Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11484213.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/F, Other
  Fandom:
      Undertale
  Relationship:
      Frisk/Chara
  Character:
      Frisk, chara_-_Character, Gaster, Sans, Toriel, Annoying_Dog
  Additional Tags:
      AU, elder_gods, Dark, Don't_Read_This, seriously_don't, Blood, Violence,
      timefuckery, Fucked_Up_Relationships, Everyone_Has_Issues, Abuse,
      Religious_Fanatics
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-12 Completed: 2017-07-13 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 7449
****** UnderDog ******
by Akumokagetsu
Summary
     There is an annoying dog that appears to those who appease him. An
     almighty, all knowing dog that grants knowledge to those who please
     him, or so the rumor goes. Frisk's father knows of this dog, and
     attempts to gain his otherworldly knowledge through brutal rituals.
     This leads Frisk on a journey that might wind up with somebody dead.
     Or worse.
     *Note.*
     The Dark tag means that this story is dark. Seriously, nothing I
     write is happy anymore. Just... read something else. With puppies.
     And rainbows.
***** Chapter 1 *****
0-0-0-0-0
 
It was cold, Frisk knew that much.
It was always cold.
 
She could hear the howling of a dog somewhere in the distance. He would be back
for her later that night, she knew it. He was returning more frequently, and
she briefly wondered if things would be the same as before. But of course it
would. It always was. Frisk curled up under her thin, raggedy blanket, closing
her eyes and facing the wooden wall of the attic where a number of fingernail
scratches were left on the warped wood. She let out a quiet sigh through her
nostrils, letting her mind drift until she was in a half doze. That was when
she was most comfortable, anyway. That sleepy little phase between darkness and
light, drifting between the realms of consciousness and dreams. It was the only
time that she could really let go, the only time that she could actually feel
at peace. Her friend helped, but not by much. Not when she couldn't feel their
touch except during brief moments of dazed, transient headspaces. Her friend
was good to her, so she was good to them. Even now she could feel Chara's
ethereal embrace in a light hug that kept the night chill from her bare
shoulders. If she tried hard enough, she could almost pretend she didn't feel
the cool metal around her ankle.
 
It was during this phase of walking through the cracks of reality and
liquicious, fragmented thought that she wandered back to the dark room,
familiarity baring its teeth at her as she stood barefoot amongst broken bones.
Frisk had lost track of how many times she had had this particular dream. It
had to have been more than a hundred, and each time it seemed to stretch a
little further. Sometimes she wondered whether or not she was living more in
the dream or real life. She would have preferred to stay in the dream, all
things considered. Frisk didn't particularly want to face the waking world for
any longer than she had to. Didn't want to remember seeing her mother on that
stone slab, life dripping away to the black marked floor. Didn't want to
remember her father's sneering face as he forced her to drink, coughing and
choking in disgust in the dim candlelight. She kicked a little at the broken
bones littering the ground in little piles, her ankles free from the manacles
for once. She hummed a quiet tune to herself as she walked, gazing up at the
empty expanse above. She felt no fear, no pain, no sorrow. It was a place of
freedom, a place of tranquility and neutrality. Perhaps that was what had kept
her sane throughout all of the things he had put her through. Those little
moments in her sleep of calmness that she was granted.
 
Frisk missed when he had been kind.
She missed her mother.
She missed seeing the sun.
 
“I see... you have... returned,” the whispery voice reached her first, and
Frisk paused beside a particularly large pile of ribcages and femurs. She knew
who the voice belonged to even without having to see him, and she was smiling
before he even appeared. He did not step out from behind one of the grim piles
so much as he appeared before her, as if he had been there all along and the
universe simply did not allow anyone to accept the fact. She could feel her
invisible friend bristle,making her whole body shiver in conflicting emotion
that she wasn't certain who they belonged to.
Stay away from him.
 
“Bit of an odd place to settle down, don't you think?” Frisk rubbed her
tattooed arms, wishing that she had something to cover her awkwardness. “Never
heard of 'home is where the bone is'. Have you?”
This isn't the time for joking, Chara's voice echoed from inside her head,
rumbling behind her thoughts. Don't interact with him any more than we have to.
Don't you trust me?
I could ask you the same thing.
Frisk cringed and rubbed her shoulders, sighing.
Of course I trust you. You're my best friend.
You are my one and only, Chara responded softly, and even though she couldn't
see her she could tell Chara was smiling. Frisk felt her bosom fill with
determination as she gazed up at the skeletal figure that had been watching her
the entire time, and for the hundredth time she took him in to memorize the
sight.
 
