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Deep into the woods of Mt. Ebbot is a child. They are running along a path they have countless times, a stick in hand, and an old and peeling bandaid across their nose. On a whim, they veer left on a fork in the wood, taking the path less traveled, the road not taken. They hop down the more craggy path, from on one foot, and then the next. They wobble, teeter, and then firmly jab their stick in the ground to steady themselves, still alight with the thrill of adventure. The way they do so is practiced, and they continue to venter along the grassy, wooded area without a care in the world. The birds are singing, flowers are blooming, and the sun is warm on their back. They hop over a fallen log, and in the process pause, spotting a nearby cave. They blink, interest piqued.
Curiosity gets to them. Humanity’s one true sin. They wander close. Peering inside, they see nothing out of the ordinary… except a large, deep hole.
One step closer is their undoing. It’s a confident step, one made without thought or caution. Their foot catches on a root, pitching them forward into the darkness of the large hole they were debating on throwing rocks into just moments prior. Their grin vanishes, panic replacing any sense of whimsy and adventure they were feeling before.
Frisk screams the entire way down.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Somewhere within the line of all that is real and all that isn’t, a lost SOUL sleeps. The constant state of unreality is a difficult one to bear. Long periods of unconsciousness is to be expected, and they are no exception. They dream while floating weightless in that endless abyss of darkness, the unliving incarnation of the call of the Void. Of what, they do not know. But they do dream, lights and smells and people flickering behind their closed eyelids. Memories of those who once were. Of those who are. And of those who will never be again.
Their placid face and shut eyes do not see the sudden light that opens up above them. Not a crack in the nothing, no. A slowly growing shine. A speck, then more, then more, until what glows above them could be the sun for all they know, in all its golden glory. It illuminates the lost SOUL, the faded green and yellow of their shirt, the redness around their eyes. The light shines upon the most noticeable thing about them, as though paying it special care.
A shattered SOUL. It floats in front of them, in front of hands that are not quite at their sides, not quite at their chest. The few fragments gleam dimly in the light.
Soft motes of what could be dust softly drift down through the light now… and then comes what caused it. A string of deep, bright crimson. Reaching out, looping in on itself, making its way slowly to the child floating weightless in their own mind.
It takes its time. Though it has a set destination, the bright red thread does not rush. It meanders, it mosies. Fate is almost playful in nature, as fickle a thing it is. It reaches the child’s wrist first, loops around it like a cat would one’s legs when greeting a long lost friend. The child’s pointer finger twitches, but there is no other reaction. The spirited, mischievous thread of Determination itself then rushes forward, winding itself into its destination. It loops, it twirls, until it finally makes its way to the desaturated remnants of their SOUL.
Chara’s eyes snap open. The thread pulls taut. Their eyes are the same shade of it, the dazzling red of determination bleeding into the darkness around them, dyeing their pale skin and shirt with its brilliance. The moment Frisk hits the ground, the world pulses with the red of determination, the metaphysical shockwave of it far outlasting the flash of light, and the timeline changes hands, for the first time in close to a century.