outlaw…there is no coming back from this. If I do nothing, all of you die, and I’m stuck down here with the monsters. If I do this—well, I guess I don’t really know what happens. But it has to give us a better chance, right?

I don’t…

Thyme’s voice comes sharp. It won’t.

Clover turns to glare at him. If you’re trying to lie again—

What’s the point anymore? Thyme’s eyes are downcast. Clover, I tried to keep this from you. I tried to keep you all safe, and I failed. All I was ever able to do was buy you time, and—and make this all that much worse. Even if you somehow add your soul to this—he jabs a finger into his soul—all that does is buy everyone else another week, at best. There’s…we can’t survive, not like this. Not with so many souls.

Please, Outlaw whispers, into the heavy silence, Clover, at least save yourself.

Clover—

Wants, like a knife in their chest. Wants all of this to have mattered. Wants there to be something, something that isn’t them all dying, alone, terrified, in the dark. What good is everything they’ve done, if all they’ve managed to do is hurt everybody along the way?

But it has to work. Their voice cracks. There has to be something I can do.

Clover, I’m sorry. Thyme shakes his head. There isn’t.

Clover stares down at the dusty kitchen floor.

Ceroba. Asgore. Kindness. They killed Starlo’s best friend for nothing. They should’ve just died, then and there. At least then the monsters would get their soul. And Starlo wouldn’t have to live his life mourning his best friend. And Martlet wouldn’t have to watch them die. And the humans wouldn’t have tasted life, before it was all ripped away from them.

A hand on their shoulder. Clover jumps.

At their side, Perseverance says, what if it wasn’t just Clover?

Clover jerks. Perseverance?

The problem is us, right? Perseverance gestures to herself, over to Outlaw, to Indigo and Snowflake. We’re the excess souls. But—two souls becoming one. What if Clover and I both do the same thing? Combine three souls—yours, our two—into one. That leaves just three extra souls.

Clover blinks back tears. Perseverance…

She shoots them a grin. What, you’re the only one who gets to make a noble sacrifice? She huffs. I’ve dragged you around enough, I think. This time I’ll follow you.

This isn’t—Thyme takes a step back, pressing against the counter, and his soul fades back into his chest. Clover, Perseverance—I’m sorry, that this is hard. But…

I’ll do it, too. Indigo nudges zir way between Perseverance and Clover. If it gives some part of us a chance… she glances to Clover. Well, you saved me, when I thought all hope was lost. Might as well return the favor.

Me too!!! Snowflake clambers up Clover’s back, and they stagger underneath her weight. It’s—breathless is how they feel, too-light and a little bit dizzy, but the good sort of dizzy, and Snowflake rests her head atop theirs. I wanna be a part of a big soul!!! I don’t wanna… She looks down. I don’t want anybody to die. Or go away forever. I want to go back outside and play in the snow and make friends and I want us all to do that!! Forever and ever!

This isn’t… Thyme’s shaking his head. Why are all of you…?

Outlaw huffs. Is this some sort of coup against me?

Well, because clearly you’re slow to get with the program—

Perseverance, be nice, it’s not his fault he’s scared—

Outlaw don’t you wanna go back outside too?

Through the bickering Clover ducks underneath Perseverance’s arm, kneels to let Snowflake hop off their back, and approaches Outlaw, offering a hand.

I know it’s scary, they say, but…

There’s no way in hell I sit alone in your body, Clover. Outlaw sighs. You know, this was a whole lot easier when I just thought you were an annoying monster-loving brat.

Clover beams. Outlaw?

Yeah. What the hell. They take Clover’s hand. I’m in.

IT WON’T WORK!!!

Thyme’s voice rings out in the empty house, panting.

It won’t work, he repeats, his voice cracking, it’s…not going to work.

