Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

How long had it been since she Fell? Since the earth opened up and swallowed her whole? How long had she wandered, lost and aimless, searching for a way back Above?

Long enough to hunger. Long enough to bend with exhaustion. Long enough to walk until her bare feet bled.

Frisk stumbled onward, the flower crown her nymph handmaidens spun from buttercups laid askew upon her head, petals dripping now-and-then like grains of sand in an hourglass. Her hands ached, blistered from holding onto a slim branch for countless days, the remnants of her final struggle before she Fell, instinct having her grasp for anything within reach to anchor herself. Since Falling, she learned very little, just that she was in the kingdom of the dead, and nearly everything down here was dangerous. It seemed that if a living being were so foolish as to end up here uninvited that they were meant to join the dead post haste. After countless attempts to steal her Soul, the dead became...quiet. Almost at peace with her presence. Perhaps word traveled around that she was not wholly human. A demigoddess with enough mortal DETERMINATION to gift her a place in the Pantheon when she discovered her designation. More godling than human, but as of yet, unnamed...and vulnerable to that mortal condition known as death.

Perhaps she should have listened to Mother and stayed in her garden. Hidden away from gods and mortals alike until she came into her own. Mother assured Frisk she would likely mature into a minor goddess of nature, for flowers bloomed in her wake even as a child, but that didn't feel right. Not fully.

So she strayed from home searching for herself. Never for long. Never far. Just enough to visit villages or roam fields of wildflowers.

Then she Fell.

One moment reaching for a buttercup that did not quite look like all the others, the next tumbling down into the infinite Below.

Her Mother had to be worried sick.

Caught up in her thoughts, Frisk didn't notice the temperature change, the air thicken with humidity. It wasn't until she felt grass beneath her feet instead of stone that she returned to herself. She stood on the outskirts of an oasis. Lush trees full of fruit surrounded a pond of crystalline water. There were voices and laughter. Nymphs? Frisk ignored her aching feet and ran, stopping only when hunger roared for her attention at the scent of food. Strange trees were these, for all the fruit was red and varied. Pomegranates, apples, and...tomatoes? Those only grow on vines! How odd. There were misplaced fruits growing where they shouldn't. Strawberries. Raspberries…

Her stomach wrenched.

Hungry.

She could die of starvation.

Her Mother warned her to never eat the food of the gods beyond what grew in her garden. Though she never detailed why, since Mother assumed the situation would never arise before Frisk shed her mortality for a true name. But this was the first food she saw in what felt like forever, and it looked so ripe, ready to harvest and consume. Frisk's mouth watered as she plucked fruit from the tree: an apple and a pomegranate. Both weighed heavy and tempestuous in her palms. It wouldn't do to become too greedy and glut herself, but these two fruits might sustain her a little longer. Frisk tucked the apple away and with some effort and the aid of a stone from the ground, she cracked open the pomegranate. Sweet juices sloshed free, dripping pink between her fingers, and with ravenous need, she pried out a seed. Then another. Soon she picked it clean, hands stained with evidence of her meager feast. It wasn't much, but for now, it would sustain her. Like any godly food it began to mend her, cuts and blisters knitting together, whole once more.

Frisk padded to the pond, catching sight of ripples on the surface, but no evidence of whom she heard speaking and laughing. "Hello?" she called, but no one came. So she knelt and rinsed her hands free of the stickiness before retrieving her trusty weapon, the one she abandoned to partake in her brief feast.

She marveled at the beauty of this place (because she never knew there could be life and beauty in the Underworld) before striking out again. As much as lingering to rest tempted, she knew it unwise.

As soon as she stepped back onto stone, the humidity fled, drawing her gaze back at the isolated paradise. A chill shot up her spine. "somethin' tells me you're new around here. how about you be a pal, turn around, and shake my hand." Frisk spun to see a skull grinning back at her, bone a blanched white, sockets blacker than pitch. A dead man walking? Her breath caught. No. She remembered her Mother's descriptions of the gods. This was HIM. Lord of the Underworld, God of the Dead, King of Earthly Riches and The Judge of Souls. The Arbitrator. The Reaper. Death.

He was small and unassuming, Mother always said in her warnings, opposite of his younger, more peaceable brother. While both bore the burden of collecting Souls, the elder was known for his callousness, as opposed to his mercy. When the gods were young, he was one of the oldest among them; Death the Elder never took sides in their wars, but instead, watched with what she could best describe as amusement. He was a vicious fighter when threatened and possessed one of the few weapons remaining from the last era that could slay an immortal. The gods were happy to leave him unchallenged in his dark domain, cloaked in black and despair.

"heh. you look like you saw a ghost," Lord Death drawled, shifting closer. "or somebody ran over your grave. or maybe my good looks stopped you dead in your tracks." Frisk noticed his hand, held outstretched, phalanges spread, expectant. "not very talkative? that's fine. i tend to steal people's breath away."

"L-lord Death, an honor," Frisk sputtered out, subconsciously creeping back before bowing as respectfully as she could while remaining on her feet. It was said his very touch was lethal, and while he could not reap the Souls of the immortal with a brush of the hand, the gods didn't especially enjoy being 'shattered'.

Death dropped his hand, skull tilting slightly, "oh? an honor you say, yet you flinch back from my presence. right after you had the gall to steal from me." His smile widened, and Frisk gave a small shake of her head. "no? you never stole from me? i see the proof of your crimes on your hands...that is evidence enough without me having seen you eat the pomegranate and sneaking off with an apple. tsk. a liar and a thief. a pity."

"I'm sorry!" Frisk burst out. "I've been down here, lost, for so long and I...I was hungry! There was so much food and I didn't know...please, have mercy." Death made an amused sound when she begged. Like many other inhabitants of Below, he wasn't one to Spare the little lost mortal, she knew in an instant. But unlike the others, she wasn't sure what she could do to convince him to let her live. She couldn't buy passage from him like with the River Person. What use did a god of wealth have for the coins in her belt pouch? He had a garden full of living plants. She doubted a flower from her crown would sway him. She bartered, sang and danced her way towards freedom, and yet here she stood, mind empty on how to overcome this most treacherous obstacle.

"Please."

Death sighed, "even if i wanted to, i couldn’t let you go. those that eat the fruit of the underworld cannot leave. if you were to escape and flee above, you'd end up drawn right back here. how about you don't make a fuss and i'll promise to be gentle. you won't feel a thing." Again his hand was out.

Frisk shook her head, heart racing, her very Soul swelling bright with DETERMINATION. Death drew in a sharp breath, no doubt sensing the change. Maybe even seeing it. A Judge of Souls would be poor at his job if he was blind to them. "I need to go home. I will go home. I'm sorry for stealing food from you, but I don't believe that I'm trapped here." Frisk brandished her stick. She had to defend herself on occasion, but never once did she have to attack first.

Death the Elder stared—

Then threw back his head, laughing.

When he recovered from his hysterics, he wiped away a nonexistent tear, "very well, human. i accept your challenge." From the Void he pulled a slim, metallic rod that with a swing morphed into a scythe of outlandish proportions, the upper arc of the blade adorned by a terrifying draconic skull that glittered gold-and-silver. It looked too huge and heavy to ever be practical, but Death held it easily, as if it were lighter than air. "well, go on, strike me down."

Frisk gripped the stick tighter, eyes flicking towards any possible escape.

"ah-ah, no running off." There was a sudden yank on her Soul as she was dragged into an Encounter. Red light bloomed between them, her soul radiant in the gloom. It was dark. Too dark to see anything but her foe. "first turn is yours."

"I don't want a fight!"

"you waste your only chance to hit me? how bold." Light bloomed a flickering yellow and cyan in his left socket; the air stank of heat and rang with static, reminiscent of a lightning strike. Frisk flung herself forwards, barely escaping the searing blasts of light. She shrieked and skidded back as bones burst from the ground, a few ripping through the flesh of her legs. Frisk wasn't a fighter. She never hurt anyone in her life! Tears sprang unbidden into her eyes as she forced herself to leap on injured legs to avoid another flurry. A pitiful sight, indeed, was she, as her knees buckled and she fell to the ground.

Death spun his scythe and caged her with it, that wicked, soul-stealing edge a mere hairspan from her shoulders. "one more chance," he murmured. Death offered his hand.

Frisk shook her head, and the god gave an exaggerated sigh, "very well. i wished to avoid this but…" And then, despite it very much being her turn in the Encounter, meaning he shouldn't be able to take action, Death outright grabbed her Soul. Snatched it from the air between them like a fruit to be plucked.

It happened in a quick, wrenching shatter.

She died.

Her very core self ripped free of all that anchored it to the mortal realm. Except, a thread lingered. Death's touch should have been final but her Soul denied him. It refused. She refused. She lived. When her eyes next opened, in her palm was the empty remains of the pomegranate...and at her feet were golden flowers. Wild flowers hadn't bloomed as she walked since she Fell. She couldn't create life in a dead place...but, she held proof that the Underworld wasn’t barren.

The remnants of the fruit fell to the grass.

"it seems you've had your awakening, godling."

Frisk leapt back to see Death looming, "W-what just happened?"

"you earned your name." (Turned back time)

"Do you—?"

"remember what happened to cause the event? indeed. but that is very likely only because i was holding your soul in my hand."

"You said I earned my name? What is it?"

Death's grin was wide, "you tell me."

Frisk wanted to flee from this god, but feared it would go over same as before. She closed her eyes instead, focusing inwards, listening for her Calling to speak. And softly, it did…

"Spring...I am...Spring," a nature goddess as Mother predicted, but that alone felt incomplete. "Goddess of flowers...fertility...and…"

"rebirth."

Her eyes sprang open.

"nature and death aspected," the Elder god continued. His stare was upon her sternum, where her Soul laid hidden by flesh and bone. "how curious...it seems that i was correct in my assumptions."

"What are you talking about?" Frisk backed away. Her stick laid on the ground, hands still coated from her hasty meal.

"that you would never reach your full potential above," he floated closer. More ominous than ever. "i know all souls, godling. the moment i saw yours, i knew your fate was entangled in my world.”

Realization fell heavy upon her, “This is all your doing. My Fall. Our fight. All of it was planned.”

“yes.”

“How long?”

Death hummed as he drifted close enough to touch her again, the edges of his cloak creeping wisps that curled like living shadow. “i believe you were a child less than ten years of age when you first escaped wherever your mother kept you hidden. far too young for a name.” She swore she saw the tiniest fleck of light in those void pits that were his sockets. “i was mostly curious, then, that the missing queen of the gods had taken a human lover. it wasn’t until you came of age that your soul changed and you stopped being human. naughty of lady nature to feed a halfling child ambrosia. she could have killed you. instead she cursed you with a godling’s fate. if you were human, still, you would have been able to live happily in her hiding place for as long as you never strayed from your mother’s domain. but instead, you were lured by your calling...the both of us were.” He chuckled, “to answer your question, i planned your fall as soon as i realized the role i played in your naming.”

“But you weren’t completely certain. You just assumed my Calling was death aspected.”

“if i had been wrong, you would be dead and neither of us concerned about that fact.”

“This was all a game. You didn’t care about the end result. You knew I was here the whole time...You left me here to wander until I was starving and bleeding and ready to collapse from exhaustion. The caverns seemed senseless and endless...was my finding this oasis part of your game?”

“yes. the underworld is my domain, it bends to my will and whims. it would reflect poorly upon me if it were easy to escape, since i am responsible for containing the souls of the deceased. there can be no life if the dead stay walking.”

Frisk thrust her chin up, not wanting to cower in his wake. She was a goddess in her own right now. New though she may be. “You allowed me to discover my Name, and for that I am thankful. But I must go back Above. I need to return to Mother.”

Death shrugged and that amorphous shadow shifted further until they seemed to meld with Frisk’s. “no,” he held up a hand to silence her protests. “as i told you before. you ate the fruit. you are bound to this place. oh, you may find some way to escape in time, but it would be the height of foolish. after all, you now belong to the underworld. to me. not only will you be unable to stay away, but i will be able to find you wherever you stray. i’m certain your mother would be rather displeased with her daughter should she lead death into her little hidden sanctuary after so many centuries of isolation from the gods.” He seemed to encase her with darkness. “you may be a goddess of nature, but you are also a goddess of death, and for that reason you belong here. no need to mourn. once you’ve come to accept your place, compromises can be made. i won’t keep you from the above forever.”

“Just until I’m broken?” Frisk snapped, ire at last surging to the surface.

“heh. no. never broken,” he reached a hand out, and before she could flinch away, he skimmed it down her cheek. There was no pain. No Soul shattering. “you will remain down here until you are crowned queen. a good wife always comes back to her husband, after all, her home is his and no longer her mother’s.”

“Queen? Wife? You’re delusional! And stop touching me.” She slapped his hand away.

“no, i am quite sane. it’s been long since woven by the fates, you and i. you are to be my queen. lady spring, goddess of flowers, fertility, rebirth...and resurrection.”

Chapter Text

With Death’s presence enveloping her, Frisk turned to run, her back facing the skeletal god. She made it only a couple steps before she fell. One moment Frisk was on solid ground, and the next, she was swallowed up by shadow, weightless in her descent. There was no light nor sound, cold nor heat, her breath caught by the engulfing void. All sense of time and direction fled, leaving her dazed until reality returned in a thunderclap, her form crumpling from the suddenness of the shift. On hands and knees, bitterness welling in her throat, Frisk gulped down air until her lungs stopped aching and her heart slowed its rioting beat. Alive. She was alive.