His face was cracked and jagged, bone fragmented and appearing as if it had
just barely been put back together in a crack across the top of his head. His
crescent shaped eye sockets were empty save for a pair of vibrant little purple
lights that trailed over her body, his eternal smile devoid of empathy, of
feeling, of joy. It was as if his entire face was only an ivory mask, and the
shifting bone that his body was composed of was simply an angler's lure,
deceptively drawing in prey to a many toothed beast. And still she trusted him
more than she trusted her father. At least the dream man had never branded her
with runes across her back that itched and puckered her flesh. The eyes though,
those were the most unsettling. Countless staring and blinking eyes hidden in
his blackened 'flesh', probing outwards and pushing against an invisible
membrane that curled and coiled around him like a cloak.
“Do I always have to start?” Frisk stared up at him, folding her arms across
her chest. She never could get used to the way his eyes clung to her like a fly
in a spider's web. “Why do we play this game, Gaster?”
He shivered at the use of his true name, and it was like watching oil bubble as
his face shifted and contorted for a moment, before returning to his ghastly
grimace.
“I only wished...” he began softly, almost gliding over the blackened floor to
brush up against her, towering over her with his impressive height. “To ask...
how you day went.”
We need to just leave. We're wasting time with this fool.
“The same as every other day,” Frisk craned her neck and stared up at him
bravely. He was easily over twice her height, but that wasn't difficult.
Perhaps her growth had been stunted by her father's methods of keeping her
easily within his greasy grasp. She couldn't have matched his height even if
she stood on her tiptoes, but she had the insane urge to try. “Is it time yet?”
“Almost...” he whispered, brushing his long, spideresque phalanges through her
hair. She pulled away from his touch and he looked a little hurt, but only
smiled and shook his head. She didn't like it when he touched her, and they
both knew it. His embrace was as cold as the grave, and it left gooseflesh all
over her body. She never put up a hand to stop him, though. Maybe that was why
he kept doing it.
You aren't aggressive enough. You have his name. He will give in to your
demands.
 
Frisk frowned, rubbing the spot on her head where she had been patted.
I won't do that to someone, Frisk thought furiously, but Chara had a point.
This could all be over if she just commanded it. And she was close to doing it,
so very, very close. But if she did that, if she forced him over the breaking
point, would she really be any better than the man she was struggling against?
Semantics. Please, Frisk. It hurts me to see you do this to yourself. This
suffering is pointless. You could have freedom if you only wished it.
I can't kill him.
I didn't say you had to... Chara answered softly, although it was strongly
implied that it was very much wanted.
“You know... I really... hate being... left out...” Gaster said with what might
have been a pout, folding his massive scrawny holed hands together with a click
and a clack. Frisk wondered briefly if he could actually feel Chara's presence
like she could.
Not to the same degree. His sight is pitiful compared to mine.
 
“I don't mean – we don't mean to leave you out,” Frisk said gently, taking one
of his hands in her comparatively tiny ones. “I've done my best. I've endured
all that I can. I-I... I don't know if I can last much longer. I'm... I'm so
hungry. I'm so tired.”
“You need... not worry... much longer,” Gaster wheezed through his smile,
slowly rubbing a cold thumb over her the back of her hand and making her
shiver. She felt a slim sliver of sheer fear prickle at the base of her neck,
but she had to push it away. He could help her. She just had to be patient. She
had to be strong. Just like mother would have wanted her to be.
“So is this it?” Frisk asked after a moment, gazing up to him. “Is tonight the
night?”
“You will... not leave... of your own... volition,” he replied quietly, his
words echoing through the dark.
“Then how am I supposed to get out?” Frisk frowned, pulling away and crossing
her arms again. She wished that she could have Chara closer, someone to hold on
to. Almost immediately as the thought came she felt the familiar embrace of
invisible hands pressing against her, pushing and pulling and squeezing softly.
Gaster recoiled a little, as if in disgust, but his face revealed nothing.
 
“All... will be... revealed,” his voice came out in a withering tone as he
began to slowly drip away, like thickened water sliding down a drain. “You...
are special... little one. You must... stay... determined,” Gaster was barely a
floating pair of hands and face at this point, his whole being shifting away
into the shadows surrounding them. “When the angel... falls... and the annoying
one... is appeased... you will taste... freedom.”
Gaster vanished away as dust on a breeze, and Frisk reached out for him to keep
the dream from slipping away, but he was gone like smoke through her fingers.
She sighed quietly as the world began to drip and slither away back into her
subconscious, and she could feel herself begin to awaken. She reached up to
place a hand on her shoulder, and even though she looked and saw nothing she
could feel Chara's hand over her's, letting her know that she wasn't alone.
 