We’ll just have the one soul, though. Perseverance tilts her head. Which, while probably powerful, is still just the one. Our body will be able to handle it, right? Unless you’re keeping something else from us—

No. Thyme slumps with his elbows on the counter, staring blankly out the window. The glass has dusted over, mostly. Outside the cabin, there’s a thick fog rolling in, smothering the overgrown grass. It’s just…what you think will happen? It’s not going to work. We are here, talking, like this, because we are six individual souls. If—if we were all to become just one soul—I don’t know—

What happens to us? Clover approaches, nudging their shoulder against Thyme’s. Yeah. I sort of figured.

We’ll all be one soul, Indigo adds, hopping up to sit on the counter at Thyme’s other side. I can put some of the pieces together. You said it yourself—Kindness and Asgore are gone. Now you’re Thyme.

But they still make up your soul, so. Perseverance shrugs. I’m not scared of what happens.

If the other option is all of you die, Clover says, I’ll take the risk.

Snowflake shimmies her way to pop up between Thyme’s arms, patting his arm. It’ll be okay, she says. We won’t be alone!

Though I’m sure it’ll be scary as hell, says Outlaw. Not discounting that.

I just…wanted to keep you all safe. Thyme rubs at his eyes. If you do this—we aren’t coming back from it. Not as we were. We’ll…I don’t know what happens. I don’t even know if it works, but…no matter what, us, here, like this? Thyme lifts a hand, traces out a shape in the dust on the window: six heart-shaped souls. It won’t ever happen again.

Clover shrugs. That’s okay. I think it’ll be worth it. To get a chance.

Thyme looks at them, for a long moment. You’re…a better person than I could ever be, Clover. Turns his gaze to the rest of them. All of you are. This is… In his hands his soul manifests, green-white, a slow, staggering pulse. It’s a weight. A weight you’ll never be able to let go.

But I’m choosing it this time. Clover grins. All of us are. And weight isn’t so heavy when you have friends to pull it with you.

Clover doesn’t stretch for the soul alone. They do it together, them and everybody else, and Clover has no idea what comes from this. But outside the fog starts to lift, the dust of the cabin clears out, and Clover can see their old carriage, broken, pieces scattered. But here the six of them are, together, standing, still. And outside the grass tastes sweet, and there is no bit to bite against the soft parts of Clover’s jaw.

I, uh. Love you guys. If this is the last chance we get to say that.

Sap. But…yeah. Life is…nice. When you have people to share it with.

I love you! And you!! And you and you and you!!!

I’m glad you brought me back from the dead. Even if only for a bit.

…I’m sorry. I—I hope this works. I really, really hope.

They aren’t pulling alone anymore.

Chapter Text

The first thing Clover knows is the blue lump taking up most of their vision.

It’s fuzzy around the edges as they try to remember how to breathe, when every gasp for air is like pushing back against something heavy crushing them. Their soul beats, steady, in their chest, right alongside their heart: thump, thump, thump, and they time their breaths to it. In, out, in.

Feeling comes back first in their chest, then spreads, slowly, out across their limbs: to their fingertips, their toes. Everything about their body itches, like a shed skin, new and exposed, for the first time, to the outside world.

And then they realize they can hear.

“Clover!!!” The blue lump is wailing, its fuzzy edges coming into focus as Clover’s vision solidifies, shapes and colors coalescing into Martlet, and Clover tries to say her name but it comes out instead as a half-there wail, a high pitched keen, and when she gathers them up in her arms they feel touch as a burning-bright thing against every bit of their skin, singing home, home, home.

“You have to stop!” She hugs them tight against her, and Clover sinks into her warmth, scrabbling to grasp her back, to never, ever let go again. “You keep nearly dying, Clover, I don’t know—I don’t know how much more of it I can take.”

“Won’t,” they breathe against her, “promise. Promise promise promise.”

She worried for them. She really, truly worried about them, and they were very nearly too scared to ever see her again. It aches, in their chest.

“You were out for a week, Clover,” she says, burying her beak in their hair, and their ears twitch and press flat, to give her as much space as she needs. “Just—I thought—I thought you’d fallen down, that you wouldn’t ever…”

“Where…” Clover’s voice comes out thick. “Where are we?”