“heh. fallin’ for me already, godling?” Frisk glared up at Death where he loomed above her, hem of his cloak not even brushing the ground. “that look on your face...it’s fitting for the future queen of the dead. if i weren’t immortal, my brother might have been sweepin’ up my dust by now.”

Of course Death would find the idea of his own demise amusing, “I’m not going to be your queen. I’m leaving the first opportunity I get and never looking back!” Frisk pushed herself to her feet and swayed, still disoriented from whatever trickery he employed. Brown eyes flickered around to ascertain her situation. They were in a long, narrow cavern, spiderwebs clinging to stone. The only light came from glowing crystals that grew in cultivated clusters along the walls.

“it isn’t our choice to make,” was Death’s reply, voice low and light as air. “come along, we’re expected and it wouldn’t do to be late.”

“Isn’t our choice? You chose to kidnap me! It isn’t like marriage happens on accident either,” Frisk grit her teeth then made to run again, but a bony hand wrapped around her upper arm like a vice. Her body trembled as cold wrapped thick around her, as if she plunged into an icy lake. It was the Elder god’s aura. She could feel the barely veiled menace skittering up her spine.

“my first choice in bride would not have been an irrational mortal-turned-goddess if i was given a say.” He moved towards the end of the hall where spiderwebs grew dense and glittered like threads of silver in partial glow. “what is foreseen will come to pass, and defying fate is a fool’s mission.”

Fate. He kept mentioning it. Frisk struggled ineffectively against Death’s hold as she recalled what little she knew of the Fates. Said to be from the First Era, before the gods were born, they were often called the Spinners, and every life was a thread in their elaborate web, be they mortal or divine. They knew all that had passed and all that would come, and rare were they to share what it was they saw in their web. Ensconced deep in the Underworld, only a brave few dared to seek their council.

They pushed through a curtain of webbing and suddenly, Death released his grip, nudging her deeper into the room. She could see nothing, blinded by the sheer intensity of the shadows.

“We’ve been expecting your return, Arbitrator,” croaked a wispy, crackling voice. (The Crone?)

“We will meet again soon, Mercy,” whispered another, her tone sultry and feminine. (The Lady?)

“We know why you are here, Godlings,” laughed the last of the three. (The Maiden?)

Frisk swallowed. She knew Arbitrator was one of Death’s many titles, but she never heard mercy used in any fashion to reference him.

“You will be known as Mercy by the mortals when they learn whose kingdom you rule,” said the Maiden, interrupting Frisk’s wayward thoughts. “Lady Mercy, Queen of the Underworld, Goddess of Spring: these are all names you will bear.” Could they read minds? “We know what questions you may ask (will ask, have asked).” The Fates’s voices overlapped and echoed as if they truly were one being.

“Your Lord Husband wishes us to assure that which you deny,” the Crone said with a rattling laugh.

“We aren’t married!” Frisk shouted, breaking free of the awe that left her silent in their wake. “He is not and never will be my husband!” She heard Death inhale sharply behind her.

The Lady spoke next, seemingly unoffended by Frisk’s outburst, “It was spun into the Web long before your birth, when your Lord Husband was young and his kingdom new. A wife he was meant to have. Mercy to balance his Judgement. One who would taste (will taste, has tasted) the fruit of the Underworld, her Soul as red as the seeds that would pass her lips. A wife from Above whose fate is entangled with the realm Below.”

“Fear not, godling,” said the Maiden. “There is great happiness to be found in your marriage.”

“Life finds a way, Arbitrator,” the Crone whispered, answering some unspoken question of Death’s.

“that’s...impossible,” he said, almost too quiet to hear. “i’m death. death does not create life.”

“Three days, the time will be right for the ceremony,” said the Lady. “Bring Mercy here and we shall oversee the vows.”

“i will do so, wise ones.”

“Now be gone!” they said in unison before falling silent, dismissing the pair as easily as they greeted them. Death took her arm again and suddenly, they were falling...then not. Frisk opened her eyes and blinked, realizing that they stood (floated?) in a lavish bedroom. Her home with Mother was humble in comparison to the vibrant luxury that surrounded her now. The bedposts and frame were made of ornately carved wood, the blankets covering the mattress dense and plush. The floor was of the palest marble, and the ceiling glittered with gold and gemstones. Rugs and tapestries that told tales of the new Age brought color to the otherwise austere setting.

Death’s hand fell from her arm. “these are your chambers,” he motioned to the doors. “you will find there to be a bathing room and a sitting area available for your personal use. decorate these rooms as you please. they are an early wedding gift...and i will not intrude here without your request, and i expect the same from you.”

“W-what?” Frisk blinked at him, a little dazed and confused. Why did he have chambers already prepared for her? Given the elaborate nature of the adornments, this room wasn’t days in the making, but months, maybe even years. The decorations were...feminine? Like one would expect a proper Lady to desire. But Frisk was a simple woman in her tastes. She grew up in tangles of grass with bare feet in the soil, the trees protecting her from the elements.

Death pointed to a door half obscured by a tapestry, “leave that door adjar if my company here is welcome.”

Heat flushed Frisk’s cheeks as she began to understand his implications, his nonchalant manner making it difficult to believe what he was saying. “Pardon? Why would I want you in my room?” She near bit her tongue when he lifted a browbone.

“i am not so foolish as to assume my wife would never have needs,” he replied slowly. Mother never sheltered Frisk from the ways of men and women, but this conversation was not one she wanted to have right now with her least favorite skeleton in the Pantheon. Frisk crossed her arms and stepped away from him, and Death did not move to follow. “the door leads to a hallway that connects our rooms. if my door is shut, i ask you do not enter, even if you find it unlocked. and i will do the same for you. my objective, after all, is not to make you miserable.”

“Says the man who has never even said the name of the woman he’s forcing to marry him.”

“you never granted me that privilege, lady spring.” Apparently there were boundaries even he wouldn’t cross in this whole affair. Stealing his bride was acceptable, as it was a tradition as old as the Pantheon itself, but using her true name without permission was taboo. How archaic.

Frisk swallowed, and thrust her chin up, “Tell me yours and I may allow you mine.”

She thought he would laugh at her audacity, but the Lord of Death shrugged, “if my future lady wife wishes it, she may call me sans.” He let an eyelid slip shut, his other socket turned to her with an unspoken dare.

“If this farce of a marriage must happen, you may call me Frisk.”

“very well. why don’t you rest now, frisk,” Death—Sans—said, that smile of his creeping wider. “i have to make arrangements, try not to get too bonely without me.”

.

Three days.

There was no way to tell the time that she could find, but that only meant Frisk had to act fast. With Death—Sans—off doing whatever it is he was planning, now was the time to act. She wasn’t going to sit and bemoan her plight while diddling about in her pretty prison. The temptation to bathe and rest was great, but every moment wasted tipped more precious grains of sand in the proverbial hourglass. Frisk did, however, grab a pair of sandals to cover her bare, aching feet, if only to not leave bloody footprints in her wake. Even gods bled and while she could suppress causing flowers to bloom as she walked, stifling ichor was not a talent of hers.

She shoved down her doubts and marched through the door leading out into the antechamber, willing away any further delays. Escape. Her only objective was escape. Nothing less. No matter what the Fates decreed nor what Death claimed, Frisk would marry no one, much less a pitiless god that stole her on a whim because there was a chance she would awaken at his touch instead of die. She was the Goddess of Spring. Daughter to the Goddess of Nature. Human she may be in appearance, but within her was the determination to deny mortality.

Hands roughed by a lifetime of cultivating life within Mother’s garden skimmed cut stone walls; pinked skin still tender from her wanderings stung as she pushed forth, ignoring the lavishness of the room. She never imagined the Lord of Death to be interested in the arts, nor thought he would have any appreciation for beauty, but if she were to pause, she knew she would find reason to marvel. Silk couches smothered in embroidered pillows. The floors made soft with fleece rugs. A nervous check to the ceiling above revealed the sky recreated in crystal. Frisk scurried quick to the first door she found, and discovered it to be unlocked. An oversight, perhaps, by a god that seemed partial to using shadows instead of a standard entryway.

His foolishness was her victory, one Frisk thrilled in as she peeked into the hall. No torches. Instead there were luminescent columns casting a bluish light. Quick as a deer, she scampered out, spying no one who would see her escape. There were many doors along the corridor, but no turns. It wasn’t long before she skittered to a stop, the hallway opening into a large room. Vast and imposing, it was a stark contrast to the quarters Sans ‘gifted’ her. Near free of adornment save for the delicate carvings in the walls, it left her knees shaking just a little, a nervous weight settling on her chest. Floors of black, gleaming marble looked almost liquid beneath the spare light from crystal fixtures. In the middle of the room was an elevated rectangle of stone, upon which stood a pair of chairs...no, thrones. Conspicuous in their design and of even size, they shimmered gold, as if to say ‘he who sits here is king’.

Or she who sits here is queen.

One of the thrones was squarish and masculine, while the other...even from here she could see the gentle slopes and twists of what she assumed were flowering vines.

Frisk swallowed and as if fire were nipping at her heels, she ran. She ran across the room of suffocating black. She ran from the implications. She ran from an unwanted gilded cage and the crown that acted as the lock. She ran until she lost all sense of direction. Dashing through a doorway. Then through another. She heard voices. Gasps. Whispers. Exclamations of surprise. But still she ran. It didn’t matter that the Underworld bent to Sans’ will. She would conquer it. There were stories Mother told of heroes that came Below. Most did not make it out again, but some did. She would. She ran until the air tasted damp and bitter, stinging her eyes and throat, marble replaced with uncut stone, her skin prickling with chill.

To her surprise, she stood at the banks of the river Styx. There were multiple rivers that flowed through the Underworld, but this one she knew by the warnings Mother wove into childhood tales. How the water ran slow and noxious, and drinking it would cause harm to mortal and god both. Frisk curled her toes in the marshy banks. The River Person was the one who ferried souls across it between the mortal world and that of death. She met him before in her wanderings, his existence not held by the banks of this single body of water. A coin was all he needed in payment to cross a river.

But would he take her to the opposite shores of this one?

The hooded figure, bent with age, emerged from the Mists, heeding the summons of a passenger wishing to board his vessel. Frisk stood there, breath in ragged pants, as the side of his wooden boat knocked against the shore. A blackened, skeletal hand unfurled from a midnight blue sleeve, “Payment?” Pale, trembling fingers darted to the ties of her coin pouch and she withdrew another Gold. Currency meant little to Mother, but the nymphs would often bring mortal money from outside the sanctuary, gifting it to Frisk as shiny baubles to marvel at in her spare time. She kept it at her belt in case, during those rare times she snuck away to explore, she came upon one of those markets they spoke about. She never once thought she would spend it in this fashion.

As the Gold piece came to rest upon that outstretched palm, phalanges like spider legs curled fast around it, his hand vanishing beneath his sleeves once more, “Passage granted.” Frisk let out a breath of relief as she tiptoed into the boat for the second time. When she last took a ride, he explained that he could not take her to another river, only to the opposite shore of the one she was upon. But the River Styx marked the edge between the Underworld and the mortal realm. Surely, this was her way out! It had to be.

Slowly, so slowly, he poled them to the other side, silent as Frisk offered her thanks and a plea for him to tell no one that he saw her. “The Hidden One sees all in his realm,” the river person intoned. “Take caution. It is rude to speak about those who listen.” Frisk swallowed and stepped upon the soil banking the river. She wasn’t Above, though rumors were that the waters of the Styx flowed into the mortal world, but she could see another path ahead. An exit. As she moved, she became aware of how the air thinned and chilled. Mists appearing to rise. But it wasn’t mist at all, no; she could feel it. Their mortality. Collected Souls that had yet to be Judged. Yet to fully cross into Death’s realm.

She ignored them. Ignored the whispers that filled her head, begged her to help them. To save them. Scared. Lost. Angry. Pained. Afraid. Confused. So confused. Frisk scrambled through the mists, every instinct screaming, until she reached another massive cavern. At the other side stood a gate, the shine of sunlight trickling down upon gleaming gold. It was easy. All she had to do was slip between those bars and—

A low growl rumbled. Frisk yelped as the growing grew louder and a bright, singular eyelight flickered into existence. Then another. And another. From the shadows emerged a taloned foot made of bone. Then a fleshless snout. Soon, between her and the gate loomed a massive creature, three headed like a hydra, but skeletal and poised like a hound. As it moved, Frisk realized that what she thought was bone, was not at all, but precious metals shaped into form. The glowing eyelights were gemstone, one lodged in the socket of each skull. Their color was unlike anything she knew—could sapphires glow like that when lit with magic?—and the longer she stared, the more she was certain the stones were moving just slightly, as if floating within those terrible voids.

The middle head bared its teeth and the stink of a thunderstorm burned her nostrils, a high-pitched whine following.

“E-easy. I’m not looking for a fi-IGHT!” Frisk leapt to the side, rolling out of the way of a brilliant beam of cyan energy. It cracked upon impact with the same deafening intensity of a thunderclap. She barely jumped to her feet in time to avoid a second blast from a different head. “Stop!” The third head lunged forward and snapped, and Frisk was lucky not to lose an arm. She scrambled around for anything to distract it. But she didn’t even have her stick to throw at the beast.