He had told her so many times to just stay strong. To stay determined. But it
was getting harder and harder, especially with the increasing frequency of new
tattoos. It still burned her back, and she couldn't even see what it looked
like. It was fine. She wouldn't have to worry about it much longer. Either she
was going to die-
I would never let that happen to you, love.
- Or she was going to escape. Somehow. Even though it seemed impossible with
the bars over the attic window, the manacle around her ankle, and the constant
watch of the fanatic, she would not give up. No matter what, she would keep
going. She was determined.
 
Frisk froze as she heard the heavy footsteps ascending the stairs to the attic,
and she squeezed her eyes shut out of habit and desperately reached back to
vainly plunge back into the dreams rather than face reality. But pretending to
be asleep wouldn't stop him. She wasn't going to last much longer at this rate.
But if what Gaster said was true, then her time had almost come. There would be
a way out. Somehow.
It happens tonight.
One way or another.
 
0-0-0-0-0
 
***** Pride Before The Fall *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
0-0-0-0-0
 
Frisk was dragged roughly by the arm down the stairs, struggling to keep up
pace with her short legs so that she wouldn't get pulled by the hair again. It
happened a couple of times anyway as they went down the stairs. Frisk tried not
to show any emotion whatsoever when he pulled, the overpoweringly strong scent
of mint filling her and making her want to gag. She wouldn't show pain, though.
Couldn't give in. That would mean that he won.
 
Ever since he had sent her mother to the other side, she had refused to play
his game. She knew that it must have gotten on his nerves. His bald head
glistened with the sweat gleaned from long, arduous hours in the basement,
probably busying himself with more arcane chants and desperate calls to hoary
old gods that Frisk hoped never answered. His long bristly beard got in her
face as she was dragged, and she wanted to sputter, wanted to spit the filthy
hair from her mouth, but she didn't move any more than she had to. There was no
point in fighting. Not physically, anyway. She wasn't in the mood for any more
bruises. As if resisting would actually stop that from happening. It was almost
laughable.
She felt a bubbling in her stomach that might not have been her own. She could
never be fully sure. Perhaps it was Chara that wanted to giggle at it all.
Maybe it was just her. She was both oblivious to the answer and indifferent
anyway.
 
The scent of mint never left her nostrils as she was roughly tossed onto the
familiar slab in the basement, the rattle of chains meeting her ears as she was
bound tightly to the makeshift cement fixture. Frisk almost sighed at the
sound, she had heard it so many times that it was in her dreams now. There
really was no point in fighting back. But her friend kept her going through her
darkest hours, through all her sleepless nights her friend was there.
I will always be here for you. I will bear your pain when you cannot.
Chara was so good to her. Why couldn't more people be like Chara?
A question I have asked myself a multitude of times, love.
 
Frisk resisted for only a bare moment before she was clamped down, the heavy
chains on her wrists digging in to the same old wounds. It would appear that
she wouldn't be injected this time, meaning that at least she wouldn't have
chaotic, fearful and confused dreams this time. Hopefully. She looked away as
she was stripped bare from her scanty rags, shivering despite herself as his
dirty fingernails scraped over her chest. There was a deep hunger in his muddy,
squinting eyes. A mad, rushed, venomous lust, one that she knew wasn't
necessarily of a sexual nature. The want, the desire for more, for everything
to be under his thumb. His nails scraped painfully over her barely healed
stitches across her chest and she squeezed her eyes shut, steadying her
breathing as he lit candles around the warped pentagram. Signs and sigils on
the floors that matched the walls, symbols that had been lost to ages past that
he prayed to nameless gods for. Frisk momentarily wondered what their names
were as he dug around in a bag beside the poorly constructed altar.
Not anything important. Just hang tight, dearest.
Do you think that if I prayed to any of them, someone would save us?
Doubtful at best. It's not exactly like a phone call, you know.
I think I should like a phone call with a god. Would you like to speak with
them, too?
I'll be sure to tell them you're a little tied up at the moment.
 
Frisk couldn't help but let out a weak giggle, earning a foul glance from the
stooped man standing over her in the dark.
“Baelthazar, Azah-riel,” he mumbled, drawing the ritual knife slowly, sensually
betwixt her chest. “Og-ho, Vassago, Dog-go.”
Hold tight, dearest. I'm holding on to you.
 
