Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun filtered softly through the stained-glass windows of the castle, casting warm kaleidoscopic patterns along the stone corridor. It was early—too early for most monsters to be stirring—and the corridors were quiet except for the muffled drip of yesterday's rainwater still clinging to the eaves.

Frisk had not slept. Her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, but no dreams came to rescue her last night, and she hadn’t sought them.

She had sat alone with the photograph in her lap for hours, her clawed hands tracing the cracked glass with a reverence that bordered on grief. Each face in the image was a ghost with a voice she could still hear. Her father’s soft jokes while dressing wounds. Her mother’s humming while writing lesson plans late into the night. Cam’s wild laughter as they spun in the grass, arms stretched wide like wings.

And now—only her. A hollow-bodied imitation of a human girl, twisted into a Boss Monster’s form, caged in a kingdom that would never see her as anything but other.

She had not spoken to anyone since.

The quiet was broken by a soft knock.

She blinked slowly, head raising from her arms. The door creaked open a few inches, and Asriel’s white-furred face peeked inside, tentative, unreadable.

“I… I thought you might be awake,” he said gently. “Do you want breakfast?”

She didn’t respond.

“I can leave it outside if you’d rather not see me.”

Still silence.

He started to close the door when her hoarse voice finally rose.

“…No. Wait.”

He paused.

She sat up straighter, hugging the photo frame to her chest. Her voice cracked, and it sounded smaller than it had ever felt inside her.

“…Could we talk?”

Asriel opened the door wider, uncertain. His paws fidgeted at his sides. “Of course.”

She didn’t rise, so he stepped in carefully, closing the door behind him with a soft click. There was a long silence as he crossed the room, the fur on the back of his neck bristling with nerves. Finally, he sat a respectful distance from her on the edge of the bed.

Frisk watched him. Her claws curled slightly in the fur of her forearm.

“I’m sorry for yesterday,” she said, her voice a brittle whisper.

Asriel’s eyes widened. “You don’t have to—Frisk, you don’t need to apologize. I—what you said wasn’t wrong.”

Her shoulders tensed. “I didn’t… want to explode like that. But I couldn’t breathe. Everything was too much. I just—I needed something to break.”

“I know.” He looked down at his hands, resting in his lap. “I should have never let Mettaton talk like that. Or Alphys. Or myself. You were right.”

Her jaw tightened. She looked away. “You weren’t the only one.”

Asriel hesitated. “Can I… ask something?”

She nodded slowly.

He looked at her—not as a prince, not as the heir of the throne, but as a scared, conflicted soul with a heavy crown on his shoulders.

“When you said I was using you to… replace Chara… did you mean that?”

She flinched.

“I meant it when I said you were using me,” she said slowly, carefully. “Whether it was about Chara or not… I don’t know. But I felt like a puppet yesterday. Like everything I did or said was being watched, interpreted, judged.”

Asriel closed his eyes.

“I think part of me…” He swallowed. “…wanted to make up for something I couldn’t fix. I wanted to believe if I just tried hard enough, if I gave you everything I could, maybe you’d stop hating me. Maybe I’d earn forgiveness.”

“You can’t earn forgiveness like a prize,” she said sharply, but not unkindly. “It’s not a favor. It’s a choice. And it’s not something I owe you.”

“I know. I just…” He looked at her, and his expression was open, vulnerable. “I just wanted to matter to you.”

Frisk was quiet for a long time.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and without anger.

“You do. That’s what makes this harder.”

Asriel blinked. “I… do?”

She nodded once. Her eyes were wet, but there were no tears on her furred cheeks. “You’re not my enemy, Asriel. But you’re not my friend, either. Not yet. You’re… complicated. Everything about this place is complicated.”

Asriel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“I want to understand,” he said quietly. “I want to… help you. I just don’t know how.”

Frisk looked down at the photograph in her lap. “Help me by letting me be angry sometimes. Help me by not treating me like I’m fragile china you need to walk on eggshells around. Help me by… not making this about how it hurts you.”

He nodded solemnly.

“I can do that.”

They sat in silence for a while. The kind that wasn’t hostile, just heavy.

Then Frisk said something unexpected.

“…You weren’t wrong about one thing.”

Asriel tilted his head.

“I am stuck here,” she said. “But when I look at you, I don’t see a captor. I see someone as stuck as I am. You wear your crown like it’s made of iron, not gold.”

He stared at her, startled.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, “that makes it a little easier. To talk. To eat. To wake up.”

The words hung in the air like something sacred.

Asriel looked down at his claws, blinking quickly.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Frisk looked away again. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I won’t,” he promised with a gentle smile.

They sat together, two souls caught between past and present, trying to find something real in the ruins between them.

The soft clink of breakfast dishes echoed from downstairs. Frisk’s stomach growled, embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. She clutched her belly, mortified.

Asriel gave a small, gentle laugh—not mocking, but warm. “Sounds like you skipped dinner and breakfast.”

Frisk made a face. “Not like I had an appetite.”

“Well…” he stood, brushing his robe lightly. “I kept your slice of pie. It’s in the cooler downstairs. I could make tea too.”

Frisk looked hesitant.

“It’s not a trick,” he added. “You can come downstairs when you want. Or I can bring it here. Or… neither. Whatever you need.”

She looked at the photo one last time and gently set it down on the bed beside her. “...Okay. I’ll come.”

They walked together in silence. Not awkward, just quiet. As they passed the tall windows, the light streaming in painted rainbows over Frisk’s shoulders. For a fleeting moment, the cold stone halls didn’t feel so oppressively vast.