Not wanting to retreat, not when she came this far, Frisk drug up every ounce of Determination in her Soul and ran. She ignored the creature and let her legs carry her forward. A massive paw shot out and she couldn’t duck in time, it collided with her body and flung her across the cavern, back towards the entrance. She slammed into the stone floor and bounced. Her skull cracked and she was struck with the realization that if she was still mortal, she might very well be dead. As it were, she was dazed, the world blurring as she forced herself to her knees. There was a hum and a whine. Frisk prepared to throw herself to the ground to avoid another assault when the noise cut off.

She peeked up. Standing there was Sans, his hood shadowing his features, one hand held aloft to command the beast, “i see you’ve met cerberus. got a bone to pick with my gatekeeper, lady spring?”

“I’m leaving.”

“i see.”

Frisk wobbled to her feet and staggered again towards the door, but Sans’ hand shot out and he clasped her wrist between his phalanges, “Release me.”

“weddings are rather stressful for the bride,” Sans said, continuing to ignore her. “i believe i have a solution for your cold feet. warm companionship.”

“I don’t want anything to do with—”

They fell through the shadows and emerged in an unfamiliar, swelteringly hot room. The air was fogged and reeked of sulfur. “lady spring, meet your handmaidens, they were gifted to me by the lord of fire himself as part of a truce. picked by hand from his realm. now they are yours. i was going to introduce you in the morning, but it seems i was remiss in leaving you without companionship. you always had your nymphs, did you not?” As Frisk processed the fact that Sans knew about her companions above, three glowing forms stepped through the fog, heads bowed. Fire elementals. Beautiful ones. Slight and slim with undeniable feminine delicacy, they were identical in all but hue. One was the palest blue of a new dawn sky. Another a pastel lilac rarely found even in the rainbow of nature. The last was a soft yellow like sunbeams on sand. Each was clad in long, flowing garments of identical make that complemented their flame colors.

“You’re...giving me handmaidens?”

“yes. they are quite excited to tend to you. aren’t they?”

The blue elemental bowed deeply, “We live to serve, Lord Death. You honor us.” As she straightened, Frisk caught sight of the elemental’s features. Saw her gazing upon Sans with a look that she couldn’t quite name. Her stomach churned a little. How long had the girls been in the Underworld? What role did they play before? All were lovely and well-dressed, was it possible they were…? She banished the thought. It was impossible for them to have been of service in that nature. Then again, just because he never touched them didn’t mean—

“lost in thought, my queen?”

“We’re not married,” Frisk snapped, noticing the elementals’ flames flickering at her shout. Sans chuckled and stroked her cheek.

“not yet. it seems my future lady wife has gotten herself injured when i was away. i will leave you three to tend her for the evening. make sure she is cleaned up and eats tonight. these next few days will be busy and she will need her strength. you three know the way to her chambers. i trust she will be made comfortable in her new home?”

“Yes, my lord.” The three elementals chorused.

“good. now, take care not to stray into danger again today, my lady.” With that, Sans vanished, leaving Frisk alone with girls. They were quick to close in on her, ushering Frisk through the fog, only stilling when the rippling surface of a hot spring came into view. Suddenly, they were stripping her down.

“H-hey!”

“These clothes are filthy, my lady,” said one.

“You cannot bathe with them on,” said another.

“Oh, there is ichor in your hair. You must have had a terribly eventful day,” said the last.

Soon there was the almost familiar chatter of voices that Frisk grew used to when in the company of her nymph handmaidens. Rare to be silent, always fussing over Frisk’s appearance and health.

“Look at her hands.”

“Oh your poor feet.”

She was stripped nude and whisked into the steaming water. Before she could voice a protest, the lilac elemental poured a dish of water over Frisk’s head and began to scrub her hair. “Wait. How?” She earned a chuckle in response.

“Magic, of course. Lord Death in his benevolence gave us special medallions to protect us from the water.” Fingers cleansed away ichor. “Though I do not doubt that if we were to fail in our duties to you that he would take them away.”

Frisk caught the elemental’s wrist, “What is your name, if I may ask? All of you? How long have you been here? What were you doing here before I came? Has he ever hurt you—?” More giggles answered her and warm hands smoothed along her neck and shoulders.

“Relax, Lady Spring. You are so tense. No need to worry so, we are happy to serve.”

“It was honestly quite boring. I, for one, am glad to have something to do other than just sit and look pretty. We were trained to be of service since we were but embers, and Lord Death is rare to have guests for us to serve.”

“And you may call us what you wish. We surrendered our names when we came Below, and giving us new ones was never a whim of his.” Frisk wriggled free and turned to stare at them. They were so casual about quite literally having no names. That was cruel! How were they so indifferent? The violet elemental shifted, discomforted by her expression. “Have we displeased you?”

“No. No I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at that heartless numbskull that keeps calling himself my husband. You are people. You should have names.”

“You are kind, my lady, to concern yourself so, but there is no need to speak ill of our king. Names likely mean little to a god that knows your Soul with a look.”

Frisk sputtered as more water was dumped over her head and her limbs were captured one-by-one for scrubbing by the trio. It was rather strange to sit in a pool of hot water to your chest as someone washes your head and both arms are held akimbo. “Well, I’m not going to just point and say ‘ hey you’. That’s not right.” The girls paused and exchanged looks with a giggle. “What?”

“If you bid us to never speak again, it would be your right,” began the lilac elemental. “You could banish us from your sight or order our flames to be quenched forever. Matters of mortality are different for gods and mortals, and more so between those of common birth and noble. We would not fault you should you choose to call us nothing at all, and we would be honored if you were to give us names you find suitable.”

Arguing with them sounded like it would be a battle she didn’t want to fight. A momentary war within waged about naming people like pets and not addressing them as anything at all, and eventually, she bent. “Hyacinth,” she said, freeing one arm and pointing at the elemental that had just finished speaking. She moved her arm to the blue female. “Iris.” And then to the yellow, who was bouncing a little, her flames flickering with evident excitement. “Daisy.”

Suddenly, golden arms were wrapped around her shoulders, “I love it! Thank you, Lady Spring.”

“Um, you’re welcome, Daisy.”

“Let us continue. We must take care that our Lady is the most enviable of beauties come the binding ceremony,” Iris said, plucking up Frisk’s hand once more to scrub and smooth her nails with an odd, crystal file. “Nothing less than perfection for Lord Death.” The others hummed their agreement, souring the mood instantly for Frisk. She would rather look like a rodent was occupying her hair and she’d gone digging in the mud with both fists than be beautiful for Sans. He didn’t deserve it.

“You shouldn’t frown so, my lady,” Daisy leaned back and held Frisk’s palm in both her hands. “A wedding is a happy day. There is no shame in learning to love your husband after you are married. You should enjoy yourself.”

Hyacinth cleared her throat, and the yellow elemental quickly returned to her work.

What felt like hours later, they led her back to her chambers, having scrubbed her skin pink and dressed her in warm sleep clothes. “Tomorrow we will finish,” they told her, chattering quietly amongst themselves about the best color to lacquer her nails with, and which lotions to treat her skin. They even asked at one point if she planned to grow her hair long so that they may someday style it in intricate knots and adorn it with beads.

“We will leave you to rest, Lady Spring,” Iris said as they helped Frisk into bed, checking her bandaged injuries one last time. They would mend. “Are you certain you do not wish us to bring you a meal?”

“I am certain.”

“Very well. Pleasant dreams.”

Frisk didn’t realize how much light they gave off until the door shut and she was plunged into darkness.

Chapter Text

Escape became tedious when one had a trio of handmaidens flocked around you. They were awake long before she, even when Frisk’s attempts were shallow and restless. When she padded out of her room in what had to be the dead of night, Daisy was there, guiding her to a seat as one of the others fetched tea. Then they tucked her away again until whatever sufficed as morning in this place. When Frisk had ‘slept’ enough, they were quick to find her clothes in the chests, cooing over the vibrant colors that spilled forth. Spider silk, they praised, holding up each piece to Frisk’s chest as to determine which matched her complexion best. Pink was what they eventually decided. A Goddess of Spring would indeed look best dolled up to resemble a flower in bloom. Frisk found that more comforting an idea than the inky black silks that matched her husband’s robes, or the stark white that made her think of his bones.

Accessories were next, but there was only one color to select. Gold. Suitable for the Lord and his Wife. Unlike in the realms Above, which reflected the mortals in choosing purples as a mark of royalty, Death favored precious metals as his system. Gold for the monarchs. Silver for lesser gods and those close in favor to them. And bronze for everyone else. Not that there were too many residents of the Underworld that were alive and in want of ranking. Frisk noted that the elementals were especially gleeful as they explained the system to her, tapping on their own symbols. The day prior they were bronze. Now they were silver. A mark of how they were not simply belonging to Death, but of importance to his (future) wife.

“What is this shape engraved here?” Frisk asked, tracing the outline of the four point symbol carved into the oval disk. It did not match the eerie skull Sans wore, but her handmaidens wore it as well.

Hyacinth smoothed a soft cloth over the golden clasp that would rest at Frisk’s shoulder, polishing it free of fingerprints, “It is the Star from an old myth. You will have to ask your husband if there is truth behind it.” Frisk made a noise. The elementals kept calling Sans her spouse despite the marriage ceremony having yet to take place. “It is said that long ago, when mortals were new and young, a human fell into the Underworld. They were terribly injured, but strong of will, evading Death’s notice as they forged onward. It wasn’t until they stood within Lord Death’s throne room that they were noticed by our King, and they knelt willingly at his feet. They confessed that they did not fall at all, that they willingly jumped, but instead of the end they sought, they lived. They bid Lord Death to Judge them for their folly. He could not return the human Above, but he admired their determination and promised them a merciful end. If they had tried to escape, they may have very well thwarted him, for he was not quite as all seeing as he is now.”

Iris nudged Frisk to sit in a stiff backed chair and began running a brush through her hair, continuing the tale herself, “Their soul was said to have denied him. That he touched the mortal and they did not shatter. Instead the soul rested on his hand.”

“That day, instead of breaking the soul by force, destroying all that the mortal was and ever would be, Lord Death forged a star. Stripped away the determination until it rested in one hand, the human’s core self in the other,” said Daisy. She began to file Frisk’s nails. “He judged the mortal and released them to their eternity, which left in his other hand the star. It is said that any who hold it in their possession can turn back death itself.”

Frisk frowned, her free hand rising to her chest, recalling her own death and subsequent rebirth. That shatter and snap as her whole being fell apart then collected together again, her very soul denying its end and thrusting her back to that moment in which she ate the fruit she collected. To the moment where she felt a renewal of her determination to live and escape. “Why would we wear the symbol then?”

“Simple,” said Hyacinth. “Because his bride would have to be one that had the determination to live his deathly touch. The embodiment of the Star. It’s quite romantic really.” The other two crooned their agreement, faking swoons.

“Why didn’t he marry that mortal then,” Frisk grumbled.

“They were mortal,” she replied. “For all their determination to live, eventually, they would die. Death must yearn for a wife as eternal as he.” Right. Eternal. She was immortal now, between her Mother feeding her ambrosia, her mixed blood and the finagling of the Fates themselves, time was running out to escape this unwanted matrimony. “Now, don’t frown, my lady. You will make a wonderful queen.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Frisk whispered, hands curling, expression tight. “He waited for me to leave the safety of my mother’s garden and then opened up the earth beneath me. He left me wandering the Underworld until I was too tired and hungry to resist the temptation of ambrosia. He then killed me. He shattered my soul…”

“But you’re alive?”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped her, “I am. Aren’t I?” She sniffed, not wanting to let any tears escape, “I’m a pitiful little puppet compared to him and he knows it. What kind of life is it to be trapped in this dead world, a pretty little ornament for your unwanted husband to dangle on his arm?” And she hated it. She HATED IT. A handful of days was not nearly long enough to discover the extent of her powers allocated to her by her domain. She was little different than a nymph before she found her Name, and that had not changed. And he knew it.

“I...I may not know your Lord Husband well,” Daisy began, quiet, more timid than usual, her sunny flames wispy and meek. “but I don’t think he sees you as a puppet.”

“Oh?”

“He built you a throne beside his, my lady. On equal height and of equal size, built before he knew that it was you he was to wed, having already decided that his Lady Wife would have the same rank as he. No queen of any other realm can say that,” she plucked up both of Frisk’s hands. “Lady Nature never sat equal to her husband, the King of Gods in the Heavens. The Lord of the Sea was wed to a nymph before…” Before she was killed in one of the Wars. The Lord of the Sea was an old god. Very, very old. “And she had no place in ruling the oceans. But you...You will have power. Status. And all the gods in all the realms will see you as such.”

Frisk closed her eyes, “You are quite the optimist.”

“Is it optimism if it is the truth?”

The young goddess didn’t answer. She was subdued, pliant in the hands of her handmaidens until that fateful morning arrived.

Her wedding day.

.

Before the elementals came to wake her, Frisk slipped from bed, ready to make one last dash toward escape, but it was not meant to be. As soon as she opened the door, there stood her husband, dark and cold, his sockets twin voids of starless night. His smile broadened in an unsettling fashion and Frisk stepped back in reflex. Theirs was a wordless dance, Sans not moving beyond the threshold, Frisk padding away, eyes fixed on him as if he would pounce should she break their stare. She wasn’t intimidated. No. She refused to be. She simply knew her limits and charging at Death would likely end up with her in his grasp, dragged off to the altar without so much as a chance at thwarting the event.