“Home,” Martlet breathes against their hair, ruffling the fur of their ears. “Home, Clover, I—” She draws in a breath. She was hurt. They remember, all-at-once: the Dunes, the gunshot, Starlo, who didn’t look back. When they lift their hand they trace the scabbed-over edges of her wound, and she doesn’t wince.

“I’m okay,” she tells them, shifting backwards. They’re in a bed, somehow: their bed, and doesn’t that draw a delighted laugh out of them? Theirs, theirs, theirs. This impossible life they thought they’d never get. They’re back at her house. “Turns out I can fly on a shoulder wound, if a Clover passes out in my lap and is entirely unresponsive.” She says it light, but she’s tense, too. There’s a fear held in her shoulders. A fear that was their fault. But they’re home now. “I promise. Got it checked out as soon as you were—were somewhere safter, and Starlo—he hasn’t reported me to the guard. There’s, um, bigger problems, I think.”

Clover says, “the King.”

“Well…”

“It’s okay.” Clover nudges their face against her side. “I know. I…I know.”

He’s gone. He’s not coming back.

Just like…

“Clover?” Martlet says, and they hum, tilt their head back to look up at her. “I…don’t want to put more on you than you can handle. But…I really do need to, um. Get you to a mirror. When you were—out, did. Did anything happen?”

“I…”

Found an empty cabin, and smashed six souls into one. It’ll terrify Martlet, they think—how are they supposed to explain it all to her? How do they start now?

Made a stupid life choice. It’s the truth, isn’t it? They had no idea what was going to happen. It could’ve killed them all. But they did it anyways.

Was just. They won’t ever be able to tell Martlet how, they don’t think. Even if they tell her one day, there’s some things they’ll have to keep to themselves. But—they were just. They looked at a world that did not care, and made the terrifying, wild choice to try and make things right, anyways.

Saved them all. Because at the end of the day, that’s what it was. Saving their friends.

They say none of that. Instead, they let Martlet go long enough for her to pick up the mirror she’s set on her bedside table, and she passes it to them, and they are—

The face that stares back at them is at once entirely unfamiliar, and the most familiar thing they’ve seen since waking up.

It’s human, mostly. The same general face structure, sure, same messy hair, though they’re missing their hat—they catch a glimpse of it on the post of the bed and their shoulders loosen—but their skin’s not all the same pale color, anymore, as though they’ve gained freckles, but no freckles spread that far, patches across their skin. When they trace the shapes the two-toned skin is smooth where the edges meet.

And beyond that, they…

They…

Some part of them giggles, and they rub at their eyes, thinking, well, that’s a darkly fitting tribute, isn’t it?

Because twitching atop their head are fox ears.

Big ones, too: the base connects where their ears would as a human, and they prick and flick when they lean back into Martlet, pressed sideways under her chin. They remind them of the kit foxes they used to see, sometimes, on the surface: gray at the tip with faint bits of dark fur, though where the base of their ear presses into their hair, feathers poke out of the fur, there, and down into their hair. Just between them poke out too small horns, just barely curling out of their hair, like Asgore’s.

And it’s not just the ears and horns, either: they are, if they had to describe it, human-adjacent. Their arms are—arms, still, their hands five-fingered, but their upper arm is feathered, a mottled mix of soft browns and creams, with a pattern of dark blue feathers peppered throughout. The feathers give way at their elbow to skin, but not really: it’s scaly, and their fingers have hardened into something talon-like. They flex them and the sharp points clicks together.

The feathers don’t stop at their arms, either, but prickle up the length of their spine, up to their shoulders, through which poke wings, fledgling things, the feathers scraggly around the edges. The feathers end in a thick ruff around their neck, and it puffs up when they stare at them, new and different, now: it makes them look bigger, some hope of avoiding a fight. It looks, sort of, like a five-pointed star.

If their soul is part monster, now, that…makes sense. Mostly human, a little bit monster. Bits and pieces from everyone they couldn’t help but care about. Bits and pieces from all of their friends.