It was more than just words between them. So long as Chara held on, then the
pain was shared between them. Frisk hated it. She didn't want to suffer, but
she didn't want Chara to suffer even more. She knew for a fact that Chara was
the only thing keeping her together at this point. If she let go, then the
agony would be absolutely overwhelming. She was point blank terrified of facing
that kind of pain again ever since the only time that she had ever tried
refusing Chara's help. Chara had steadfastly been with her during every...
experience ever since, no matter how degrading, no matter how putrid, no matter
how painful. Frisk could only hope that Chara trusted in her as much as she
trusted in them.
Of course I do, precious. You don't ever have to doubt me.
 
Frisk knew what was coming next. The arcane chants, the darkened whispers, and
then the pain as she was drained of blood. Almost always in a new place. She
was surprised that he even gave her time to heal, but she doubted that it was
out of any form of familial bond. She wondered briefly what her original father
would have thought of this man. Probably less than she did. Maybe there really
was no hope for him. But that was that stupid little part of her brain going
off again, seeing a hopeful flicker in all things that forced her to keep going
no matter what.
 
She squeezed her eyes tightly as he began drawing blood from an old wound over
her thigh that had just barely begun to heal again, one of his favorites. He
lapped at the blood as he murmured, but she refused to make a single sound. She
might not survive if she screamed again. The hand prints around her throat were
proof enough of that. She didn't have a mirror to see them herself, but Chara
never let her forget a single mark. Chara wanted them both to remember every
single one. For Frisk, it was a reminder that she had to get out. For Chara, it
was a reminder that every sin would be paid back in tenfold, with great
suffering and agony. And maybe even fire and brimstone, if they could manage
it. A nice little spectacle would be made of him. But Frisk didn't want him
dead. She just wanted him to stop.
And the only way he'll stop is if you're dead.
That was most certainly a chilling thought, and Frisk tried to hold back a tide
of tears as the desperation began clawing at her chest no matter how hard she
tried fighting it down. Hot tears leaked down the sides of her face, and her
breathing was growing more labored as he dug the knife in, moving up to her
numerous piercings and flicking them vilely with his tongue. She shuddered in
repulsion, trying not to think of the blood soaked orgies that had taken place
in this room, the filth, the cruelty, the pain.
… I have to die.
Frisk... Chara began quietly, and Frisk started to slip away regardless. Frisk?
What are you doing?
 
The pain began to spike as the curved knife was driven all the way to the hilt
through her hand, and she barely bit back a scream of pain as it was withdrawn.
Chara hadn't even pulled completely away, and she could still feel it coursing
through her veins like fire. The blood was coming thick now as he collected it
in a small bowl, pouring it over her head and chanting more deeply, more
ferociously. God how she hoped he wouldn't do it when she was hurting like
this. It hurt so much when he did. Didn't he know how badly he was hurting her?
He must have, to do such things with such a hungry expression.
Of course he doesn't care, what are you on about? Chara's voice was growing
fainter and fainter as the pain intensified, but Frisk pulled away regardless
of Chara's demands. Frisk? Frisk! You come back; come back to me, right now!
 
Frisk resisted with all of her strength as she felt herself... hollow, like
Chara was draining away with her blood. She heard a low gasp of something as
her stepfather pressed her head down hard against the stone, chanting
increasing in volume and intensity as he raised the knife. It was too much, it
was too intense, her mind was blurry and she couldn't focus. She felt so empty
without them, so tired, so cold.
She couldn't bite back the agonized scream as he tore open the poorly stitched
wound, blood slicking the knife as he belted out lost word after word, candles
flickering and casting dark shadows over the walls. The darkness consumed her
slowly as she thrashed uselessly against her bindings, unsure of who among them
was screaming the loudest. It might have been Chara. She couldn't tell. Chara
could be loud when they wanted to be. Frisk found herself giggling yet again,
coughing and choking as blood filled her throat.
Maybe the answer was so simple, right in front of her all along.
She could get away. She could be free.
And all she had to do was die.
 
0-0-0-0-0
 
Durmond grunted and spit out the window as he drove, cool night air doing
nothing to cool the sweat beading on his bald head. He could still taste them
in his mouth, the foul little demonspawn having finally expired their
usefulness. He sped at high velocity up the winding mountain roads, nervously
glancing in the rear view mirror every few seconds. He didn't see any flashing
of lights, but that did nothing to settle his nerves. He'd royally fucked
himself this time, and the goddamned dog didn't even bother showing his face
this time. How many sacrifices did he have to make to get the knowledge that he
needed? Just how much more was he going to have to give to get what he wanted?
The damned thing was just fucking with his head at this point, he knew it.
 