“Your majesties!” Hyacinth rushed forth, dropping into a bow before Sans, rising only when he motioned for her to stand. She then turned to Frisk, fussing with her sleep-mussed hair and clothes. “My Lady, you worried us when we did not find you abed.” She glanced to Sans who nodded once, slowly. “Come now, we have preparations to make. As anxious as you must be for today’s ceremony, it will not begin until you arrive, so there is no need to rush.”

Frisk couldn’t hold back her frustrations as the elemental guided her back to her bedroom, “I am not marrying him.” She twisted to glare at Sans, “Listen to me now, Lord Death. I will not be marrying you today. Or tomorrow. Or any other day! This farce must end. You will release me Above or—”

A chuckle interrupted her tirade, “or what, lady spring?” His sockets drooped and he cocked his skull to the side like an inquisitive bird that found something shiny. “you can no more deny the will of the fates than i.”

“This is a choice! You are choosing to marry me! They are not the ones who abducted me nor are they holding me hostage.”

Sans’ grin only grew impossibly wider, “choice. funny how you think either of us honestly have a true say in this matter. but you wish to speak of choices? very well. you chose to leave your mother’s garden same as she chose to feed you ambrosia. even should you have the choice for us to not wed this day, that would imply that you choose not to see the above or your mother.” He waved a hand, “prepare my future lady wife for the ceremony. it matters little to me whether we are bound while she is in the finest silks or tattered rags.” He then shut the door, the sound wrenching through Frisk with hollow finality.

Frisk wanted to rage and fight, but in the embrace of the fire elemental, her anger burned cold. She was mute as her handmaidens bathed and oiled her hair and skin. She was unfeeling through every tug and tangle of a comb, and limp as clothes were pulled of her form. Daisy made an adoring noise, like one might for a kitten, and lifted an odd silver mirror that showed Frisk’s reflection. This gained a reaction. She was unused to seeing her face beyond refracted glimpses in water or crystals. She was...pretty? She had seen nymphs with great beauty, her handmaidens strikingly lovely in their form and figure. Her own mother was radiant in her voluptuous, maternal manner. But Frisk wasn’t certain if she herself was an orchid or a dandelion.

Skin warmed by the sun was flecked with little blemishes—a tiny spot beneath her jaw, a scar on her elbow, a dash of sun marks on her shoulders—instead of flawless. Her hair, cut short to be easier to manage when she lost track of the days in mother’s garden, hung loose around her face, the strands shiny from oils. Frisk touched her exposed collarbone then smoothed her palms over the front of her dress, the gilt fabric almost ethereal, light and shimmering, having obviously been woven of spider silk, the way it laid emphasizing her hips and the smallness of her waist. The girdle beneath was purple, she thought absently as the draining hours that passed flickered through her mind. From her shoulders hung a long cape in the same shimmering gold, grand in its extravagance, and to match it were the ornaments that she now wore. Thick bands were cold against the skin of either upper arm and crowned upon her head was a circlet of glittering stones, the largest of which was positioned at the front, deep vermillion and inset in a blooming flower.

“All that remains is the veil,” Iris said, returning Frisk back to reality, a chill slithering down the young goddess’ spine. To her surprise, it was not made of gold, but red. Humans had tales of red or yellow veils protecting the bride from evil spirits. Maybe it would work on Death himself, she thought bitterly. Daisy laid down the mirror and helped position the last piece of decoration. Frisk’s hands balled tight, painted nails digging into her palms. She was being made up as the perfect bride for her unwanted husband. Her agency stolen. If this was to happen, she had to reclaim a little of herself.

The elementals tittered as flowers began to bloom at her feet. She focused hard, willing the life within fallow earth to waken. Death may destroy all he touched, but his world was not a barren waste. If it were, there would not be a garden. Her powers, weak as they were, would rouse no growth. Though she knew that the plants were temporary things, for there was nowhere for their roots to burrow in this marble floor, she kept willing them to appear, to climb taller, to bloom. And when she at last trembled from exertion and opened her eyes, there was a lovely expanse of golden flowers surrounding them.

“Have you ever made a flower crown?” Frisk asked, speaking up for the first time since the preparations began. Together they wove a crown fit for a queen and laid it on her head. It clashed terribly with the precious metals and their gaudy excessiveness, but she felt her breathing ease at the sight of it. She wasn’t a docile nymph. She was a goddess. Sans ensured that with his meddling. So it would be a goddess that faced him as he dared bind them for eternity. May he learn to regret his folly.

Sans was at the door when the handmaidens opened it, his skull jerking up as if he was startled awake. Was he sleeping while standing? Also, he slept? He appraised her with those hollow sockets—Frisk swore she saw his browbones lift in the shadow of his hood—before nodding and holding out a hand. She walked past him, ignoring the gesture, earning a low chuckle before her world was twisted up, and she fell through that weightless nothing of shadows. Frisk gasped when she regained her senses again, hating that Sans could do that. She glared as he emerged from the void, stark-white phalanges lifting to pull down his hood, revealing his skull fully for the first time since they met. There on his head rested a thin laurel of gold—his crown?—and as he moved onward, she noticed the symbol stitched on the back of his half cape. It was the Deltarune. The heraldry of the royal family.

A circle with wings to represent their divinity, beneath it three triangles, two pointed upward for the the kingdoms of heavens and sea, and one directed down, for the underworld.

With a careless flick of his wrist, he plucked a slim shape from seemingly nowhere and held it at his side. A bident. There was that strange dragon skull at the top, the horns the prongs of the weapon, its design reminiscent of the overlarge scythe he wielded before, terrifying and gleaming, its carved sockets embedded with gemstone eyes. He for once looked the role of king instead of emissary of doom, proud and royal even amidst the cold stone and cobwebs. They were outside the Fates’ chambers and Frisk never felt more out of place.

“come, lady spring, it is unwise to turn away when your audience is requested.” He did not extend his hand, but Frisk knew what he wanted regardless. Once more he was offering her one of those ‘so-called’ choices. To face her fate shoulder-to-shoulder with her husband-to-be, or to attempt flight once again, no doubt to be dragged into that fathomless dark against her will. He was adamant about marrying her. So be it. Once they were wed, she would leave to go Above and her mother would surely help her sort out how to keep her from being brought back Below. To bend did not mean one was broken. She drew in a steadying breath and drew up beside him, her gaze on the curtain before them, his presence ignored as they entered the complete darkness of the Spinners’ home.

Chapter Text

Her soul sang with defiance, glowed blindingly bright with its mortal born willfulness, and as she passed by him, a gilt lily clad in golden silk, he watched her, entranced by the sheer determination held within that fragile form. Frisk was born from Nature’s love of a human man, and had ambrosia never touched the halfling’s lips, perhaps her future would have never entangled with his. She would have remained a long lived but mortal child for her mother to covet and shelter. Instead Nature was foolish—selfish even—and gifted her daughter with an immortal’s fate. Cursed her to be a Named goddess without the awareness of what such an action would reap, likely thinking Frisk would stay forever with her in her hiding place, a near powerless nymph that skipped through fields making flowers grow. But a soul like Frisk’s was dangerous enough as a mere mortal. If she were human or halfling alone, she would be the sort to slay kings and topple empires, even if not by hand but through influence. A ‘hero’ one might say. Souls like that never fell into eternal rest easily, he would know, he collected and judged all of these heroes in the end. But beating within the chest of an immortal? It was a thing to marvel upon. The possibilities limitless.

Her Name was Spring, but Sans could see the routes such a domain laid before her, invisible paths towards which her powers could grow. It was more than flowers blooming in her wake. Spring was birth and rebirth. It was the return of life after the barrenness of winter. It was warmth and renewal. It was fertility. Resurrection. Change. He could see the seeds of possibility within her, roots still short, leaves yet to unfurl, potential barely tapped. Would she one day be more than Spring? Would her domain reach to all the seasons the cycles that be? The Fates called her Mercy. Would she someday hold a different Name entirely? Names could change. Rare, but possible. And with a soul red with determination, change was quite literally part of her very nature.

But as much potential as she held, she was still little more than a child. Named and of physical maturity, but young, inexperienced in all things. And he was old. Very, very old. As old as life itself, given sentience by necessity, little more advanced than the primordial gods of ages lost. He could not recall his birth, because like most children of the Void, all he knew was hunger then. Time meant little to Death. The whims and worries of other beings meant even less. Of course, that version of him was no longer, having evolved, altered by the needs of the boundless multiverse. Where he once was a formless plague that devoured and rotted and consumed, he, like most current gods, crafted himself a body like that of the mortals that now worshipped them. And it was to him—this him—the Fates foresaw a partner. A wife and queen. A goddess whose Name he played a roll in discovering.

Sans once yearned, when he was younger. He yearned and waited and longed. Kingdoms rose and fell, the monarchy of the gods fracturing when Mother Nature turned her back to her husband. He witnessed the birth and death of the Ocean King’s bride, and the rise of the current pantheon from the blood of the past. Yet he remained alone. He consulted the Spinners and they assured him that one day she would come. He would know when he found her. Eventually waiting wore on even immortal souls. Small comfort came in the few others that made eternity bearable.

The birth of his younger brother from the same miasma as he was unsurprising, for the burden of collecting souls and ruling them was too great for one being. While he still ventured from the Underworld to gather the more troubled and willful of the mortals, it was his brother who was the real Reaper. Peaceful and gentle, his very presence both inviting and disquieting, the younger god of Death welcomed each soul as if it were the most precious gift. Perhaps one day the line would be more clearly drawn between them. Then there was the god of fire, forge and festivities. His children were among the oldest of mortal creatures, primitive and primal, molten earth given awareness, and he was one of the few gods that visited the Underworld on purpose, and offered an open invitation for Death to do the same. More than once he asked if he wished one of his Flames for a concubine, hinting that even if he could not touch, that it would be a shame to deny himself feminine companionship if that was something he desired. Sans always turned such offers away...until recently. Now and then they renewed the truce between their realms, and this last time, the Lord of Fire knew of Sans’ change in behavior, his discovery of a mortal Above. He knew the promise the Fates made Sans. So he offered not a woman for his harem, but handmaidens to serve his future queen.

And if the little mortal was not his fated wife? Keep the girls or dispose of them as you please, was the fire god’s reply. It was possible he may have forgotten their existence in time should Frisk have stayed dead when the brush of his phalanges shattered her soul. A powerful thing, to have time at one’s mercy, limited though it may be now. Another thing to covet in his future bride.

Oh how he coveted.

Like most immortals he was selfish. He yearned and clutched tight to anything that made him feel. As brief as mortals were, Sans understood why many of his brethren took them as lovers. Many were beautiful in their hope and compassion. They were passionate. And the gods? They were calloused, numbed by the passing of millenia and doldrums of eternity. But at least his peerage could find companionship in one another. Even his brother was not so burdened by his domain and reputation. Papyrus was born after the wars of the last age, unsullied by ichor, still capable of seeing the good in everyone. He was a glowstone in the abyss of night, and Sans...he was the abyss.

The abyss took, and took, and took, endless and bottomless and fathomless, ravenous in its consumption. Never full. Never satisfied. Never welcome nor wanted, just a perilous temptation that none could quite ignore when it called. He was the End. A thing that even gods feared.

A thing that so pitilessly stole a lovely little flower for himself, hoping that she was at last the one after watching her from afar. She was a child unnamed when his gaze first fell upon her, and he was then unmoved. All he knew and cared to know of her was that she was of halfling blood. Her soul declared her to be the daughter of Nature and a human, and in her wake were wildflowers. She was nothing special then beyond her lineage and her soul color. Nothing for him to notice until her eventual demise. That is until she came of age. Her mother fed her ambrosia, changed her, was trying to gift her immortality in an action that was as cruel as most claimed him to be. She could have easily killed the child, but instead, she fated her to Death himself. Her soul was different then. He could sense his influence within her despite their never speaking. Perhaps she was cursed, he thought then, but he began to prepare. Just in case…

He knew not how long it took before he was ready, but it was longer than that before Frisk appeared again. And how easy was it to lure her to one of the mouths of the Underworld. All it took was a flower. Heh. Little more than a weed really. But curious, ignorant, innocent Frisk saw it and ran closer, left bemused when the soulless creature retreated back Below, the cue for Sans to open up the earth beneath her.

Sans hoped she would pass the tests (he also hoped she failed, he had been alone this long, he didn’t need anyone). The Underworld twisted and heeded his whims as she wandered. When the first seeds passed her lips he knew it was time to face her. To see if this unmade godling-to-be was the one he waited most of his conscious existence for.

Her death and rebirth were instant.

And he knew.

And he resented her with the cool bitterness of a man that understood the soul he was destined to be bound to feared him. Would come to loathe him. Who could love Death? Certainly not a child of Nature. Was this some cruel joke? Was his misery his reward for his lifetime of diligence? Another god might have courted the girl when she came of age, lessened the inevitable shock of the fated union. But for all his patience, he was no fool. If he waited overlong, no doubt her mother would make things near impossible, secreting her away out of spite, whispering into her ear until she despised him without having seen his visage. So he took her. He kept her. And now, he would wed her. His little stolen bride. Her handmaidens tittered about duty and love, but those were shallow placations. He wasn’t capable of loving, only coveting, and she knew it same as he.