The castle’s kitchen was mostly quiet, save for a single staff monster humming faintly and scrubbing a pan in the corner. Asriel thanked them with a quiet nod before pulling out the wrapped pie from the cooler and reheating it with a flick of his fire magic. Frisk took a seat at the end of the island counter, watching him work.

He wasn’t graceful about it. The knife clattered once. The mug of tea steamed a little too quickly, leaving it scalding. The pie plate scraped noisily on the countertop.

Frisk said nothing, but something about the quiet effort brought the tension in her shoulders down another notch.

Asriel set the plate before her and took a seat nearby with his own tea. She didn’t dive in—but she didn’t push it away either. A small progress.

They sat quietly, the only sound the light tap of claws on ceramic as she cautiously took her first bite.

“…Still good,” she muttered, a little grudgingly.

Asriel smiled at that.

After a while, she asked, “That psychologist you mentioned last night. Was that real?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“Mettaton said something about a monster therapist. For youth.”

“Oh—yeah. That’s real. Dr. Mielle in the capital. She used to work with post-trauma war survivors, then shifted to helping monster kids integrate post-war. Her work’s been… invaluable, actually.”

Frisk poked at the pie. “Do you think she’d help someone like me?”

Asriel blinked. “I… I don’t know. She might.”

“I’m not saying I want to go.” Frisk shook her head. “Just… wondering what you monsters even do for trauma.”

He gave a wry smile. “Cry a lot. Write weird poetry. Bake. Drink too much tea. See someone who’ll actually listen.” He raised his cup. “We’re not all that different from humans that way, I think.”

Frisk looked unconvinced. “Except when you are. ”

“…Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a beat longer. Then Asriel braved a question.

“Frisk… last night, when you said you didn’t choose any of this… I get that. I do. But have you ever wondered what you want? Like, when you’re not thinking about escaping, surviving, getting out? Have you thought about… what your life could look like, if you weren’t trapped here?”

She blinked at him, expression guarded. “You mean… like a dream?”

“Something like that.”

She stared at her half-eaten pie.

“…I wanted to become a doctor, like my dad. Not a surgeon. He was a field medic. But I wanted to help people. Learn about the body. Learn how to fix things.”

“That makes sense,” he said softly. “You’re good at watching. You read people quickly.”

Frisk made a face. “That’s not really a skill when your life depends on it.”

“No, but it makes you strong.”

She looked away. “I wanted to go to university. Somewhere far away, where nobody knew who I was. I wanted to grow up, have a place of my own, maybe even… even come back someday and fix what was left behind.”

Asriel’s voice dropped, almost reverent. “That’s beautiful.”

She laughed, bitter. “It’s naive. That town’s gone. My family’s gone. And I’m not even human anymore. What kind of doctor do you think I’d make with claws and fangs and a soul marked by war?”

He didn’t look away. “The kind who still wants to help people.”

Her shoulders sagged.

He looked down at his own cup. “I used to want to be a teacher. Like my mom.”

Frisk blinked. “Really?”

He nodded. “History, maybe. Or magic theory. Something quiet. I thought… after all the dust settled, maybe I’d teach kids who didn’t know what war even was.”

“That’s pretty idealistic for a prince.”

“I was eight.”

She gave a snort of amusement. “Fair enough.”

He watched her for a long moment. The warmth in his eyes didn’t feel performative or princely. It felt… steady.

“You’re still you, Frisk,” he said at last. “No matter what they…. or… er… we did to your body. we didn’t take your dreams from you. Not really. You still get to want things. You still get to hope.”

She stared at him.

“…Even if I’m a monster?”

His voice was sure when he said it. “Especially then.”

Frisk’s eyes held on his a moment longer. Something in her gaze flickered—still guarded, but less hardened. Like the wall hadn’t fallen, but a window had cracked open.

She looked down, then asked quietly, “Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we met differently?”

Asriel blinked. “Differently how?”

“I don’t know. Maybe in your dream school, or my dad’s clinic. Or on a dumb school trip somewhere weird. Not like this.” She gestured vaguely at herself, at the castle. “Not with chains. Not with graves between us.”

Asriel swallowed hard. “All the time.”

Frisk gave a soft, almost humorless chuckle. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “When you first showed up… you were terrified. But brave. So damn brave. I thought: ‘I know this kind of human. I’ve met one like her before.’ But then you spoke, and you were nothing like them. You weren’t Chara. You weren’t anything I expected. And then, after everything… I just kept thinking how different it could’ve been if things had gone… right.”

Frisk glanced at him. “What would ‘right’ even look like?”

He considered it for a long moment.

“I guess… you’d have wandered in, asked about monster history, made some biting comment about our architecture, and I’d have said something awkward. And then maybe we’d argue about cultural perspectives and end up agreeing on one thing: how dumb our furniture looks.”

She snorted. “You mean those chairs with the fire-breathing goats carved into the legs?”

His face flushed. “They’re… traditional.”

Frisk raised a brow.

“…Okay, they’re tacky,” he admitted. “But nostalgic.”

“I’d still mock you for them.”

“I’d expect no less.”

The quiet chuckle they shared hung between them. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

A bird trilled somewhere beyond the high windows. Morning was giving way to day. The world felt deceptively normal for a moment.

“…Why did you keep me alive?” Frisk asked, suddenly.

Asriel’s breath caught. “What?”

“You had the order. You could’ve killed me. Or turned me in and washed your hands of it. But you didn’t. Why?”

He sat back, staring at the table. The steam from his tea had long faded.

“I told myself it was for information. For political reasons. That I’d… get something useful. That I could convince you to give us insight into humanity.”

Frisk stared.

He continued, quieter. “But the truth is… I saw myself in you. And not just because of Chara. I saw someone young and scared and angry who’d lost everything. And I thought: if I can just save one person, maybe I can stop being the kind of monster who’s only good at war.”