Clover takes a breath. Their mind is quiet. Their head doesn’t hurt so much, anymore, but it’s a sort of empty lack of pain—they grew used to it. With the hurt came chatter.

It’s…lonely, in their empty head.

They grab for Martlet’s hand, splaying out their new feathers alongside hers. Flex a wing. Martlet straightens out some of the feathers. The inside is a soft cream, the outside the warm brown of their hair. Blue feathers are scattered throughout.

“I…I don’t know why it happened,” she tells them, after a moment. “You were human when we were in the Dunes, but as time went on, things—”

“Changed.” They swallow. “It’s okay. I think I…”

Pressing a hand over their chest, they call for their soul, and it manifests in the outside around them.

Martlet’s feathers fluff out. “Clover—”

Clover sniffs, rubbing at their eyes. A bit harder to do with talons, now. They nearly pierce the skin.

I knew it would be different, but…looking at it, and knowing, are two very distinct things.

They have a soul in patchwork.

It’s fragile, they can tell: they think it shakes in time with them, casting its kaleidoscope light. Something dazzling and never done before, but theirs, despite that. Clover can’t help but grin, just a tad.

The core of it is something they recognize: a pale, off-white, green soul, human and monster, intertwined. It floats before them as an upside-down heart, and around it…

Like something knit, carefully together, with every care taken to make it stay in place, the outside of their soul is made of four main colors, that start in their own corners, and mix and meld together as they reach for the center. A soft gentle cyan, a cool deep blue, a warm burning orange, and a flashy royal purple. And there at the places where their soul might chafe, where the edges might not line up, is yellow: reaching out, and holding them all together.

Martlet breathes, “Clover…”

“It’s okay,” they say, through their tears. Their new feathers are soft where they rub against their skin, and when they press into Martlet’s side, the fuzz of their ear flares out against her feathers. Something new. But them, too. Still them. “It’s—it’s good. It’s really, really good.”

They close their eyes. Just the darkness behind their eyelids: red-hued with the tint of their skin. No grass, no stars, no voices made tangible in that intangible space, no them and Indigo watching Perseverance and Outlaw wrestling each other across the driver’s seat, no Snowflake giggling. All those days—scary as they might be, still held dear—swallowed up by the darkness of real life.

So that’s what Thyme meant, they realize, when he said—in the kitchen, that would be…

Be the last time we’d ever…

But, don’t give up so easily, says a voice in their head that sounds so much like Perseverance it makes their heart ache. And after them comes the others: Thyme’s been wrong before. We’re alive. We’re all here.

It’s not them. Clover’s mind stays empty as ever, but...some leftover impression of them, maybe.

Clover thinks, piecemeal.

They curl up in Martlet’s lap, and manifest their soul again. There its patchwork colors illuminate their feathers.

“Martlet?” they ask.

She presses her beak to their hair. “Yeah?”

“I want to stay with you,” they say. “I—I don’t know what happens next. But I know that.”

“Oh, Clover,” she says, and she hugs them tight, and Clover’s soul glows a rainbow, “you can always stay. This is your home, too.”

“Yeah,” they sniff, “yeah. We know that, now.”

So it goes like this.

Martlet starts doing some renovation, and finally gets her bed back. Clover opens the door to a room of their own, and rolls around in their bed, and still, somehow, finds Martlet’s feathers in there, but mostly they find their own. They get their wings stuck in the blankets and tear their way free with talons sharper than any fingernails could ever be. They help Martlet make breakfast. They watch the news together, not talking, not knowing how to talk about it. The monster kingdom has lost five human souls, one living human, and their king.

Martlet quits her job. Starts taking up commissioned work, instead, trying to build something new, something to last. They both jump at noises in the night, but they’re never reported. Slowly, Clover starts leaving the house, Martlet tensed to grab them and flee should somebody suspect them of something—but they aren’t really a human, not anymore. Snowdin, they find, thinks them to be a very weird monster.

Clover learns that they’re very, very bad at preening, but despite that their feathers stay in pretty good shape. They cut careful holes in their hat, affix it on their head, their ears poking out, the faint impression of horns light against the fabric. Think, I’m sorry, Ceroba. That I never gave you another chance.