Sweat dripped off his head and over his thick, hairy knuckles as he took a
sharp curve that nearly sent him careening off the edge of the mountain road,
and the bump in the trunk only served as a reminder of just how badly he'd
screwed himself. Now he was going to have to get another one. This one had
lasted much longer than her mother. Her sheer determination to continue was a
little frightening. It made his stomach curl in knots for many reasons, and he
swore viciously as he sped to the end of the line where the dirt road finally
gave way to worn paths. He swerved and brought the rumbling vehicle to a
screeching stop, the rumble of thunder ahead warning him of oncoming storms.
Durmond spat in cold tongues as he dragged the black plastic bag out of the
trunk, hauling it over his shoulder as he hiked the rest of the way. This
mountain had been spoken of in so many of his grimoires, so many dusty old
tomes that it was almost poetic that he dispose of the evidence here. Nobody
came up to this cursed old place, anyway. All he had to do was hike for a while
and find a good place to dump them. They would likely be long since rotted
before anyone found them, and of course his daughter had been 'missing' for so
many years already that he couldn't possibly still be suspect. It had been all
too easy to play them into his hands as the grieving father that had lost both
his wife and child. A couple of tears and a television appearance was all it
had taken, even a candlelight vigil for them both. It was almost laughable, if
he weren't on the verge of being sick.
 
Not for what he had done. But for what he had lost.
Durmond scowled as pitters of rain began to drop onto his bald head, and he
could have sworn that he felt the bag shift a little. It was just his
imagination playing tricks on him. He found a cave nearby, thankfully, that
would serve his purposes. All he had to do was pry the bloody body out of the
bag and make it look like a bear attack or something. He hadn't even bothered
redressing her, but why should he have to? Maybe bears ate clothes. He didn't
know much about wildlife. He didn't care, either.
He had almost set the bag down, careful not to let anything drip on him. And,
to his immense pleasure, he found something even better than staging a bear
attack.
He found a hole.
 
Durmond stood before the gaping hole in the cave, jumping a little when thunder
cracked powerfully behind him. He was fuming at this point, he wasn't afraid.
Nothing could frighten him anymore. He had seen more than most humans ever got
the chance to see in a lifetime, he knew more than anyone. He was better than
that. He just grunted and peered over the edge, seeing nothing but darkness. It
wasn't just a dark hole, though. It was wide, vast, like a gaping maw in the
mountain drawing in prey. It sent a cold shiver down the back of his neck and
he readjusted his sweaty shirt uncomfortably. He wasn't scared of a fucking
hole. There were terrifying things in the dark places of the world, but he
wouldn't be shaken, even if he did feel eyes on him that weren't there when he
looked. It was dark, and if it was deep enough, suitable for his current
interests. He glanced at the shadowy ground and kicked a pebble in with one
loosely laced boot, watching it bounce off the edge and fall into the darkness.
It was so deep that he didn't even hear it hit the bottom.
He grinned, leaned over, and dropped the bag in before turning and leaving
without even glancing over his shoulder.
 
0-0-0-0-0
 
-me. Please. Please, Frisk! Please, answer me!
 
Frisk coughed and wheezed as she felt cool air hit her face as the bag was
opened, her wounds shrieking in her flesh. She felt something warm trickle over
her chest and she fought for only a moment, blinded by pain and fear. Her
thrashing fell as her body went limp from exhaustion, her whole world spinning.
She caught a flash of green, a bristle of white. And darkness. The darkness
kept on growing, dark, darker yet darker. She could have sworn that she felt
eyes on her in the shadows, and she felt herself be lifted by powerful arms,
and a strange feeling that she almost didn't recognize.
A soft, comfortable warmth.
She's here.
Gods above and below.
She's still here.
 
She wasn't able to comprehend much more than that as she thankfully faded away
into the first dreamless sleep that she had gotten in a long, long time.
 
0-0-0-0-0
 
Chapter End Notes
     I saw a dog made out of wheat.
     What a purebread.
***** Knowledge *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
0-0-0-0-0
 
Frisk was falling, though through what she wasn't entirely certain. She didn't
feel quite like she was falling, though, even though she could see things
whipping past her in her peripheral vision. It was more like... floating. In a
warm bath that encompassed her whole body, one that she hadn't gotten in years
and years. It was such a pleasant, comfortable feeling, one that she didn't
want to let go of. Was she dreaming? She didn't really care. She was drifting.
She wanted to just stay like this, in pure, peaceful bliss, forever and ever.
The only thing that could make it better was if she could share it with Chara.
Frisk's mind started to reel at the thought, visions flashing into her minds
eye. Where was Chara? Where was she? This wasn't like the usual dreams. She
reached out and found nothing, panic beginning to rise as she called out and
felt as if her voice was stifled. She pushed and thrashed, mind flailing back
through horrid images of the cold rain dripping through the bag, the blood, the
knife-
 