“…You’re not that kind of monster.”

He looked up, surprised.

“You make dumb jokes. You burn tea. You care too much about everyone’s feelings. You hate hurting people.”

She shook her head. “You’re not good at war. You’re good at pretending you are.”

“…That’s not much better.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

They sat in the hush that followed, soft and aching.

Frisk picked up her fork again. Took another bite.

“I’m not going to forgive any of this. Not for a long time. Maybe never,” she said after a moment.

“I don’t expect you to.”

“But… I think I can talk to you. Like this. For real.”

Asriel looked at her. Hope and pain and something unspoken played behind his eyes.

“I’d like that.”

Frisk set her fork down.

“…You said you had a second room set up. Not the one where I had the nightmare.”

He nodded.

“I want to stay there. Alone. No guards, no lock. Just… just me. Just for a while.”

Asriel hesitated.

“I won’t run,” she added quickly. “Not today.”

His ears twitched. Then he gave a small nod.

“Alright. Just today.”

She stood. So did he. They didn’t hug. They didn’t touch. But she looked at him, straight on, and said softly:

“Thank you. For the photo.”

Then she left.

And Asriel stood still, hands around his empty cup, knowing something in the balance had shifted.

Maybe not trust.
Maybe not forgiveness.
But something fragile and real had grown between them—
Something neither war nor grief could easily kill.

Frisk didn’t go back to her usual guest room.

Asriel had gestured her toward the smaller, unused one across the hall from his own—a quiet chamber with soft, cool lighting and a bed that didn’t smell of stale linen or scented oils. There were no grand murals or tapestries bearing the Delta Rune, just a plain wooden desk, an armchair with a few uneven stitches, and a half-empty bookshelf still waiting for its first real tenant.

It felt… untouched. Like a room for a real person, not a relic of royalty or a carefully curated prisoner suite.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she slumped into the chair and let her breath escape. It left her body like a balloon deflating—slow, tired, and sad. Her fingers shook slightly as they traced the photo frame again.

Her mother’s tired smile. Her dad’s weathered hands. Cam’s stupid joy.

Frisk held the frame to her chest and curled up sideways in the chair. The ache that had clenched her heart for months didn’t loosen, but it shifted. Softened, maybe.

She didn’t cry. Not this time. There was something dry and empty in her now, like the eye of a storm.

But she held onto their faces. Memorized every little detail again. That was something monsters hadn’t taken from her. That was something she still had.

Hours passed.

She didn’t sleep. Didn’t move, much. Just rested there, clutching the last piece of a broken life.

A knock finally stirred her.

It was hesitant. A pattern that paused halfway through. She knew who it was before she opened the door.

“…Come in,” she said, voice hoarse.

Alphys peeked around the corner. Her eyes were red, her snout trembling faintly.

“I… I brought tea,” the lizard said quietly, holding a tray awkwardly in both claws. “Um. Not snail tea. Just… uh… cinnamon. And, um… crackers.”

Frisk didn’t answer, but she opened the door wider.

The scientist shuffled in and set the tray on the desk. Her tail curled around her ankles nervously.

“I, um… I didn’t come to… to ask anything. I just… I wanted to give you something, too. Even if you didn’t want to see me.”

Frisk sat back in the chair. “I don’t hate tea.”

Alphys gave a weak smile. “Okay. Th-that’s… that’s good…”

An awkward silence fell. The lizard fidgeted.

“…Are you here because Asriel told you to?” Frisk asked at last.

“No!” Alphys said quickly. “No, I—he doesn’t even know. I… I just…”

She wrung her claws. “What you said last night—everything—it was all true. And I’m not going to apologize again. Because… because you were right about that, too.”

Frisk raised an eyebrow.

The lizard took a breath.

“I’m not going to say I care about humans. I—I wanted to. But I didn’t stop the bombs. I didn’t stop the reaping. I didn’t quit my job, even after I saw the pictures of your village. I still designed armor that crushes ribs and gloves that can rip out a ribcage in one punch.”

Her voice was flat now. Not robotic—just bitter.

“I told myself I was helping monsters survive. That someone had to do it. But I never stopped to think what surviving like that would even mean. For us. For anyone.”

Frisk watched her carefully. Alphys wasn’t tearing up this time. She looked hollow, but composed.

“I don’t know if I can undo what I did,” Alphys said. “I don’t know if I deserve to. But if there’s ever something I can do for you—not to make it right, but just… just to matter—I want to. Even if all you ever want from me is silence.”

Frisk stared at the lizard scientist a long while.

Then, slowly, she reached for the cup of tea.

Alphys watched her lift it to her lips. She sipped. Not good. Not bad. Just… warm.

Frisk nodded faintly.

“…Okay,” she said.

Alphys gave a tiny exhale, like a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and without waiting for more, turned and left the room.

Frisk sat there for a while longer, sipping in silence.

The wind outside rustled the tower curtains.

She didn’t know if she trusted any of them. She didn’t know what tomorrow would look like.

But something had changed.

They weren’t monsters to her anymore.

Not entirely.

Meanwhile, in the depths of the castle…

Asriel stood alone in the courtyard greenhouse.

It was an indoor grove—a warm haven lined with glowing mushrooms, glassy ferns, and starlit vines curling around luminous stalks. The artificial sky painted overhead shimmered in imitation of night.

He knelt by a flowerbed and stared at a familiar yellow bloom. A golden echo of another time.

One that didn’t belong to him anymore.

“You should never have made her stay,” he murmured aloud to no one. “You should’ve let her go when she still hated you.”

He stood slowly.