Their ears pin flat. They take a breath. I promise I won’t waste mine.

Clover wakes up, and loses time, sometimes. Martlet references things they did, that Clover has no memory of. They close their eyes, and see only darkness, and cannot reach that inside world no matter how hard they think of it. Sometimes the grief sits so thick across their heart that they cannot drag themself out of bed, their wings wrapped around them, and they pull at the feathers until the pain blinds them. Sometimes they wake up at the barrier, talons splayed against its shimmering surface, and they can only ever get halfway through.

At the barrier is the only place they ever catch half-shadowed glimpses of a golden flower. Staring into the throne room they wonder, sometimes. Their ruff bristled up, making them bigger, a five-pointed star, daring somebody to try and mess with them. Nobody ever shows up. Clover’s not sure if they want him to.

But sometimes they wake up and someone has preened their feathers. Sometimes they wake up and there’s toys scattered across their room, things they never would’ve picked up on their own. Half-finished projects across several sheets of graph paper. Outlaw and Perseverance’s old map, taped up to their wall.

One day they wake up to a journal on their bedside table and several colored pens lying carefully beside it. It’s been left open to the first page, where someone has written, in purple ink:

I miss you guys. But I know you’re there, somewhere, even if I cannot reach it. Please be responsible with the pens, I spent a long time finding them. And, Outlaw, because I know there is nobody else who would annoy me in this way, if you pick up my things, put them back where you found them!! How am I supposed to reverse-engineer the fact that you were, for some reason, in Steamworks??? I had to ask Martlet! And I don’t think the robot who lives there likes me very much!

Clover’s grin splits their face.

They scrawl, picking up the yellow pen, oops I think that was me actually.

Can whoever preens good give me the muscle memory??? Thanks.

Clover laughs, a lot. The missing pieces in their memory aren’t always so scary, not when they get to read them, in Indigo’s careful cursive, or Snowflake’s doodles recreating her days, her eternal mission to get Martlet to teach them to fly, because they have WINGS now!!! Surely it’ll work!! Perseverance makes a lot of lists. Wants to figure out what they are, how magic manifests, in their patchwork soul. Outlaw makes lists of his own, with one item each: new hair ties, and underneath it, Perseverance if you keep breaking our hair ties I am going to lose it.

Martlet teaches them woodworking. Clover and Outlaw are good at it; Indigo, Perseverance, and Snowflake, not so much. Clover opens their eyes once to a knife-wound cut accidentally in the side of their hand, and they and Martlet both watch, fascinated, as their blood fizzes like dust around the edges.

“Think I’m a freak of nature,” they tell Martlet, when she’s grabbed a bandage for them.

“No, you’re Clover, whom I love very much.” She smooths their feathers back into place, nips affectionately at the twitching tip of their ear. “Maybe we leave the woodworking for another day. Is your hand okay?”

They flex it. The little scales shimmer in the dim light. “Yeah. Do you think we could build a snow-castle?”

They lose a lot of that time. Snowflake’s filled a page of their notebooks with drawings of many towering snow-castles, and, in her light blue pen, they kept falling over!!!! :(

Clover grins, stretching out in their bed, and in that fuzzy inbetween of asleep and awake, a voice that sounds a lot like Outlaw says, you’re our freak of nature, bud. Glad we met.

They giggle back. Me too.

It’s not easy, because of course it isn’t. Some days they can hardly get dressed because their head is so fuzzy, and Martlet has to remind them about important dates and times, over and over again. They’re terrified she’ll find out that they aren’t always Clover. Even more terrified that she already knows. In their bed they lash out and thrash and tear up more things than they ever have before, and tremble, waiting for Martlet to throw them out: some days they can do nothing but hide away waiting for the other shoe to drop.

They miss time they wanted, and go days with nothing but dark lines in their journal, jumping when they catch a glimpse of themself in the mirror, an unfamiliar familiarity that makes their skin crawl and their feathers prickle up.