Frisk bolted upright in the bed, gasping for air. Her hair was matted to her
forehead and she reached up to brush it from her eyes before blinking, her
vision off. One of her eyes had been covered by a thick linen bandage, much to
her surprise. She touched in in dim shock, finding that her wounded hand was
bandaged as well, wrapped tightly. She gave a meek squeeze and felt light pain
and didn't push her luck further. She could still feel that worn knife digging
through her flesh, cutting her open. She squeezed her eyes shut, steadying her
breathing. Now wasn't the time to go breaking down. Nobody would care if she
did, anyway. Nobody ever came when she called. Nobody but...
… Chara? She thought in a quiet, meek tone.
I'm here, darling, Frisk's relief was both immense and immediate. It's alright,
partner. You're safe here. I have you secured. Although from what I have seen,
there is a bit to be desired...
Frisk pondered over what this meant as she rubbed her aching head. There was a
large lump on the back of her head from where she must have landed, and she
still felt slightly woozy. It was an odd experience, to say the least. After
what she had just been through, she would have expected to feel significantly
worse. That wasn't to say that she didn't feel positively awful though. Her
ribs ached, her arms and legs felt like gelatin, she felt foul from the minty
stench of his tongue, even though it was clear from the bandaged wounds and
lack of dirt on her body or under her fingernail that she had been washed.
… Someone washed me that wasn't him.
 
Frisk reddened a little at the thought, finally prying her eyes away from her
body to gander over the small room that she resided in. The bed that she lay in
was plush and surprisingly comfortable, and although a bit small she had no
trouble fitting in it, tucked in tightly as she was beneath thick comforters.
It was so... warm. She didn't want to get up and feel the probably cold floor
on her bare feet. She had no clothes of her own on, not even the scrap of
clothing that her stepfather had provided her, but a quick peek in the bedside
dresser revealed that there was a multitude of striped clothing that might fit
her if she needed to grab something and run. If she even could run, her feet
were still welted and swollen from previous... rituals. She pulled at her
second ear ring and rubbed her finger over the piercings, frowning. The room
seemed to be fit for a child, or so she assumed. She hadn't really had her own
room aside from the attic in so long, she had almost forgotten what a child's
room looked like. There was a collection of dusty toys at the foot of the bed,
and she could spot a collection of shoes in a small box in the corner. The
bedside table sported an oddly pristine and polished ivory figurine of a small,
smiling dog, yapping at something toward the sky. She couldn't peel her gaze
away from it though, and oddly, the longer that she stared at it the more she
could feel Chara's growing disgust.
… Chara? Frisk asked quietly, but heard no reply. Instead she only shook her
head and pushed herself up a little more in the bed to get a better look of the
room. The floor was clean and polished wood, and again to her surprise, she
found a small plate with a slice of still warm pie sitting beside the bed along
with a glass of water. Chara was mysteriously silent the entire time that Frisk
inspected it, curious. It was tempting, and her mouth began to water as she
smelled it cautiously. It smelled of butterscotch and cinnamon, something that
Frisk had almost forgotten. She waited for something, anything from Chara,
perhaps a quip about how it was probably poisoned, but again they said nothing.
Frisk shrugged and took a tentative bite, anyway. If someone was going to
bandage her wounds and cover up her scars, she doubted that the same person
would leave poisoned pie out for her.
 
It tasted like heaven and home and hope and joy.
Frisk was scarfing the entire thing down within moments, brushing off the
unusually quiet snark of Chara about eating like a wild animal. It was the
first real food she had received in forever, and she wasn't going to let it go
to waste. Before she knew it the slice of pie was barely crumbs on the plate,
and she licked that off too. She cleaned her fingers in her mouth, savoring the
taste with a pleased hum, letting out a delighted sigh of pure satisfaction as
the usual gnawing in her belly was, for once, slightly quelled. She then
chugged the entire glass of water all at once, though it did little to soothe
her burning throat. She placed them both on the floor by the bed, reclining
with a satisfied sigh.
My first time was like that, too, partner.
Frisk paused. Chara never spoke of their life... before. Even when Frisk tried
to get them to answer, they were always annoyingly evasive.
When I'm ready. That's all.
Frisk frowned and rubbed her aching arms, picking at the thick bandages
wrapping all the way over her arms. Cuts and brands slithered out like angry
red serpents here and there beneath the linens, and she eventually left them
alone. She was absolutely exhausted, but she wasn't going back to sleep any
time soon. Frisk shifted beneath the heavy blankets, not really wanting to get
up, either. For the first time in ages she was actually comfortable, and even
Chara grumbled a bit about it but resumed their bizarre silence. It was
unnerving to have Chara this silent, they were normally so talkative. Was Chara
as scared as she was?
Don't be ridiculous. I'm not afraid of anything. Remember?
Haa. Of course, Chara.
You don't sound very convinced.
 