He had a plan to finish.

One final gift.

Something that would give Frisk a choice.

Freedom. On her own terms.

No more pretending.

No more holding her soul hostage.

Just one more thread to cut.

And maybe then, when she was gone, he could finally start forgiving himself.

Morning came gently—gray skies, low clouds, the scent of wet stone and moss on the air.

Frisk sat on the windowsill of the guest room, legs drawn up, tail curled beside her. She hadn't touched the photo since last night. It remained on the desk, half-tilted, its new frame catching slivers of dull light.

When she heard the quiet knock at her door, she didn’t speak. But the door creaked open anyway.

Asriel stood there, his princely robes exchanged for a simple tunic and scarf. His eyes were tired but clearer than she’d seen them in days.

“I figured you’d be up.”

Frisk turned her gaze toward the sky outside.

“Yeah.”

“Can I come in?”

“…Yeah.”

He stepped in but didn’t sit, just leaned against the far wall. There was a long silence.

“I know I messed up yesterday,” he said at last. “I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

Frisk didn’t respond, but her ears twitched, alert.

“You were right about a lot of what you said. I’ve been treating you like something you’re not. Someone you're not.”

“…You mean Chara.”

Asriel flinched.

“Yes.”

More silence.

Frisk finally turned to look at him. Her eyes were still puffy, her fur unkempt. Her expression unreadable.

“I’m not them. I never was. But you already knew that.”

“I did,” he said softly. “But I was… selfish. I wanted someone to understand. Someone to fill a space I’ve never known how to live without. And it wasn’t fair to put that on you.”

Frisk studied him, the storm in her chest now more like slow rain.

“You didn’t just want understanding. You wanted… permission.”

He blinked. “Permission?”

“Permission to pretend things were okay. That maybe this—me, being here—wasn’t as terrible as it is. You wanted someone to tell you it was okay to still love someone you lost. That they didn’t really leave you.”

She stood, brushing dust from her skirt, her tone turning quiet.

“And I wanted someone to tell me that what happened to my family wasn’t pointless.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn’t cry again.

Instead, she looked at him, hard.

“I’m not your salvation, Asriel. And you’re not mine. But we’re both hurting. And maybe that means we can still do something that isn’t awful.”

He swallowed thickly.

“…Frisk,” he said, “if you wanted to go… I’d understand. I’d make sure you could. You don’t owe me anything.”

Her lips pressed together. She walked past him, stood by the door.

Then turned to him again.

“I don’t want to go.”

He froze.

“…You don’t?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not until I have what I need.”

He stepped closer. “And what’s that?”

“Closure.” Her voice was soft but certain. “Answers. Truth. I want to understand what happened. All of it. I want to see the places I’ve only heard about. I want to know the names of the monsters who were there. I want to stand on the ground my parents died on.”

She looked up at him, eyes shining.

“And then… maybe… I’ll decide whether I can stay longer.”

Asriel’s breath left him like a slow exhale. He nodded.

“Then I’ll give you that. Whatever you want to know. Wherever you want to go. We’ll find it.”

“I don’t need a tour guide,” she muttered.

“No,” he said. “But maybe you could use a friend.”

Frisk gave him a long look.

Then, slowly, she gave a small nod.

“…Maybe.”

They stood there in the stillness of morning, no longer enemies, not quite allies—two broken souls trying to rebuild something from the ruins they both inherited.

Not salvation.

Not forgiveness.

Just the beginning of something new.

Chapter Text

The robe was still too much.

Royal purple, the Delta Rune stitched across her chest like a label she hadn’t asked for. It clung to Frisk’s changed form—taller, heavier with magic, unmistakably monstrous. A symbol.

Just like the rest of her life had become.

But she wore it anyway. Not for dignity. Not for appearances.

She wore it because she had agreed. And because Asriel had asked—not as a prince, but as someone trying very hard not to ask too much.

And maybe… because she wanted to see what it would feel like to walk through the world again. Without chains, without cells. With some illusion of choice, however fragile.

The Capitol’s clean air stung her lungs with how alive it was.

The streets were wide, polished, and full of monsters who pretended not to stare too hard. The buildings rose like carved crystal, their glowing veins of magic pulsing softly beneath arcane stone. A city built on hope and compromise, even if both were in short supply these days.

Frisk walked beside Asriel, steps in rhythm—not close enough to seem intimate, not distant enough to look like she was being dragged.

Behind them trailed two silent guards and a visibly tense Alphys, fidgeting with the edge of her scarf and avoiding eye contact.

“This is… kinda surreal,” Frisk muttered under her breath.

Asriel gave her a look, cautious but amused. “Surreal good or surreal bad?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

She tugged her hood lower over her horns.

Their destination was an older district tucked behind the Capitol gardens. It had the smell of books, not flowers—old magic and earth, rather than glamour and glam.

A slate plaque over the arched doorway read:

Dr. Mielle — Licensed Magical Trauma Counselor, Soul-Integrity Specialist

The title alone was enough to make Frisk stiffen.

Alphys spoke quickly. “Y-you don’t have to do this, Frisk. N-not if it doesn’t feel right. We can always—”

Frisk waved her off with a clawed hand. “No. It’s fine. Let’s just get it over with.”

Asriel hesitated. “Do you want me to come in?”

A pause.

Frisk met his eyes—earnest, a little awkward, but not pitying.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I do.”

The room was warmly lit, full of parchment-colored walls and living plants that seemed to shimmer slightly when no one was looking. Crystalline lamps pulsed like slow, calm heartbeats. The air smelled of tea and copper ink.