He did not intend to be a cruel husband to her. If, perhaps, she could drudge up a tolerance of him these next few centuries might be less cold. Less quiet. (Less lonely) She would want for little if she deigned to ask it of him. The wealth of the earth was at his fingertips. No king mortal or god was as rich as he. But he suspected that the one thing she would ask of him would be the one thing he could not grant. To leave him forever. To forsake him for the Above. She was bound to the Below now. He could not change that. And once she accepted it, swore an oath of marriage and then of fealty to the crown she would wear upon becoming queen, life would be easier for her. The yoke long heavy on his shoulders would rest upon hers as well, and shaking it was impossible.

No matter the whispers he heard from Above.

Side-by-side he walked with his reluctant bride into the blackness of The Fates’ chambers. Three days since passed from when they bid him to bring her for the ceremony. Three days since they confirmed that she was indeed his wife-to-be...Three days since they suggested the preposterous possibility that he, Death, would someday sire life with the godling he suspected would resent him until the day the sun burned out. (There was dread in his chest same as hope. Was he monster enough to take that which wasn’t freely given? Would tolerance make him a suitable lover in her eyes when the isolation of this dreadful realm eventually dimmed that vivid determination?)

“we have come to receive your blessing, wise ones,” he said, his gaze fixed on the formless nothing before him. Same as Frisk, he was blind in this darkness.

“Then take each other’s hands,” said The Maiden, whose duty was to spin the threads of fate, the Beginning yet the Past. She knew all that has been because it was she that created each delicate bit of webbing. Sans reached with his right hand until his phalanges brushed Frisk’s arm. Her skin was cold, prickled from the chill. He slid his palm into hers, delicate fingers limp in his grasp.

“Face each other,” commanded The Mother. It was her duty to measure each thread, and it was she who determined the length and connection of every life. And it was she who led the ceremony, words of a language long lost to the aether thrumming through the room, over them, into them, binding them. Frisk’s fingers tightened around his. He couldn’t see her soul in this place, couldn’t see if it was fear or bravado that drove her to increase her grip. Did she even know that their vows were being spoken for them? That regardless if they fled now, they were bound until the End Days?

“It is done,” declared The Crone, and Sans could picture the flash of her shears as she snipped a thread to size. A delicate weight settled upon his wrist, and had this been a marriage where his bride could say she did not loathe him, this would be when he lifted her veil and kissed her. Instead, he drew their bound hands to his teeth, pressing her clammy fingertips against them. She did not reciprocate the action.

In less than a whisper she asked, “Is it over...already?”

“heh. we’re husbone and wife.” She tensed and tried to yank away, but her motion dragged him closer, their wrists tied. With a humorless chuckle, he stepped back, so as not to offend her by remaining too close. “you honor us, wise ones. many thanks for your blessing of our union.”

“Long may you both reign,” echoed back the Fates.

And with that, Sans guided Frisk from the chamber and through a shortcut. The shadows embraced them for a soulbeat before releasing them at his bidding. Oh how they wished to keep him, but alas, he did not will it. Frisk gasped, still unused to his favored form of travel, and he peered at her as she struggled to remain steady, their binding forcing her to rely on him more than she clearly wanted to. Once she was upright, she threw back the veil, all fire and venom, brown eyes blazing with an inferno of mortal emotion.

“I want to go Above,” she said. “I am your wife now, and you promised I could go once we were married.” Sans wriggled his phalanges, drawing her gaze to the thin, glittering thread tied around their wrists. It could be undone but not broken, such was the nature of the Spinner’s web. Releasing the knot was a simple matter...if one wasn’t struggling against it. “Get this off of me!” He must have remained silent too long, selfishly basking in her discomfort and passion, because she clenched her fists and bared her teeth like some kind of feral hound.

“no.”

One word was all it took for the color to leave her face and her soul to shine even brighter with defiance. “What do you mean no? You promised!” She began to struggle in earnest, the thread cutting into her flesh, ichor seeping from the shallow wound.

“i said you would remain down here until you were crowned queen,” Sans replied, the words falling from him slow and easy. “you are my wife, yes, but you have yet to be coronated queen. of course my people will care little for semantics, as you well know many will treat you as their queen by nature of my calling you my wife. but the crown you will not wear until you ask to swear yourself to it.” When she froze, Sans easily hooked a prong of the bident beneath the thread, and with the gentlest of tugs, the knot fell away, freeing them. “you should be relieved. i am granting you a choice. you get to choose when you see your mother again. today, tomorrow...in twenty years…” Sans shrugged. “come along, my lady wife. we are expected to make an appearance before our people.” Along with an invited guest or two.

Frisk snatched back her hand, staring at him with outrage and a hint of fear. She was a feral cat caught in a trap, ears flat, teeth bared, claws made useless though she lurched and hissed and struggled with rabid bravado. He dared not touch lest she snap, too taut nerves giving way and leaving them both aching. "Another trick," Frisk muttered. "I should have known. This is my future, to be manipulated and twisted to your whims? A puppet? A pawn?"

"...no…" Sans motioned to the doorway they were standing before. "i have no need for a marionette without its strings. tibia honest, it's too much work playing with someone's life and i got enough to do already. what i want is a queen. now, time to be civil.” Before Frisk could argue why, he ushered her into a grand banquet hall, used only a handful of time previously in the wake of wars ending or truces forged. A cheer rang out for the ‘happy couple’ and Sans lifted his bident in return, “friends. citizens. guests. may i introduce my bride and beloved wife, lady spring.” She shivered at his side, now faced with her people. Their people. “i bid you to eat, drink and make merry. it is a most glorious day.”

It did not surprise him that as he moved forward through the crowd, Frisk stayed close. Better the enemy you know, they say. Most that were here were not-quite-divine beings left from lost ages, their names and origins little more than stardust. They lived in the Underworld peacefully enough, preferring the darkness and quiet like the world they knew in their youth. Though among the guests were gods and mortal creatures alike—including the long lived nymphs that dwelled in the gardens and on the banks of the six rivers, some pale and drawn as wraiths, but alive all the same. Though it was not the nymphs but the gods he let his gaze settle upon. As expected, the Lord of Fire sat at a table, surrounded by his Flames and enough wine to drown in, his very presence brightening the mood of the whole room. And approaching them was Mother Night, said to be the daughter of the Spinners, and was the Goddess of Nightmares, Fear and Spiders. She was also a messenger of sorts, her countless children able to cross between the Underworld and Above with startling ease.

“Hello dearies, you both look scrumptious this evening,” she greeted, her fangs glinting in the glowlight, many eyes blinking independently. Like mother goddesses often were, she was voluptuous and alluring with a maternal manner, like she would wipe crumbs off of anyone’s face with a tut. The black and silver of her diaphanous robes barely left any bit of her violet skin to the imagination, all four of her arms bare save for the Spiderlings crawling down exposed flesh. “You are radiant in gold, my lady.”

“Thank you, but you have me at a disadvantage?”

“Ah, such good manners for such a good, pretty girl,” she crooned. “You may call me Muffet if you are inclined, though most know me as Mother Night.” Elegant hands folded before her, expression ravenous. “I was the one your husband commissioned to make your dress. Finest spidersilk in all the Realms.” Frisk gave a quiet thanks and Mother Night peered at Sans, “Oh, no thanks needed, my lady, as long as your husband has gold to pay, I will make you whatever creations you or he desires for your wardrobe. You shall be the envy of Mt. Ebott. I guarantee it.”

“i expect no less of you,” Sans replied, casting his gaze to the side, dismissive.

“Fuhuhuhu. I know when I am no longer wanted,” the spider goddess pressed a lacquered nail to the corner of her mouth. “Enjoy the party, dearies~ The god of festivities arranged it himself!” With that, she sauntered off, all sinister seduction and knowing winks.

“if you were ever inclined to kill spiders, i would advise never doing so again.” Frisk tensed beside him, perhaps in insult or simply in confusion. “unless you enjoy rampant nightmares and checking your wine for poison?”

"Noted." Her attention was obviously elsewhere. Brown eyes flicked with too much curiosity, the aloof decorum of royalty having yet to shackle every word and action. Her mother and the handmaidens taught her basic manners, but to the ancient beings in the room, she was a stray flower growing outside the garden bed. Fortunately for them both, Sans was known for his own idiosyncrasies, and her naivete would simply be attributed to some twisted preference of his, as if he enjoyed watching the ruthless teeth of reality bleed her dry. He guided her past the beings that were beneath his notice at this time, the attending gods and nymphs parting when they arrived by the Lord of Fire's table.

Sans found his smile softening into something almost genuine when the elemental god opened his arms in greeting, amorphous face split with a craggy grin. "Many congratulations to you both. Here. Take a seat. Eat. Drink. Be merry and all that." Molten eyes ebbed to Frisk with familiar desire, and Sans drew Frisk closer, though he was mostly unbothered by the other's shameless lusts. The other god wouldn't touch her without her invitation. "My lady Spring, you are the most lovely creature in all the Underworld. Dare I say perhaps the most beautiful maiden in all the Realms!"

Frisk sputtered, and he could see her soul speed up. She was flattered. Of course. The Lord of Fire was charming. "Thank you, my lord. Might you be Lord Fyre?"

"Indeed. Call me Grillby. I insist. We are all friends here," he somehow had Frisk's hand in his own. The one scarred by the wars. Half his form was covered in dried lava, the crust concealing the bubbling flames beneath. His injuries were permanent and disfiguring, a stark reminder that even gods were not invulnerable.

“Lord Fyre…”

“Grillby.”

Frisk swallowed and began again, “Lord Grillby, I did not expect your presence here.” Sans bit back a chuckle at his poor wife’s expense. While Mother Night was known for her residence in the underworld, the Lord of Fire was a Surface dweller. Few knew that his home in the mortal realm was connected to the underworld by one of its rivers. It shouldn’t be a surprise that the Phlegethon and its banks full of roiling, earthen flames, began in a kingdom more true to its namesake. The mortals had many myths about the rivers, Styx’s love of Phlegethon was an old one, though in truth, they were never gods or goddess as some thought of them. No, instead they were primitive forces of nature and the cosmos, much like Sans was before he...changed. No emotions. No thoughts beyond need and survival. And forever they would remain that way, eternal denizens of his kingdom.

“No? Pity. Your husband’s negligence regarding such things wounds me.” He gave a dramatic sigh, allowing her tiny hand to slip free of his. “Did he at least introduce you to my Flames. A delightful little trio, triplets born from the same ember.”

“He...did.”

“Good. Good. They are well trained. May they serve you well, my lady. And should your requirements ever broaden, I would be happy to negotiate.” The color creeping on Frisk’s cheeks made it evident to all persons present that she was picking up on the god’s deeper meaning. “Ah, but I am keeping you from your party. Do enjoy yourself. And perhaps, in the future, we can talk further…” His gaze flicked to Sans. “I do have business with your husband every now and then, and it would be a shame to not foster a positive relationship between us all. Truces can be...quite beneficial.”

“while i’m certain my lady wife is burning with questions, you would be right, this is a party and it would be a shame to not make a proper showing.” He led Frisk away and lowered his voice, so that only she could hear. “charming, isn’t he? he’s a real hot topic among the gods.”

Frisk pointedly refused to look at him, cool and prim, “He could teach you a thing or two about how to properly treat a woman.”

Sans laughed, earning startled looks from the crowd, most of whom either never heard his laughter or associated it with some especially horrific event. “i will keep that in mind when he comes around to seduce you.” He chuckled again at her ire. “we have a friendly enough rapport, he and i. it would be a shame to break our treaty. when you bed him, do be discreet, or i will have to play the role of jealous husband in order to preserve my dignity. i have a reputation of being possessive of what is mine, and it would be terribly out of character for me to allow my wife’s lover to live should i catch the two of you during a rendezvous.”

That brilliant red soul flared brighter than ever, the underlying hues glimmering like a violent halo in her indignity. The blazing yellow of justice swam through a sea of integrity’s deep blue. Fainter still were notes of green kindness and familiar cyan patience. The core of her rioted against the prospect of breaking their unwanted vows, his words a slight to her honor. Settling like a mist was her violet perseverance, resonating so much like Mother Nature’s own. Beautiful. Why did she have to be so beautiful?

“When I bed him?” she hissed.

“ours is a political arrangement, is it not?” Sans tore his gaze away from her soul. “even your mother, a goddess of fidelity and matrimony, took a lover outside of her vows. and she loved her husband when they wed.”

“If it wouldn’t cause a scene I would slap you.”

“why not do it regardless?” Those narrowed eyes were his only warning before she tried to do just that. He caught her slim wrist and skimmed a phalange across her palm. She yanked her hand away, huffing.

“I hate you.”

“...i know.”

“I don’t want to be married, much less to you.”

“i know.”

“...I miss my mother.”

“i know.”

Frisk picked up a goblet of wine, twisting the glittering cup in both hands, “I feel unwell. I believe I have had quite enough of this party and would like to retire to my chambers.”

“of course, my lady wife.”

