songs for the fallen

frisk learns the rich history of tem

Frisk
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They still feel water against their cheek. No darkness. Not dead. They aren't dead.

The light is there, just far away. They want to cling to it. Hold to it. They taste foul, rancid water. Something bitter, in a memory. They want to go home. They so desperately want to go home. To hold him again and for their mother to brush their hair and to help their father in the garden and--

These aren't their memories. They don't know the face in the reflection. They don't know who they are. They're dizzy and their leg hurts and their chest is on fire from the light flowing through them, body trying to shunt the burning, searing magic into the right places to heal itself, knit itself together, make up for all the lost blood. It has to be enough. They know the voice is mad at them and they don't know why. It didn't even say anything. They can just feel it.

They push themself to their feet, wobbling awkwardly as they try to find their balance. They need to get something to eat...they're hungry and they smell disgusting and they're still all fuzzy from blood loss and the worst part is it doesn't even bother them anymore. At least they aren't dead. The smell of the garbage dump is more bearable than the constant, clinging, acrid stench of off-color oranges that follows their every move in the great watery hereafter. They'll find somewhere to clean their clothes and get a move on.

They're so tired.

They stumble into another hallway--it stretches on too far ahead, and they don't want to risk running into Undyne without some proper rest, but there's one of those dimensional boxes in it, so they figure they can retrieve their quiche and sit down to finish it somewhere. They feel bad for not bringing it anywhere farther than Waterfall but, then again, it's a quiche. It probably doesn't have feelings, even if the voice called it psychologically damaged. Speaking of the voice, they can feel it stewing. It's really angry with them, and they can't figure out why.

They eat their quiche, returning to the small pool next to the save point. Their shoes are all full of trash water and their socks squelch with every movement, and they hate it. Awful. Terrible. Miserable. Their head is killing them and they can't tell if it's from blood loss or saving or the voice being a little dick somewhere in the most hidden corners of their mind. They want to go back to Sans and Papyrus's house. Maybe they have a washing machine in one of the myriad rooms tucked away beneath their way-too-tall sink.

Frisk shoves their quiche plate in their pocket, making their way down the hall they're pretty sure Napstablook floated through. The weird emo ghost did tell them they could follow them home...with any luck, they'll at least have a sink. They doubt an incorporeal ghost would have a change of clothes, but it's worth a shot.

Two oblong houses nestle next to each other in the cavern beyond, mirror images in the shape of drooping apostrophes. One is blue and the other is red--the door of the blue one is cracked slightly ajar, and the welcome mat of the red house seems dusty, like nobody's been into it in a long time. Frisk knocks softly on the door to the blue house--the door creaks open on a spectral draft, revealing Napstablook hovering over rickety redwood floorboards within. "oh...you came...and you're all wet..." they mumble out, wide, wobbly eyes trained on Frisk's squelching boots. "give me a minute...let me get you a towel...if you want one...it's okay if you don't..."

"I'd love a towel right about now," Frisk says, again surprised at how strange their own voice seems to them. Those stupid flashes of memory always make them feel so weird. Not that they aren't used to feeling weird--they've always seen their body more as a vehicle than anything really them. But this is a whole new level. "I don't...I don't wanna mess up your house."

Napstablook floats up into the ceiling--a moment later, a panel opens with a loud thud, a ladder sliding down against the far wall of the little cottage. "i have a laundry room upstairs...and a guest bedroom...for when my cousins stay over...but you can use it too...if you want........" They hand Frisk a big, fluffy towel--they wrap it around themself, feeling bad for getting so much trash water all over it.