Frisk was halfway out of the blankets before she heard footsteps softly padding
outside the bedroom door. She froze in fear, habitually reaching for the
bindings on her wrist to grab onto something and finding nothing but soft
blankets. Soft pillows, soft sheets, it was all so soft. This couldn't be real,
so she had no reason to fear. At least, that was what she tried to tell
herself. She couldn't fight down the spike of dread in her chest as someone
approached, their long shadow slipping beneath the door. Frisk pulled the
blankets up to cover her mouth, backing into the corner as tightly as she
could.
 
A towering, furry sight met her eyes, and she had to resist the urge to pinch
herself. This was obviously a dream, it had to be.
You know someone like me, but you still think this is a dream? Chara asked
coyly.
She was large, but not in an overly bulky sort of way. Her black robes flowed
silkily down to her feet (paws?) and there was a disturbingly familiar
emblazoned rune across the front of her royal raiment. It made a stressful pain
go off in her head for some reason and she had to look away from it, staring
instead at her furry face. Her caprine nose was a little elongated, but there
was a soft look to her emerald eyes, and there was a quiet little smile on her
lips.
 
“Are you finally awake, little one?” she asked in a surprisingly gentle tone.
Her voice was like honey and whisper soft, and she stood before the bedside
with her large white hands tucked into her sleeves. Frisk swallowed and nodded
once, staring up at the inhuman woman with wide eyes, but the gentle touch she
felt inside from Chara was a comforting one. Chara really wasn't scared of her.
So maybe Frisk shouldn't be, either.
“Yes, ma'am,” Frisk answered with a polite little nod. “Um. T-thank you for the
food. It was the best thing that I've ever tasted.”
She seemed to light up a little at that, but it was an odd, saddened sort of
look mingled with her smile, and Frisk wasn't certain of how to process it.
“... May I sit?” she waved a hand toward the bed, and Frisk nodded. She curled
up her legs close to her body and tried to pull back further into the corner to
no avail. The goat woman looked... hurt, just a little bit, but didn't say
anything as she gradually sat on the edge of the bed.
 
“My name is Toriel,” she began softly, folding her hands in her lap. “Might I
ask yours, my child?”
“Frisk,” she responded quietly. “Our- my name is Frisk,” rubbing her arms, she
sat up a little straighter. “Are... are you the one who helped me?”
“You were... very badly injured when you fell,” Toriel said slowly, not looking
at Frisk and instead staring down at her hands. “Do you mind if I ask you some
questions, little one?”
“Anything you'd like,” Frisk nodded once, wrapping her arms around her thin
legs, bare aside from the extensive number of bandages.
“Do you know where you are?”
Frisk just shook her head.
 
“I see. Well, do you know how you got here?”
“I'm afraid not, ma'am,” Frisk answered nervously. Was she doing something
wrong?
“You are in the Underground,” Toriel explained carefully. “I must admit that I
am surprised to see a human after so long. Although you do not necessarily look
like any other humans that have... fallen.”
“What do you mean?” she shifted uncomfortably. She knew that there was
something wrong with her, but she couldn't pinpoint what. What was it about her
that was so wrong?
Then she looked down at her body and had to close her eyes, shame flooding her
cheeks.
Ah. Right.
It's alright.
No, it isn't.
 
“Are you... truly human?” Toriel asked after a few moments of silence, allowing
Frisk time to collect herself.
“Yes,” Frisk nodded again. “Um. I think so.”
“I see. How old are you, little one?”
You made it a whole 'nother year yesterday.
“... Fourteen,” Frisk answered. Toriel seemed to cringe hard for a brief
second, but the look was gone the next time she tried to catch her gaze.
“This is... I-I cannot...” Toriel covered her mouth and stared off into the
distance, closing her eyes and taking a long, slow, shuddering breath. “... My
child. I wish you to tell me. Who... who did this to you?”
“Oh,” Frisk blinked, gazing down to her bandaged arms where marks were peeking
out from beneath the clean linens. “My... my stepfather. He... he wasn't a very
nice person.”
“That's putting it mildly,” Toriel said with such an icy chill in her voice
that Frisk couldn't help but shiver. Her face softened after a bit and she
shook her head. “... Regardless. He will not be allowed to harm you again.”
“Is... is he here...?” Frisk whispered, unable to contain the sliver of fear
from her voice.
“No. You were alone when you fell,” Toriel explained. “You are very fortunate,
my child. Had I not been on a walk to my garden, I am... not certain that you
would have survived.”
… Why was she checking on her garden in the middle of the night?
 