Dr. Mielle rose from her writing desk as they entered—tall, deerlike, wearing a simple robe the color of wilted lavender. Her antlers bore gold-threaded charms, not for decoration, but to direct ambient soul magic.

She inclined her head gently. “Frisk. I’m glad you came.”

Frisk folded her arms. “We’ll see if that lasts.”

Asriel coughed nervously behind her.

Dr. Mielle smiled, not patronizingly, but with something resembling true patience.

“I know you’ve had too many choices taken from you. So here’s one I won’t: you can leave anytime.”

Frisk didn’t respond, but she sat down in the high-backed chair offered to her. Asriel sat nearby, not close enough to crowd her. He kept his paws folded, his eyes carefully lowered.

Dr. Mielle began softly, “When someone is forced to change—physically, magically, spiritually—without consent, their soul often enters a state of static resistance. We call this ‘fracture equilibrium.’ It means you’re still whole… but the parts don’t trust each other.”

Frisk’s tail flicked slightly.

“So you’re saying I’m having an identity crisis.”

“I’m saying,” Mielle replied gently, “that your soul doesn’t know where to sit anymore. It was reshaped without permission. And now, it’s waiting to hear from you.”

“…Hear what?”

“What you want to be.”

They talked.

Not about the war. Not about Asriel. Not about captivity or rebellions or past lives.

But about her.

About growing up in a town where animals had more rights than monsters. About watching her body twist into something that should feel wrong, and somehow… didn’t anymore. About how memory was a tricky thing when the soul didn’t know what to cling to.

About Cam. About grief. About how anger wasn’t the opposite of love, but its last surviving ember.

Mielle didn’t offer solutions.

She asked questions.

And Asriel… listened.

Really listened.

When Frisk finally went quiet, her claws were trembling in her lap. But not from rage. From fatigue.

Mielle gave her a moment, then said gently, “You said you didn’t want to be a mistake. That you didn’t choose this.”

Frisk nodded.

“But now that you’ve lived it… do you still want to erase it?”

Frisk’s throat worked around the answer.

“No,” she rasped. “I just want to know it wasn’t for nothing.”

They left without fanfare.

Outside, the air was cooler. The crowds less thick.

Asriel walked beside her silently, his robe brushing hers.

“I’m glad you went,” he said eventually.

“Yeah, well…” Frisk scratched the back of her horn awkwardly. “She didn’t suck.”

She looked at him sidelong.

“…You’re staring.”

His ears jerked upward. “What?! I—n-no, I wasn’t—!”

“Relax, I didn’t say I minded,” she said with a smirk, pushing her hood back. “But you’re gonna have to do better than ‘your robes suit you’ if you’re gonna flirt.”

He nearly tripped over his own paws.

“I-I wasn’t—I mean—”

Frisk just laughed. A small one. But real.

It startled them both.

Later that day, when she was alone again, she took off the robe and folded it carefully, running her claw over the Delta Rune.

It didn’t feel like a costume anymore.

Not quite.

Not yet a home either… but maybe the start of one.

Frisk didn’t complain about being led through the back streets.

She understood.

No crown. No guards in full regalia. Just Asriel walking slightly ahead of her, cloak hood raised, Alphys trailing behind with her data pad like she wasn’t taking notes when she absolutely was.

They were heading toward the outer edge of the education district — far enough from the heart of the Capitol to be overlooked, but still within the safe, magical containment zones. The guards had been briefed to keep their distance unless needed. Alphys had reluctantly approved.

It was only a short walk from Dr. Mielle’s clinic.

A “cooldown” walk, Asriel had called it. Something simple. Something peaceful. Something that, somehow, still felt a little like a test.

Frisk didn’t mind. She had nothing left to prove… not to them, anyway.

The community garden was nearly empty this late in the day.

Soft glass lanterns hung from woven steel branches. Magic pulsed beneath the stones. There were open reading benches under the trees, vines crawling over carefully tended educational statues and tributes.

Frisk leaned against a low wall of mossy rune-etched brick, catching her breath from the conversation she’d left behind.

Asriel stood across from her, watching the sunset stain the Capitol skyline amber.

“…You okay?” he asked quietly.

Frisk didn’t answer at first. Then:

“I think I needed it,” she said. “I just hate that I did.”

He didn’t push further.

That was the thing about Asriel lately—he was learning. Still not perfect, still full of guilt he didn’t know what to do with, but he was learning when not to fill silence with words.

It made her want to tease him less. Almost.

Almost.

“Your tail’s twitching,” she said dryly. “Nervous, or just thinking about how close I am to jumping into the fountain again?”

He made a strangled noise in his throat and straightened his posture.

“Neither! I just—um—well…”

“I’m kidding.”

She smiled faintly.

He blinked at her, smile slowly returning, eyes soft. He didn’t say anything else.

Then someone else did.

“Oh—sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt—!”

They both turned.

A deer-like monster stood a few paces away, dressed in a long dusky cardigan and a heavy scarf that looked slightly too big for her frame. Her hooves clacked softly on the stone walkway. Pale cream fur, snow-dappled. Long antlers. Familiar eyes.

Asriel straightened a little too quickly.

“Noelle?”

The girl blinked.

“Prince Asriel! I—I didn’t recognize you in that—uh—” she gestured vaguely at his cloak, then glanced quickly to Frisk.

“Oh! Sorry, I—I didn’t realize you had company.”

Frisk tilted her head. Something about the way the deer monster held herself, arms curled gently in front, voice soft but careful—there was nothing particularly royal or political about her. Just someone smart enough to recognize powerful people and polite enough not to make it weird.

“You’re fine,” Frisk said casually, flicking her tail. “We’re just lurking dramatically.”

Noelle smiled faintly at that, then glanced between the two of them.