He made their goodbyes, and quietly, the newlywed couple retreated from the party shortly after gracing it with their presence. No doubt they would continue on without them for days and nights. Death was an often thought immovable god and his wife a lovely woman. Sans could already hear the elaborate tales that would be woven in the years to come. Would they write of her transcendent beauty, all innocence draped in gold? Would they write of her pinked cheeks and tearful eyes? Perhaps they would craft poems of how they imagined their courtship—was he the ruthless villain or she a sympathetic heroine? It didn’t matter in the end. She was his bride. One day she would be his queen. It was fated.

Until the End of Days do they part.

Chapter Text

There was no consummation of their union. Frisk fled Sans’ presence as soon as he escorted her to her chambers, door slamming between them. A torrent of emotions thrashed her against the jagged shores of desperation, dragging her deeper and deeper until she was on her knees, breaths sharp and damp. She hated him. Hated him. HATED HIM. She yanked off the flower crown and the fancy circlet. She mussed her hair and scrubbed her face with the heel of her palm. She was deaf and blind to the world, unable to think or feel beyond the roaring in her skull. When a trio of arms plucked her up, Frisk was a limp kitten, compliant in their embrace, no fight left as they stripped her to her undergarments and guided her to the hot springs. It wasn’t until she was submerged in steaming water that the thunderstorm clouding her thoughts cleared a little.

“Daisy?” Frisk murmured, spying a smear of yellow.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I’m married.”

“You are,” she wiped Frisk’s face. “And you’ve been crying.”

“I married him and he said I can’t go home. That I can only visit my mother if I am crowned his queen. Being his wife isn’t enough.”

“A wife’s place is with her husband,” Hyacinth said, echoing what Sans told her when he first declared they would be wed. Warm water drenched oil-slicked locks as someone poured the contents of a bucket upon Frisk’s head. Fingers carded through her hair. “A queen’s place is with her king. A queen’s loyalty is to the crown, to her people. By becoming queen, your fealty would no longer be to the Above, but entirely to the Underworld.”

Frisk tensed and Daisy tutted, “Do you have to be so...direct? Our lady is in distress.”

“I am saying nothing that she is not aware of,” Hyacinth shifted, sandals scratching against stone.

“Lord Death requires us to further her education now that they are wed,” Iris interjected with a note of worry alight in her voice. “Her words may be harsh but to not speak of the matter does no one any justice.”

“If she is to find happiness in this union, there is much she must accept.”

Daisy nodded, “...Of course. You are right. I just wish...I just wish this was a happy day. Lord Death is a good king and our Lady will be a good queen. Even if they do not love each other yet, it is disheartening that she is shedding tears.” The elementals were all practical girls. Even with Daisy’s gentle concern, Frisk knew she would be quick to concede to the value of proper decorum. They earnestly believed that through proper grace and grooming that Frisk could make a happy marriage out of being abducted because the Fates declared it would be.

“Should I do it, Daisy? Should I become his queen?” The pale elemental faltered, the flames upon her head leaping up in startled curls before burning lower, darker, with unspoken uncertainty. She gave a small cough and reached for a pan of oil, dabbing a cloth in it before wiping Frisk’s face. “Well?”

“I do not know how to answer, my lady,” she rubbed away the salt sticking to raw cheeks. “It would be above my station to advise you in accepting the crown. But, even though you weep now, I...I am selfish. Because I believe you will be good for the Underworld and her people, including her king. He talks to you, my lady. He puts aside his solitary nature to court your favor with gifts and riches. There is a wanting in him that I never saw in our last Lord’s eyes.”

“Daisy.” Hyacinth’s warning was sharp.

“She is not lying,” Iris said. “I see it too.”

A thick silence hammered down upon them until Frisk found new words, “Lord Fyre, I assume? Your last Lord.”

“That life is gone,” the lilac elemental stated. “We are loyal to you and his majesty alone.” When the other two did not speak up, she settled behind Frisk and began soaping her hair. “All these tears. All this worry. Did your mother never teach you the power a woman holds among men? Lord Death is an unusual man, but one must assume he is a man all the same.”

“Hyacinth!” Iris sounded almost scandalized. “Now you are the one being impertinent.”

A dismissive sniff was the only reply offered as Hyacinth continued scrubbing Frisk’s hair, “Even should you choose not to wear the crown, you are a wife now. Wife to a god who can see your soul and has never touched another, beyond his own kin, that he has not shattered. If you wish him to lay the realm at your feet, then you must learn when to bend and when to stand tall. It is your nature to be willful, to run or fight, to always seek your own desires, but what has that gotten you since your arrival?”

Frisk spun around, tears and self-pity forgotten as she stared at the lilac elemental, “What has it gotten me? Before he tricked me into eating ambrosia, I navigated the labyrinth with the aid of Lord Death’s own people. Even after, if he had not come after me, I might have even escaped. I would have found a way around Cerberus or...or...convinced the River Person to take me far enough up the river that I was in the mortal realm.”

“If, if, if,” Hyacinth placed her hands on Frisk’s shoulders and turned her back around, making her sit once again in the water. “Let me tell you a secret, one that any woman should know. If he wants you, he will be more receptive to your own desires. There is no shame in using your feminine attributes to—”

Water splashed as Frisk sank beneath the surface and washed away the soap, resurfacing with a reddened face, “I cannot believe you are suggesting I seduce my unwanted husband right now.”

“Hmph. I would have thought it would appeal to you given your propensity for—”

“No husband seducing!”

Daisy giggled and tugged Frisk back to the edge of the pool, “She has a point. But there is more to seduction than you are thinking, my lady. A weary soldier yearns for the embrace of something soft and sweet, who will dote over him with tea and a hot meal, who will sing and dance for him and remind him of all the delicate, fragile things in this world that he seeks to protect. A battle hardened general may wish for clever conversation, a little wicked rapport, and the assurance that is great and strong and wise. As for a king...your king...he has so much on his shoulders.”

“I am not going to flutter my eyelashes at him or act the role of simpering fool.”

“Stars no, that would only make him suspicious,” Iris said, joining in with a sly weight to her tone. “But taking on the mantle of queen willingly. Holding your head high. Treating his people with compassion...Gracing him with little conversations.”

“As if he is beneath your notice.”

“Yet recognizing him as your lord husband and deserving of your respect.”

“No more running away.”

“If you fight, it is only with words.”

“Accept any gifts with grace.”

“And with mild enthusiasm until he gives you what it is you seek.”

“Of course inviting him to your bed might—” Daisy shrieked when her comment earned a faceful of Frisk as the goddess tried climbing out of the pool to get to her. The three elementals tittered with laughter. “Yes, yes, just had to make sure you were paying attention, my lady.”

Frisk clambered out of the hot springs—without violence this time—and stood shamelessly nude as her handmaidens dried her off and helped her into her nightwear. It was embarrassing the first time because they were strangers, but she’d bathed with nymphs in rivers since she was a child. As they began to plait her hair, Frisk found the urge to speak bubbling up, “You really are triplets, aren’t you? When I first saw you three, I had my suspicions but…”

“Yes, we are,” Iris said. “What gave it away, our near identical appearances or our propensity for finishing each other’s sentences?”

“It seemed rude to assume…”

Conversation became easier as subjects moved away from seduction and husbands and the weight of all the worry Frisk carried in her chest. Exhausted from the day’s emotions and relaxed by the nightly ritual of bathing in the hot spring, Frisk fell asleep easier and deeper than she had since arriving.

.

Despite their change in marital status, Frisk saw little of her husband over the next few days. It was always in passing, little glimpses now-and-then when she left her chambers to go to other parts of Death’s personal domain. The elementals mentioned how unusual it was for him to not hold court with such a great many souls waiting judgement.

“Maybe there is a war Above,” Iris murmured, earning nods from her sisters. “He would need to aid his brother in collecting souls if there is a surge of mortals that are refusing to come peacefully.”

While the thought of a bloody, ruthless massacre made Frisk a little green to ponder, she was thankful for the reprieve. She didn’t want to look at him. Talk to him. Think about him. Which was increasingly hard to do when literally everything in this place was a stark reminder of him, including the lessons the elementals spent the days trying to ingrain into her brain. How to walk like a lady. How to sit and speak and eat. Frisk had some foundation in their lessons, but the handmaidens were ruthless teachers. as easily as they reprimanded her for pouring wine into the wrong cup, they were quick to chatter and gossip, teaching Frisk how a woman navigated Court and pried out useful information. A skill, they assured her, would be most useful when Sans took her to Mt.Ebott.

They were entering the kitchens to begin another lesson on household management (which Frisk still did not understand why it was necessary, Sans’ staff was both self-managing and practically invisible given their nature as Shades) when a booming voice brought them all to a halt. There, standing in the middle of the kitchen, was a skeleton monster....no, skeleton god! His bones were on full display in some of the least modest garments Frisk had seen on anyone, nymph, mortal or god! Cloth that was most likely spider silk covered his pelvis, the rectangle of fabric reaching his knees, but on the hip it was pinned closed with a familiar golden dragon skull, the whole expanse of his leg was visible. Loosely wrapped around him diagonally over one shoulder was another bolt of cloth that at best hid half his rib cage. He wore matching boots, gloves and gauntlets...all of it in a shade of red that struck Frisk as disconcertingly familiar.

“That is his majesty’s brother,” Daisy whispered in her ear. “Lord Death the Younger.”

“Why isn’t he—” Frisk motioned at the skeleton who had yet to notice them.

“Wearing more?” Iris grinned. “Why should he? This is his home and I must admit…”

“Shush. I thought he wore black robes like Sans.” That was how all the stories portrayed him. A taller, but equally dark figure, who was tireless in his work. Some said he carried the same weapon as Sans, others claimed he used none at all. He was, after all, the kinder brother. All he needed was a touch. “Not bright red....whatever one must call that.”

“His party body.”

“What?” All three looked at Hyacinth.

“That is what he calls the outfit. His party body. I once heard Lord Death call it his home body and the Younger became quite irate.” She tilted her head. “And you see it as red? It looks white to me.”

“And me,” echoed the other two.

“GREETINGS LADY FLAMES AND FRIEND! IF YOU ARE DONE OGLING MY VERY HANDSOME FORM, MIGHT YOU INTRODUCE THE FOURTH MEMBER OF YOUR NEW QUARTET? I DO NOT BELIEVE WE HAVE MET!” All four clustered a little closer together when the younger death god spoke to them in that tremendous voice of his. He stood facing them now, hands perched on either hip, his expression welcoming. There was an odd, eeriness to him, just like Sans, but combating it was an undeniable warmth. Like he would give the best hugs. His brow bones quirked up as he observed them, likely noting the metallic pins denoting their rank. “AND I WOULD THINK WE WOULD HAVE MET, LITTLE HUMAN GODDESS. OR MY BROTHER WOULD HAVE INFORMED ME OF YOUR PRESENCE HERE.”

He drew closer and Frisk stepped forward, her chin high, her gaze meeting his, “I am the goddess of Spring. A pleasure to meet you at last, Lord Death the Younger.”

His expression was one of scrutiny, “WHAT IS YOUR ASSOCIATION WITH MY BROTHER?”

Frisk swallowed, “He...has not told you? Pardon, I thought everyone in the Underworld knew...I am his wife.” Before she could continue and explain how that came to be, the younger death god made a noise that was best described as a squeal, his arms splaying open like he wanted to grab her into a crushing embrace. Instead he just bounced in place.

“A SISTER! I HAVE A SISTER! OH IT IS WONDERFUL TO KNOW THAT MY BROTHER HAS FOUND THE OTHER HALF OF HIS SAD, LONELY SOUL. NO WONDER IT WAS SO HARD TO CATCH HIS ATTENTION A FEW DAYS AGO. HE WAS GETTING MARRIED AND—” He paused, huffed and stomped his foot like a peevish horse. “AND HE DIDN’T TELL ME? OH WHEN I SEE HIM AGAIN I AM GOING TO GIVE HIM A FIRM TALKING TO. HOW DO YOU PUT UP WITH HIM? NO, DON’T ANSWER THAT. I AM DEEPLY THANKFUL THAT HE FOUND YOU AND NOW HE CAN BEGIN A NEW CHAPTER IN HIS LIFE...UNLIFE? IMMORTAL UNLIFE?” Anger forgotten just as swiftly as it came, there was a mental snap and pop of wheels turning and cogs falling into place. “WELL, AS WE ARE NOW SIBLINGS BY MARRIAGE WE MUST PROPERLY INTRODUCE OURSELVES. I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS, THE COLLECTOR OF SOULS, AND YOUNGER GOD OF DEATH.”

“I...I am Frisk. Goddess of Spring and daughter to Mother Nature.”

“FRISK. MY SISTER’S NAME IS FRISK. AND SHE IS THE DAUGHTER OF...OH...OH DEAR. HM.”

“Is something amiss, my lord?”

“PAPYRUS! CALL ME PAPYRUS OR BROTHER. AND NO, NOTHING IS WRONG PER SE, IT IS JUST...WELL, IT EXPLAINS A FEW MATTERS THAT HAVE ARISEN. BUT DO NOT WORRY, I AM CERTAIN EVERYTHING WILL WORK OUT JUST FINE! TELL ME, DID I MISS YOUR CORONATION? PLEASE SAY I HAVE NOT MISSED MY BROTHER’S WEDDING AND MY SISTER’S CORONATION.”

Frisk shook her head no, “We were...waiting.”