They’re the reason monsters are without a king, are trapped with even less hope than before. They’re the reason Ceroba is dead. Some days they don’t leave their bed, and feel even worse, because Martlet let them into her home, and this is all they have to repay her by?

They aren’t a human, but they aren’t entirely a monster, either. They stare at their patchwork soul, and want to squeeze it until it shatters, sometimes, until it breaks back apart into pieces, because even if they die maybe, maybe, for a few brief moments they’ll be somewhere together again, them, Outlaw, Perseverance, Indigo, Snowflake, maybe even Thyme, maybe even Kindness and Asgore—somewhere, and then the end.

Martlet introduces them to her family. Clover finds out about it in their journal, carefully listed names and descriptions, and they stare at them and trace the cursive until the dark ink has blotted from their tears.

They start school. Their first week is a page in the journal and Clover stumbles in on what should be day six, knowing nothing and nobody, and they bristle and flare out their wings, jerk away from other kids acting as if they’re friends, taste magic thick like brambles in their throat, and eventually Martlet gets called and has to take them home early.

Their journal fills up. Perseverance leaves a new one on the bedside table, and Clover tears their room apart trying to find the old one, trying to know where she put it, to see the others’ handwriting, read their stories, trace the shape of their letters, and pretend they aren’t so alone. They’re stuck for a week, fuzzy and hurting and alone, with nothing but their own yellow letters staring back up them from the empty pages: where is it where is it you moved it i need it where is it.

They wake up one afternoon to two purple words in the new journal: bedside drawer.

They remember, vividly, how they took every item in every drawer out. How they sobbed into Martlet and could not tell her what was wrong. They checked their bedside drawer, over and over again.

They open it. Their journal is there. Wrapped around it they read words writ by their-hand-but-not, and breathe a bit easier.

When Martlet’s birthday rolls around Clover finds themself in the kitchen, trying to make her a cake, and they can’t believe they’re alive. That they made it this far.

In the end it takes all of them to make a cake—Clover pops in and out and despite the fuzziness of their head it’s fun, even if the cake is burnt and lopsided, and Snowflake upended an entire bowl of seeds on top, and Outlaw ate most of the frosting Indigo so carefully made, and Perseverance put in way too much sugar.

One of them presents it to her. Maybe all of them. Afterwards Clover isn’t too sure.

But in the moment they—Clover-they, or maybe one of the others, Clover lingering on the outskirts of consciousness—hold it out to her when she walks in on them halfway through trying to clean the kitchen, and she does cry, and the cake is pretty good, and there, on the couch, when their plates have been picked clean, she pulls them to her side, and says, pressing her beak into their hair, “I love you so much, kid.”

Someone squeals. Someone else burrows deeper against her, as if drinking up all her warmth.

And Clover knows that no matter which of them says it, the feeling is one they all share, when they whisper back, “I love you, too.”

So, yeah. Easy, not-easy, but they live, all of them, somehow.

Clover has one soul. They share it with a few other people. Good friends of theirs.

One day, Clover will find their way to that internal world again: a sweet field of green, where they will run and dance and laugh, and they won’t be alone. One day they’ll get more than half-heard words on the edge of wakefulness, and they’ll hear memories in voice, not text on paper. One day they’ll roll in the grass, and wrestle with Outlaw. They’ll bicker with Perseverance and watch clouds with Indigo. Build something nice with Snowflake. Maybe catch a glimpse of Thyme, waving, from a distance.

One day they are going to tell Martlet everything.

But today they wake up, and they still don’t think any of this is justice, not really. But it’s theirs. Theirs, plural. It’s kind of the scariest thing in the world, but it’s also something they couldn’t ever let go.

Clover stands, and grins at themself in the mirror. Weird as hell human. Fox-ears sticking through their worn hat. A bit of couch cushion stuck to a horn. Feathers clinging to everything, because they’re still not so good at preening, and it drives Martlet mad.

Hey, guys, they say, I’m glad I’m not doing this all alone.

In their chest their patchwork soul beats: here, here, here.