“Are you…” she hesitated, as if trying to find the least invasive wording, “…here for therapy too?”

Frisk snorted.

“Wow, that obvious?”

Noelle blushed furiously. “N-no! I mean, yes—but not because of you! I just meant this area—it’s near Dr. Mielle’s practice, and I’ve been… um…” She tucked a loose strand of fur behind her ear. “My mom made me come, originally, but… Dr. Mielle’s actually been helping. I think.”

Frisk blinked.

Something clicked into place.

“…Wait. You’re Noelle Holiday, right?”

The deer monster blinked.

“Uh… yes?”

Asriel gave Frisk a surprised look. “You know her?”

Frisk shrugged. “Heard the name.” She turned to Noelle. “Some of the old files at the lab still have civil records in them. Your family’s on a few project approvals. Your mom’s kind of a big deal, huh?”

Noelle wilted slightly. “Unfortunately.”

“…Yeah,” Frisk muttered, almost to herself, “I get that.”

There was a pause. Something passed between them—not quite recognition, but not quite unfamiliarity either. Just two people who’d had their lives twisted in ways they didn’t ask for. Children of expectation. Symbols for others.

Frisk reached down, picked a stray leaf from the rune-etched wall, and flicked it away.

“…You said Mielle helped?”

Noelle nodded.

“She doesn’t treat you like you’re supposed to be anything.” She glanced at Frisk. “That helps.”

Frisk didn’t smile, but her shoulders loosened just a little.

They spoke for a few more minutes.

About nothing urgent—Noelle’s studies, Asriel’s attempts to bake without burning things, the Capitol’s overuse of magically-enhanced streetlights (“We don’t need this much glow,” Noelle insisted). It was easy. Strangely so.

Eventually, Noelle excused herself with a shy wave, heading toward the tram station.

Frisk and Asriel watched her go.

“She seems…” Asriel started.

“Real,” Frisk finished for him.

He nodded.

Frisk’s gaze lingered on the place where Noelle had stood.

“…She didn’t recognize me.”

“No,” Asriel said. “She didn’t.”

Frisk turned to him. Her voice was unreadable.

“You didn’t tell her?”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

They were quiet again.

Then Frisk exhaled through her nose and rubbed the side of her head.

“…She knew something though. Not what I am, but she looked at me like…” Her brow furrowed. “Like she knew what it felt like to be seen wrong.”

Asriel said nothing, but his aura shifted slightly—just enough for her to notice.

He was feeling it again. That fluttering crush. He hadn’t said it, but she knew. She felt it, too. Not in herself—but from him.

And still, she didn’t push it away.

Not yet.

Maybe it was because, for once, it wasn’t something being demanded of her.

It was something being offered.

And in a world that had taken everything else from her without asking… that felt like a start.

The rain had tapered into a delicate drizzle by the time they reached the quiet northern edge of the Capitol. A sparse crescent of older buildings here bore little of the metallic sheen or glassy architecture of the newer districts. These looked handmade, weatherworn. Real.

Frisk’s robe was still damp along the hem, its royal purple darkened to near-black where the silver thread met moisture. She clutched the fabric closer as Asriel opened the tall wooden gate.

They were met with the scent of elderflowers and wild mint.

The old tea house lay tucked within an ivy-wrapped courtyard. Softly painted lanterns flickered under the overhang, and between them stood a crooked wooden sign, barely legible under curling script:

“Café Mielle’s Garden: In Memory of the Queen’s Light.”

Asriel tilted his head with quiet disbelief. “I didn’t realize she was still here.”

Frisk gave him a curious look. “You know this place?”

“My old tutor brought me once, years ago. It wasn’t a business back then. Just a garden someone stubbornly refused to let time take.”

The door opened before they could knock. A short, soft-furred nanny-goat monster stood framed by the doorway. Her cloudy eyes sparkled despite age. She peered up at Frisk, and her smile blossomed immediately.

“Oh, dear me,” she said, voice warbling like a gentle chime. “You must be the young mistress from the castle.”

Frisk stiffened.

She blinked. “I—”

“Come in, come in,” the elder urged, bustling without pause. “And the prince too, of course. My stars, you’ve grown tall.” She chuckled softly, patting Asriel’s arm as she passed. “Still not quite your father’s height, but it suits you.”

Frisk followed Asriel in, eyes scanning the room. The interior was warmly lit and smelled faintly of roasted barley and herbs. Low tables were set with mismatched cups, and faded tapestries lined the walls. In the center sat a portrait—painted, not printed—of Toriel in her younger days. Frisk stared at it longer than she meant to.

It looked nothing like the Queen’s official portraits in the Capitol. This one caught something softer. Something private. She looked… tired, but proud.

“I modeled the whole shop after her garden, you know,” the old goat said from the tiny kitchen, her voice echoing gently across the polished wood. “Back before the Capitol was even a drawing. The Queen loved her flowers. Would sit for hours on the bench with that human book of hers. Sometimes I think the Capitol forgot how simple she was.”

Frisk sat slowly, feeling something turn in her chest. Asriel took a place beside her, his eyes flicking to hers, searching.

“She used to speak so fondly of stars,” the goat went on. “Not the ones above, but the ones below. Little children—bright souls. She always wanted to raise more than just her own. She said the world was too short on gentleness.”

Frisk looked away.

A steaming cup was placed in front of her. The tea was dark, aromatic. She wrapped her claws around the ceramic instinctively. It warmed fast.

“She would have loved you, young mistress,” the elder said, not realizing the wound in her words. “You carry that same stillness she did. That… sadness, too. But yours is different. Less like mourning. More like—”

“Regret,” Frisk finished quietly, not looking up.