“didn’t want you to miss the big event, paps,” Sans melted out of the shadows and wedged himself between Frisk and her handmaidens as if they were furniture. Given their bowed heads and silence, Frisk supposed that was the role they were playing right now as they were in the presence of Underworld’s entire royal family. Sans did not touch her but the billowing tendrils of his robes inched and slithered about their feet, brushing against Frisk’s leg. “i’d be bonely doing the ceremony all by my bone-some.”

“URRRRG. YOU ARE NOT FUNNY, SANS, NOT ONE BIT.”

“i thought i was quite humerus. what do you think, lady wife?”

Frisk gave him a deadpan stare, “You have a remarkable way of killing a joke.” There was a pause, then Sans snorted and Papyrus groaned.

“heh. killing. good one.”

“YES, YES, A MATCH MADE IN TARTARUS, I SHOULD HAVE EXPECTED THIS. NOW WHEN IS THE CEREMONY?”

“we can do it today if you think you can spare an afternoon.”

“Today?”

“ONLY YOU WOULD ATTEMPT SUCH A TERRIBLY LAZY ARRANGEMENT.”

“i was thinking private. neither me or the wife are too fond of crowds and the crowning doesn’t need a big audience.” There was a slight tilt to his skull, giving Frisk the impression he was peering at her from the corner of his empty sockets. “what say you, frisk?” So rare was it that he said her name, a chill whisked down her back. “unless you wish to delay…?”

“Today. That way Papyrus can attend the ceremony and tomorrow I can inform my mother of the wonderful news.”

“very well.”

.

Sans’ soul raced a little faster. He thanked the Fates that Papyrus came home to the Underworld to rest and regroup with Sans about the growing turmoil Above. He noticed an uptick in deaths before his wedding, but in the past couple days, there was an absolute flood of new souls to judge. There were whispers. There were tears. There were calls to the gods about what they did to deserve this suffering. When he went Above, all was in chaos. One would have thought that Death himself was running amok on the surface, but neither brother had a hand in this despair. The withering plants. The agonized animals. Hunger. Cold. Pain.

All Sans could do when he saw it was smile. Smile in the manner of an ancient being gratified in the knowledge that he was blameless for the destruction the mortals would associate with him.

Mother Nature was capable of cruelty.

For all her love of mortals, she so easily slayed them in her ire. Her neglect.

And now Frisk had at last agreed to become his queen, as was fated since before her mother abandoned the pantheon to live in the mortal realm. It was all Nature’s fault, really. Her selfishness cursed Frisk and now that same selfishness brought nothing but suffering to the mortals she claimed to adore. Like everything else, they were disposable. Impermanent. Just blinks of the eye and beats of the heart compared to the life she had lived and would continue to live.

.

Gone.

Her daughter was gone.

Toriel waited and waited for the girl to return. She was aware the child slipped off to play outside their sanctuary. The garden was a terribly small place but she believed that it could be enough for them both. Had to be enough. And the occasional wandering from its borders would help Frisk realize how much better life was within the garden, where she was safe and happy and fed and loved. But when Toriel returned to the garden after her duties on the Surface, Frisk was not home. She did not come home. She refused to worry, tending to the plants, preparing dinner, ignoring the setting of the sun...but then her nymph companions came to her, crying, begging for forgiveness.

They were out picking flowers when Frisk wandered from the group and disappeared. No trace of her or the cause of her disappearance save for a patch of deadened grass. Toriel wept. She wept and she mourned. Her grief withered flowers and shriveled crops and soured milk in the udders of cows. Her despair turned into fury enough to steal the nourishing warmth from the air and drag rain down upon the earth. The ground rumbled and ice replaced rain.

She abandoned her sanctuary and walked the land of the mortals with storm clouds in her wake, demanding answers from both mortals and gods alike as she cried out for her daughter’s return. The first deaths were not enough to rouse the pantheon from their seats in Mt. Ebott, though she felt their eyes, their wonder, their disapproval. For so long she’d done her work in silence, using her gifts to shield herself from view, nurturing the mortal realm as was her sworn duty, unwilling to falter. How long ago had it been that she lost him? Her son? Her wonderful, perfect son who looked so much like his father yet had a soul like her own.

(Hypocrite)

The word screamed in her head like a prayer and a war cry, both torn from the throats of the dying, of those she swore to protect. Toriel left everything behind. Mt. Ebott. Her husband. The throne. All because Asgore wanted to wage war on the humans, destroy them, because one of their own inadvertently led to the death of their son. Little Asriel. She missed him. She missed him so much. Him and the human he brought home, both so young and innocent, not understanding the difference between gods and mortals. Neither understanding that one day Chara would grow old and die. Both ignorant to the dangers that grew in Asgore’s little flower garden.

(Hypocrite)

They were just children. Children did foolish things like eat Ambrosia Flowers, thinking it would grant Chara an immortal’s life. They didn’t know—couldn’t know—that the blooms were toxic even to the gods unless boiled into tea. Nobody knew that Asriel would try to guard his human friend’s determined soul from shattering from Death himself.

Nobody knew that everything would go wrong.

That he would die.

Fall to dust.

Gone.

Forever.

Just like Frisk.

She raged against Death then. Against Asgore. Against all the gods that tried to calm her grief. She wanted to destroy them, but instead, she hid. She hid and lived and grieved until one day she dared love again. He was a human, a widowed farmer that lost his wife and child to labor, who had a soul greener than the pastures he tended with passion and care. And one day, he prayed, that if the gods had any mercy, to spare some for a broken-hearted man, to allow him to have a family, that it was all he wanted, for all his gifts with growing things, it could not fill the emptiness inside him. Toriel was not sure why his prayers resonated with her, or why she donned a human guise to approach him. But for the brief time they had together she felt happy, so happy, and from that joy and love, Frisk sprung from her soul.

Of course, it was not meant to last.

Before she could introduce the girl to her father, Toriel found him in his bed, dead. He was not old for a human, but his life was hard. It was too much for his heart in the end. To a god, days and decades were both brief spans of time. How long had they been together? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t know. But she had a piece of him. Of their love. Frisk. Who looked so much like him...and had a soul that reminded her of Chara.

Their child helped mend the wounds that were lacerated across her soul. Filled in the gaps and cracks of grief. She refused to lose her. She would be with her always and forever. Yes. Forever. Even if that meant risking that fragile mortal soul with little doses of ambrosia, extending her life, changing her being. Her beautiful little demigoddess. Her daughter. Her world.

How dare someone take her away! How dare they steal her one happiness left in this forsaken world? No more. No more! She would get her daughter back. She was alive. She had to be. She could feel it in her soul! Whoever took her would face her wrath, feel the rage and sorrow of a mother who was done losing children.

“Frisk,” she cried out as winds rioted into a deafening cacophony. “Frisk where are you?”

.

“You look beautiful, my lady.”

Brown eyes reflected back at Frisk in the surface of the strange silver mirror. Her clothes were far plainer than for her wedding, stark and white save for the heavy cape of purple that trailed the ground. Emblazoned on the back was the Deltarune stitched in gold, a bitter reminder that she was royalty twice over. The daughter of a queen that fled her crown to live on the Surface in isolation, now the wife of a cold and calculating king of the Underworld. Maybe she could be like her mother and run off, live with her in the garden and pretend that there were now vows chaining her to the throne. It was likely Sans was lying about the effects of the seeds. Just because she ate the food of his land did not mean she was bound to it forever...right? She would find a way out.

No matter what the Spinners said.

She would create her own future. Her own path. Her own destiny.

“READY, SISTER?” Papyrus called through the door. Frisk inhaled slow and deep, nodding to her handmaidens.

“Yes. I am.”

And as easily as the words fell from her lips, she walked away from the elementals and towards the god. He smiled when she opened the door and offered a gloved hand. He was clad in the dark robes she associated with the brothers of the underworld, though unlike Sans, he did not bear the Deltarune on his clothes. Papyrus sniffed, “I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. MY BROTHER. MARRIED. AND I HAVE A SISTER. I’VE ALWAYS WANTED A SISTER.”

Frisk spared him a soft smile. If only he had been the one who was supposedly supposed to marry her. Papyrus probably wouldn’t have abducted her and made her wander around hurt and hungry as some kind of weird test. Soon—too soon—they reached the throne room where Sans sat like an indolent feline upon the more masculine of the two seats. His hood was down, his golden laurel in place, and when he saw Frisk, he straightened. He did not stand until Papyrus knelt at the raised podium, Frisk’s hand slipping from his arm. As Sans lifted from his seat, his bident emerged from whatever void he kept it in, and he bid Frisk to bow her head.

He asked an oath of her.

To be queen. To be merciful. To share the burden of ruling with him. To make his people her own.

It was a long speech for a man that did not speak at length, and each word pressed down, making her shoulders ache, her head swim. When it was over, all Frisk could do was finalize her choice.

“Yes. I swear.”

A slight weight laid upon her head, “then rise.” Frisk straightened, aware of the crown that she now wore. “take your seat, my lady.” Frisk did as she was bid and sat equal to her husband, their only audience Papyrus and the shadows draping the hall.

“you are now queen of the underworld.”

Chapter Text

“Take me Above, now.”

No sooner was she declared Queen that she pinned her stare on Sans, daring him to deny her request once more. The room fell silent. Her unwanted husband shrugged, glancing at Papyrus over her shoulder before meeting Frisk’s gaze. “you sure you want to go above?” His fixed grin betrayed none of his thoughts, his empty sockets dark as always, no magic flickering within to hint at any depth beyond what was spoken. “after promising yourself to being queen of the underworld, you do not wish to spend time with its people, or to tell your handmaidens of your departure?”

Frisk wilted at the mention of the elementals, which in turn reminded her of what she wore. “You are right,” she said—posture stiff, throat tight, every word pinched. “I need to change out of these clothes.” White may be a proper color for a Queen in the Underworld, but she wanted familiar shades of pink, fabric light and airy instead of heavy with expectation. Frisk itched to shed the voluminous cape with its royal designation and the golden pins engraved with their mythic stars. She...she wished she could take the elementals with her Above, but if they were citizens of the realm of the dead, could they leave?

There were questions in her mind, on her tongue, that Frisk willed herself to leave unanswered for the sake of escape. Such as how there was life Below. Or how there were mortals living in the Underworld when the denizens treated her so ruthlessly before she won them over. Then again, did she ever win them over or was the cease in attempts to kill her all because of their king? I don’t care, she told herself. Because she could not care. Not when caring too much might very well steal the Surface from her. Was it selfish? Yes? No? Talk of choices mingled with the urgent need to see the sun. To see her mother. This was her choice. He made the rules, she played his game, now it was on his honor to deal what she was owed.

Sans offered his hand, bare phalanges gleaming cyan in the light of the crystals. Her fingers twitched and slowly, she laid her palm in his, careful not to shudder when cold bone curled loosely against clammy skin. “then allow me to escort you to your rooms, my queen.” Frisk peeked at Papyrus, who was openly sobbing, gushing about how he was so happy for his brother and new sister. Sans might have the loyalty of his people, and nobody may agree that this match was terrible, but Frisk would stand by her plan. He would live to regret this demand.

All too soon they fell through the shadows, emerging by the entrance to her chambers, together and alone once more. He did not release her hand right away, not until Frisk pulled herself free of his unresisting grasp. “You will take me Above.” It was an order, not a question. Sans studied her face in his usual way.

“not today, but soon. you need to eat and rest and say your goodbyes. your handmaidens will keep your rooms ready for your return. if you have any preference to their decoration or wish to expand upon your wardrobe, make arrangements with them.” Sans was so nonchalant, so certain, that it made Frisk’s hands curl into fists, nails biting into flesh. A single lid slipped shut as he peered at her with a black, vacant socket, “i wish to remind my lady wife that i do not wish her misery. this is your home. no expense will be spared for your comfort.”

“Well your ‘Lady Wife’ is uncomfortable being underground this long and wants to go Above and see the sun and the stars and the grass.”

“there are stars here,” Sans said, almost startling her with the softness of his words. “not the same as the ones in the sky but just as beautiful. if you wish for the sun, i can show you where light from the surface touches my realm. you already know that there are spots of life and greenery. it would be but a small matter to show you how to find an oasis, or even elysium. i would discourage you from staying overly long in the latter, but it is perhaps the most beautiful place in our kingdom.”

Frisk backed against the door and shook her head, a part of her twinging with disbelief at how his little speech made her feel. Traitorous emotions. Was it possible that if he came to her like this, all soft words and promises of beautiful things, that her more naive self would have dared follow him, a willing lamb in this ridiculous charade? Now, all those pretty words just made her brace her shoulders and turn away, “I will give you until morning to fulfil your promise, husband.”

“as you say. sleep well, frisk.”

Then he was gone, and Frisk could only keep moving one step at a time. She entered her chambers, quiet as the elementals offered their congratulations and assurances that she would make the best queen, already tittering about lessons and parties and clothes.

“Will you grow your hair? Please say you will,” Daisy said as she laid Frisk’s crown to the side and began to unpin her cape. “Unless your husband prefers it short…”

“I would grow it long out of spite if he did,” Frisk let her outfit pool at her feet, eager to be free of it. Iris clucked in disapproval and picked up the garment as Hyacinth presented new selections to change into. “And I want to go to sleep.”

“So early in the day?”

“What about a bath?”