That most certainly was an odd question, but not one that Frisk was going to
ask so soon.
“Thank you very much for helping me, Miss Toriel,” Frisk gave her a weak smile.
“I owe you a very great deal.”
“You do not owe me a single thing, my child,” Toriel said softly. She reached
up toward Frisk and she flinched out of habit, but remained still when Toriel
gently patted her head. “I am only glad that I got to you in time, Dog help me
if I had been just a little too late...”
Chara swore in dark tones at the mention of a dog, but Frisk didn't push.
 
“Are you able to walk?” Toriel asked after a while of silence. Frisk shifted
again uncertainly. “I healed your wounds as best I could, but I am afraid
that... some of them are going to take a very long time to heal properly. You
have injuries that no child ever should,” the cold tone was returning to her
voice, and Frisk could have sworn that she could feel heat draining from the
room as her hands shook.
“I survived,” Frisk gave her another wan smile. “I always do. I am very
determined.”
“Hm. That you are,” her expression softened again, and she gave Frisk's
shoulder a gentle pat. “You came without clothes, but there are plenty in the
dresser for you to try. Please do let me know if they don't fit, I can easily
tailor some to fit you properly.”
“O-oh, you-you don't have to do that for me,” Frisk rubbed her arms awkwardly.
“Nonsense,” Toriel snorted. “Can't let you go running around stark naked, now
can I? You just rest here for a while, my child. Would you like some more pie?
I have plenty, if you would like.”
“Y-yes, please,” Frisk dipped her head, hair covering her eyes. Why was she so
ashamed? She felt like she didn't deserve such unmitigated kindness like this.
Don't you ever say that. You deserve far more love than you have received,
precious.
 
Toriel nodded and left her to her own devices for a bit. Frisk was tempted to
get up and try to cover her nakedness, but she was just too drained. She
instead curled up under the blankets, sighing and closing her eyes. Toriel
certainly wasn't human. But here she was, being far more kind to her than most
other humans she had ever met. Maybe she was just a better person than most
humans. She must have been better than Frisk, who couldn't even summon the
strength to fight back when she needed to. She didn't deserve all of this
kindness.
Stop it. Right now, Chara insisted. Listen to me, poppet. Please. Please,
Frisk. It's safe here. YOU are safe here. It's alright. I love you, darling.
“I love you too, Chara,” Frisk whispered, nuzzling the comfortable pillow like
it was a body of Chara's that she could hold. But Chara didn't need a body, not
when they were as closely intertwined as they were. Frisk's entire defiled body
was a temple to Chara, and she would gladly spend every day giving them all of
the love that she could possibly manage.
You really are too good for this world, Chara said in a soft, surprisingly
gentle tone.
 
Frisk wasn't certain of when she drifted off into another thankfully dreamless
sleep, drifting eternally through the dark. But Chara had long ago taught her
that the dark was not something to be feared. It was a place of comfort, of
healing, of peace and sanctity that the painful light of awakening would not
breach. She wasn't entirely sure, but she could imagine that she and Chara
shared that experience together, lost in a half waking daze as they drifted
comfortably off into the dark sea of thought. Frisk could live with that. For
now, all she wanted to do was hold Chara, hold herself close and drift away
like a shipwrecked sailor afloat toward a stormy island.
 
0-0-0-0-0
 
In a small room not far away, numerous candles were lit along the walls, across
the floor in patterns etched with black and red, a small, ivory statuette of a
dog presented on a pedestal in the middle of it all. Toriel slid the knife down
her hand, drawing a small sliver of blood to collect as she murmured the old
words, humming quietly as she closed her eyes and delivered her offering. She
was so tired from all of her extensive healing, all the work she had done to
preserve the child's fragile life. She was so cold, so angry, so furious that
anyone had dared to harm a child, to mark them with runes that she had thought
were lost to time. To see them cut and damaged in so many places. The dark
marks of blatant abuse, the bruising beneath her eye, the piercings, the
ritualistic assaults. She wasn't certain which was stronger, her urge to
protect this broken child, or the pure, unadulterated hatefor the poor, dumb
bastard that harmed her. She could have asked the Dog for a great many things.
But for now, all she asked of him was a little bit of much needed knowledge.
 
After all, knowledge was power.
And all power, no matter how small, could prove useful.
 
0-0-0-0-0
 
Chapter End Notes
     My dog is part plant.
     She's a collie-flower.
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