There was a pause. The old goat gave a thoughtful nod.

“Yes. That’s it, I think.”

Asriel shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. He had not touched his cup.

Frisk finally looked at him, voice low. “Was this what you meant? When you said she haunted both of us?”

He didn’t answer immediately. The tea fogged the rim of his vision.

“Not just this,” he admitted. “But… yes.”

She let the silence settle again. The clock on the far wall ticked audibly. Outside, the rain started up again in tiny, consistent taps against the roof tiles.

“I don’t remember my mother’s face,” Frisk said suddenly. “Not clearly. My dad told me once that she loved writing lesson plans even on weekends. That she’d make tea like this and call it her thinking brew.” She stared into the dark cup. “Sometimes I think I inherited nothing but the guilt.”

Asriel didn’t try to comfort her with platitudes. Instead, he offered something closer to truth.

“I don’t think you owe anyone forgiveness,” he said quietly. “But I hope you find a reason to forgive yourself.”

Frisk’s eyes burned for a moment. She blinked hard and sipped the tea instead of replying.

The old goat came back with a plate of sweet rolls and announced, without hesitation, “These were the Queen’s favorite. Well—second favorite. Butterscotch-cinnamon wasn’t practical with the cost of imports.”

The joke was light. Asriel cracked a small smile.

Frisk smirked faintly and leaned back in her seat. “So I get her sadness, her robes, and now her snacks. What’s next?”

Asriel chuckled, a rare sound. “Hopefully not her crown.”

“I’m not into hats,” Frisk agreed.

The old goat patted Frisk’s shoulder fondly. “Whether or not you are her, dear, you walk like someone who carries something heavy. That’s Queen enough in my book.”

Frisk didn’t know how to respond to that.

But she didn’t bristle. She didn’t argue.

She sat with it.

The rain had fully stopped by the time they left the tea house.

The street outside glistened with puddles reflecting dull orange lanterns and the soft purple-gray sky of post-sunset Capitol. The scent of elderflower lingered on Frisk’s borrowed robe. She hadn’t spoken since they said goodbye to the old nanny-goat, who pressed an extra roll into her hand and called her “dear” without a trace of irony.

Asriel walked beside her quietly, hands folded behind his back, his expression distant but calm.

“You didn’t warn me your Capitol was full of sentimental ghosts,” Frisk said at last.

He glanced at her, lips twitching with restrained amusement. “Would you have come if I had?”

She gave a small shrug, shifting the fabric of her robe.

“I might’ve worn armor.”

They walked a little farther before Asriel spoke again, voice lower.

“You didn’t argue with her, you know.”

Frisk gave him a side-eye. “With the goat? She was ninety and baking. I wasn’t about to give her a dissertation on how her grief-based projection was invasive.”

“No, I mean…” He hesitated. “When she called you a Queen in the making.”

“I don’t remember that part,” Frisk said dryly, though her tail flicked with tension.

Asriel chuckled once. It was brief, a breath more than a laugh.

“I just think,” he said carefully, “you’re getting better at letting people… be wrong.”

Frisk didn’t answer right away. Her eyes traced the jagged skyline of the Capitol. In the distance, the tower that crowned the central plaza shimmered in silvers and reds. A protective dome of light pulsed overhead, nearly invisible except where it caught against the wet streets. The barrier wasn’t just metaphorical here—it was ancient monster magic, tied to the city’s defenses.

Frisk slowed her pace. Asriel adjusted to match it without comment.

“You ever get tired,” she asked suddenly, “of people thinking they know who you are?”

He nodded. “All the time.”

“Do they assume you’re some mix of your parents?”

“All the time,” he repeated.

Frisk exhaled softly.

“I used to want to be my mom,” she said, staring at a puddle as she stepped around it. “Then I wanted to be anyone else. Now I’m not sure what’s left.”

“You’re still you.”

Frisk gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s a monster thing to say.”

“I am a monster.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “I know.”

He didn’t take offense. His ears twitched, but his expression remained open. Maybe a little sad.

“Frisk…”

She looked up. His voice had a different weight now—tentative but clear, as though he’d rehearsed this.

“I’ve been thinking about… about what you said the other night. About being a doll. A symbol. About how I—how I might’ve used you. Even if I didn’t mean to.”

Her gaze flicked away again, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I want you to know that it wasn’t love.” He caught himself. “I mean—it wasn’t just… attraction. I admired you. I still do. But that’s not fair, not if I’m using that to ignore what you actually need.”

Frisk gave a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“What I need, huh?”

He nodded. “Not what I want you to be.”

A silence stretched between them again, but it was different now. Not hostile. Just unfinished.

Frisk stopped walking and looked out toward the mountain range that marked the Capitol’s eastern border.

“I don’t think I hate you anymore,” she said.

Asriel blinked.

She shrugged. “Not right now, at least.”

He smiled, slow and quiet. “Progress.”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m not.”

Frisk gave a tiny huff of air, almost a laugh. Her expression softened just enough to register as peace.

Before she could speak again, a soldier’s voice called out ahead.

“Prince Asriel! Lady Frisk!”

They turned to see a young armored monster bounding toward them from a side road. He wore the standard lavender guard uniform with silver trim, breath fogging in the cool evening air.

Asriel stepped forward, alert but not alarmed. “What is it?”

The guard bowed slightly and handed over a sealed envelope. The rune stamped across the wax was unmistakable.

“His Majesty Asgore has requested an audience. Tonight.”

Frisk stiffened. Her claws reflexively gripped the edge of her robe.

“Did he say why?” Asriel asked, already opening the envelope.

The guard shook his head. “Only that the meeting is informal, but important.”

Frisk looked at Asriel. “Is this… a good thing?”

He read quickly, then folded the message. “It’s not bad. Just… soon.”

He looked at her, searching.

“You don’t have to go right away. We can delay—”

“No,” Frisk said. Her voice was low but firm. “Let’s go now.”

He hesitated, but nodded.

The guard bowed again. “Shall I escort you?”

“No need,” Asriel replied. “But thank you.”

The soldier saluted and jogged back the way he came.

Frisk pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders. “So.”

“So,” Asriel echoed.

They turned toward the glowing heart of the Capitol, toward the old courthouse that had become Asgore’s temporary office while the royal quarters were being renovated. The path forward shimmered with silver lamplight.

Frisk took a slow breath. She didn’t know what she was walking into—but she was walking in by choice.

It wasn’t closure yet.

But it was another step toward it

The Capital’s upper hallways were quieter than Frisk had expected.

Past velvet-draped windows and heavy iron-carved sconces, they followed a silent, straight-backed royal guard. Frisk’s purple robes swayed with each step—cool against her body, but her claws twitched restlessly. The Delta Rune on her chest gleamed with silver trim, a mocking reminder of the bloodline she didn’t belong to, and the one she might now be forced into.

Asriel hadn’t spoken since they’d received the summons.

Not a word.

She’d watched his brows tighten slowly in realization the moment the letter was handed over, like it was stitched with weight no claw could tear free from. He didn’t complain. He didn’t argue. But she saw it in his ears, angled slightly backward, like an animal preparing to bolt.

Now, as the three of them entered the audience chamber, she found herself instinctively stepping slightly behind him.

Asgore was already seated.

He looked… older than she remembered from the grainy photos and war broadcasts. His eyes were tired—still glowing faintly with the usual benevolence that framed him as the kind king—but today, they shimmered with caution.

“Asriel. Frisk.” His voice was a thick chord of polite solemnity. “I’m glad you came.”

Asriel bowed. Frisk gave only a shallow tilt of her head. She felt the extractor over her soul like a cold iron band, still in place—still locked. She was still property. No level of silver trim or silk would change that.

“I hope your visit to the city has not been too… overwhelming,” Asgore said kindly, hands folded. “I trust Mielle’s recommendations have helped with your progress, Frisk.”

She nodded once, cautious. “She’s… not what I expected. But she listens.”

Asgore smiled at that, then stood.

He walked slowly toward them, fur-lined cloak trailing, and stopped a few paces away. “I’d like to speak plainly with you both,” he said. “There is no court here. Just family.”

Frisk tensed at that word.

Asriel stayed silent. His gaze remained trained somewhere behind Asgore—at the tapestry of the Old Queen, perhaps.

“I have spent the last several weeks in council,” Asgore continued, “and with your presence, Frisk, the situation has shifted in ways no one could predict. The war may be frozen, but tensions remain high. The humans know you’re alive. That you’re here. There are still groups demanding your return. Some demanding your death.”

Frisk’s face didn’t twitch.

“I believe there’s a way forward,” he said slowly. “One that can anchor peace in something real. Not just words. But a union.”

Asriel turned his head sharply.

“…A union?” Frisk asked. Her voice was quiet, but glacial.

Asgore gave her a look that was far too calm for what he was about to say. “A marriage. Between the two of you. In time, of course. A symbolic bridge of trust. Of reconciliation. The world would see it. And perhaps… begin to believe it.”

Silence.

Asriel’s expression didn’t crack—but Frisk saw the faint, flickering guilt behind his golden eyes. He hadn’t known. He wasn’t acting.

Frisk let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re not serious.”

Asgore’s eyes met hers directly. “I am.”

She folded her arms, tail flicking once, sharply. “That’s rich. You’re going to build peace by tying me to the throne like a decorative flag?”

“You are not a flag,” he said gently. “You are a survivor. And a symbol. One that holds weight—whether you want it or not.”

“I’m not some purity seal for your government,” she snapped. “You know what I am. You know what you made me.”

There it was—the shift. Asgore’s mouth twitched, ever so slightly. “I know what was done to you. And I know the pain you carry.”

She stepped forward. “No. You don’t. You don’t get to play sorrowful king when you stand here and arrange a ceremony like it’s penance.”

“Enough!” Asriel finally shouted, the fur on his arms bristling. “You can’t just decide this! You said—you said we’d have a say in everything from now on!”

“This is bigger than us,” Asgore answered firmly. “It always has been.”

“No,” Frisk said. Her voice was low, but charged. “This is exactly what it always was. Power. Disguise it as peace. Dress it in white robes. But it’s still control.”

Asgore looked at her for a long moment, then sighed deeply.

“I won’t force you,” he said finally. “I can’t. I… I hoped you might see the benefit, but if you truly reject it—”

“We do,” Asriel cut in.

Frisk hesitated, then nodded. “We do.”

Asgore said nothing more. But the look in his eyes as he turned back toward his seat said enough.

The room, once warm with torchlight, felt colder now.

As they exited, the silence between them wasn’t bitter.

It was heavy. Thoughtful.

They walked together toward the hallway overlooking the river that circled the Capital’s outer districts. The lamplight shimmered across the water, dancing in pale reflections like tears that couldn’t fall.

“I’m sorry,” Asriel muttered at last.

Frisk exhaled. “You didn’t know.”

“I still should’ve expected it. The way they talked about you. Like you’re the answer to everything.”

“I’m not,” she said, voice soft. “I’m barely the answer to myself.”

They stood together a while longer.

Eventually, she looked over at him, half a smile on her lips.

“…Still crushing?”

He blinked, caught off guard, then gave a shaky laugh.

“Shut up.”