“Perhaps a lesson to pass the time?”

“I am going to bed,” Frisk’s tone brooked no argument and she received none, just a chorus of “Yes, My Lady” as they prepared her for an evening in. As she climbed into the stupidly plush comfort that she would actually miss when she went home, Frisk caught Iris by the arm to keep the elemental from walking away quite yet.

“Do you have need of me?” she asked.

“I...I have arranged to go Above tomorrow. I would ask if you can—?”

It was hard to discern her expression, ever-shifting as the Flame’s features were, but the drop of her shoulders was telling, “If I could, I would follow wherever you would have me go. You are my Queen. But we are not meant to leave this Realm. It is part of why we have the freedoms we do. The Underworld is...not the most welcoming of places to those it considers trespassers.”

“Did you eat Ambrosia?”

“By the Sky King’s beard, no!” Iris covered her mouth, as if startled that Frisk even suggested it. “That would be blasphemy! If I did not shatter then surely only ill would come of it.” Her blue flames dimmed and flickered. “Ambrosia is the food of the gods. To consume it without the blood of the divine is a gamble at best. But, I suppose, I see your confusion. My sisters and I are bound by oath, sworn citizens of the Underworld. It is impossible for us to leave for the Underworld is...possessive of what belongs to it. We’ve no desire to leave, and it is unsettling to imagine trying. I believe if we were to...attempt and succeed there would be...consequences.” She laid a hand over her chest where her soul hid from sight. “But I have rambled, haven’t I? Is there anything you wish for us to do in preparation for your return?”

Frisk swallowed and shook her head, “No. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, my lady. Rest well. What time do you wish us to wake you?”

“The usual time. I would like an early start.”

Iris bowed and scurried away, leaving Frisk with a twist in her chest. She would miss them. As she laid down and stared at the back of her eyelids, the young goddess of spring found that sleep would not come that night. Not even a shallow, dreamless ease chased away skittering, roiling thoughts. Not when her mind was filled with wonder and worry. She imagined Mother welcoming her with open arms, her hug warm and soft as always, smelling of sunlight and soil. But in the same heartbeat she saw thunder and scorn, the goddess berating Frisk for her folly, for her foolishness and betrayal, demanding to know why she dared step foot in her home with Death’s vow at her heels. One especially nightmarish imagining had her silently cursing Muffet. Where Frisk emerged from the Underworld only to find her touch now tainted to be like her husband’s, the greenery withering and rotting, the world blackening at her feet in accelerated decay.

Eventually, she could tolerate her wandering thoughts no longer and threw herself from the bed, skin prickled and clammy, hair sticking to her cheeks and neck. Restless legs carried her through the dark, back and forth, a trapped feline pacing the floor in search of higher ground. An errant throb of paranoia had Frisk striding up to the concealed door that separated her rooms from Sans’. He was true to his word thus far to never enter her rooms uninvited, but as far as Frisk was concerned, his word was as shallow as a puddle after a summer storm, and not nearly as transparent. What if he locked her into these rooms until she stopped asking to go Above? What if he decided he wanted to consummate their farce of a marriage? Here she was, a defenceless, pitiful little duck without a pond to sit in.

Frisk’s chest tightened as her breathing hitched, head swimming with the flurry of emotions and images bombarding her. She had to check, to make sure—

The door opened. She froze. Then forced herself to relax, for it was her hand that opened it. The hall was not a pit of black nothing, but instead, dimly lit with tiny crystals no bigger than her littlest fingernail. Frisk marveled for a moment before looking down to the other end. Sans’ door was shut. He warned her not to open it. To leave it alone and he would offer the same courtesy. She had no plans of testing him on that, but for some reason, her legs buckled beneath her like pillars of sand, whole body collapsing into a kneeling heap, palms flat on the marble floor. Breathing did not come easier, tears, however, did. One at a time, bubbling little beads that she blinked away, until eventually, they swelled too fast to dash and carved hot trails down her cheeks. Why was she crying? She couldn’t place a reason. It could be nervousness. Could be fear. Could be relief. Regardless, Frisk sat in the hall and choked on tears that would not stop flowing no matter how much she wished they would quit, because she was stronger than that.

She was—

The door opened. She froze.

This time it was not her doing, but instead, Sans’. The Lord of the Dead stood in the archway leading into his chambers, form blending into the shadows, his expression obscured by his lifted hood. The glimmer of crystal glow on bone and on the golden pin on his shoulder were the only reprieve from the dark. Frisk sought words but her mouth was dry, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as she searched for a proper retort. None came.

“come, walk with me,” he said without preamble. Without judgement. It was as much an offer as it was an order as he shut his door behind him and drifted closer, extending a hand when close enough for Frisk to reach.

Frisk obeyed. What else was she to do? Sit on the floor and wallow in this strange despair? Cold bone was less foreign as she gripped Sans’ fleshless palm and allowed him to pull her to her feet. As expected whenever he touched her, they fell through shadows not a heartbeat later, that place between all places still as unsettling as the first time she passed through it. When they emerged a breathless moment later, he released his hold and motioned ahead. Frisk remembered her state of dress when cool air whisked through the thin fabric, chasing invisible rabbits along her legs and arms, but any embarrassment was forgotten when she spotted their destination. It was a moonlit grove sheltered by craggy stones, water from one of the many rivers curling through its middle, shimmering cyan, though whether the glow came from the water or the crystals was unclear.

“i was going to show you this place when you returned from your visit with your mother,” Sans said in a presumptuous manner, as if he was certain she would come back to him. “it is one of the many patches of life here in the underworld.” He moved to the edge of the grove and to her surprise, the vegetation did not wither and die. “light and water both come from the surface.” His head tilted toward the river. Or perhaps it was better to call it a stream. “our realm is not so disconnected from the mortal one as some of the others. as all life ends up here, there are places where the underworld touches all the worlds, even the heavens. this grove is newer, not much growing here yet, i thought it would please you to perhaps cultivate a garden of your own. it is not too far from the judgement hall, so it will be easy to walk to each day if you wish.”

Frisk shuffled forward until her toes curled in loam and tiny clovers, “Why?”

“why? you are my wife. as i said, i do not wish your misery.”

She was tempted to bite out how if he was concerned about her happiness at all, he wouldn’t have abducted her in the first place. He wouldn’t have ignored her pleading and ire and married her despite it being the last thing she wanted. He wouldn’t have made seeing the Above rest on whether or not she agreed to his wishes. So instead of picking an argument when she was tense and tired, Frisk focused again on the hem of his robes. “How are you not withering the plants? I thought you killed everything with a touch.” Including herself, until the whole fated-to-be-his-bride-and-queen thing apparently made her immune. She heard tales of how his very presence rotted crops in the fields on the Surface.

“magic.” Frisk frowned and huffed, earning a chuckle from her unwanted husband. “the underworld is...alive in its own way. i may be its king, but its nature is not fully eclipsed by my own. it has its own magics, its own secrets, for it existed before i came to rule here. to answer simply, i do not know why nor do i care to question it.” Sans leaned against a rock, “do you feel like sleeping yet or do you wish to stay here for longer?”

“I want to stay. Here. For now. Until morning.” Frisk cleared her throat. “If I may.”

Sans shrugged, “you are queen. you may go anywhere you wish within your kingdom. though i would advise consulting me before you wander, there are places that even gods should not roam.”

“Then I will stay.”

And so she did, until the sky started to pink with the first rays of dawn, her hands busied with the soil, flowers blooming around her as she worked. Sans vanished at some point without a word, returning only when it was time to ready for the day, making no comment on her dirt streaked appearance or the overt fact that she had not slept. With another wordless extension of his hand, he whisked her back between their rooms, leaving Frisk to creep back into her chambers...to meet the stare of three curious fire elementals.

All three were suspiciously bright when she walked in, Daisy even giggled quietly as they guided her to the bath. Hyacinth shook the dirtied sleeping garment, as if it would dislodge the stains in the delicate fabric, “What did you do, roll in the dirt?”

“Or perhaps you took a roll in the dirt,” Iris suggested coyly.

“Pardon?” Frisk sputtered. “There was no dirt rolling.”

“I wonder if his majesty is similarly...disheveled this morning,” Daisy said, earning a black look from Frisk. “What? There is no shame in taking companionship in your husband. “

“I do not even like him!”

Daisy cocked her head to the side, “So?”

Heat flushed from her cheeks all the way down to her neck, and Frisk blamed it on the water instead of the utter mortification she felt due to their suggestive teases. “We went on a walk. That is all. I couldn’t sleep and so he showed me a place I could grow a garden…”

“Pity,” Hyacinth murmured. “An early start to an heir might bring some much needed light into the Underworld.”

Frisk decided to stop listening and climb from the bath, happy to be free of the conversation once she was dry and clothed again in familiar hues. The chiton was a similar shade of pink as the clothes she Fell in, and while she did not have time to weave a new crown of flowers, she did braid a few into her hair. As her handmaidens finished their fussing, there was a knock. Frisk murmured a goodbye before walking to the door and opening it, revealing Sans in his usual attire. It was time to go.

Cold bone and unfeeling shadows seared her skin. When Sans released her, they stood at a small, craggy maw that opened onto the Surface. It was unassuming and just large enough for her and Sans to stand beside one another, shoulders touching. Frisk felt a weight lift from her chest as she broke from his side and ran outside, ready for the warmth of sunshine and the vibrance of nature to engulf her. But as she emerged from the Underworld, she was caught off guard by the chill in the air, cold enough to steal her breath as she flinched in surprise. There was a wicked, agonized shriek upon the wind as it ripped at her hair and clothes, the scent of rot cloying on the senses. Frisk shook her head. What was this place? This couldn’t be the Surface. It was nauseating, the absolute suffering palpable. And the screaming. Why was there screaming in her head?

Frisk clapped her hands over her ears and backed into the cave, kept walking until the agony of the Surface stopped combarding her with its despair, muted by the placid nothingness of the Underworld. She caught her breath and turned confused, pleading eyes to Sans. “I...I don’t understand. What is happening?”

“less what and more who.” Sans shrugged. “no one is without fault. no god is without their vindictiveness.”

“You. You have to be lying. Mother would never—”

“she’s done so before.”

“Take me to her,” Frisk demanded. “Take me to my Mother.”

“no.”

“No?”

“i have no interest in warring with your mother at this moment. i do believe she would not listen to reason and attack me and then i would have to defend myself. messy. i’ve done well to avoid divine disputes for ages.” He turned. “i have work to do. just call for me and i will find you when you are ready to come back home.”

“My Mother, Goddess of Nature, is wreaking havoc on the Surface and you don’t care?” Frisk whirled, surprise turning into fury. And she thought she was angry when he made her marry him. “You caused this! The mortal world is suffering because you decided to abduct me!”

Sans didn’t turn to face her, “heh. of course. i am always to blame. lady nature cannot possibly be responsible for her own choices, her own reaction. i made her throw a fit and hurt all her precious little mortals. hate me if you must, my queen, but loathing me will not stop your mother from her rampage.”

“And ignoring the problem will? Stop walking away from me. Look at me!” Frisk lunged forward and grabbed his shoulder, stilling him. “She’s hurting. I can feel it. Just being out on the Surface hurts me, her grief is so intense. Please, take me to her. I need to see her.”

“...no. i did as you asked of me. brought you above. let the other gods handle her. she does have a husband, after all, he can ask her to desist. it is unbefitting of a queen, especially the queen of gods, to behave this way.”

“You...you really are as cold and heartless as the stories say,” Frisk murmured, voice cracking.

“course, skeletons tend to be heartless. goes with the whole no body thing.” Sans did not move. “if it is any consolation, i doubt she will continue to neglect her duties for overlong. when she is calmer and no longer attempting to bring upon the demise of the surface dwellers, i will take you to her.”

“None of this should have happened…” Frisk looked back at the opening of the cavern. “Why couldn’t you have left me Above?”

“...because, you would have never come willingly,” Sans said. “and even if you had, do you honestly believe that this would have never happened? heh. she may be your mother, but she is my peer, i’ve known her for eons. she’s just as selfish as i. she’s turned nymphs into plants for offending her. i wonder if she would have done so to you if she knew of your fate?”

“Don’t you dare talk about my Mother that way.”

Sans sighed, “very well.” Frisk’s hand slid from his shoulder and her posture pinched tight, “would you like to remain here or go back home?”

“I...I want to go to my garden.”

“as you say.”

“And I do not want to see you unless you are taking me to Mother. You will not look at me. You will not talk to me. Nothing.”

Sans chuckled and offered his hand, a gesture that Frisk refused to find comfort in as the world Above cried in sorrow.

“you have my vow, my queen.”

Chapter Text

“You need to eat, my Queen.”

Frisk kept her back to a fretful Daisy, ignoring the handmaiden’s anxious plea. Hunger was a strange, distant memory, replaced with the caustic burn of determination. Calloused fingers dove into loamy soil for the hundredth time that day as she slowly and meticulously shaped the garden to her satisfaction. She had not eaten anything since those pomegranate seeds, wedding jitters chasing away the inclination before outrage boiled away any temptation to sample the morsels the elementals offered. She had not even slept since discovering how her mother raged and grieved Above, and despite having the freedom now to approach the very gates that Ceberus guarded, she was once more trapped. This time not by her loathsome husband, but by her mother’s agony. She was sensitive to her nature, being a fledgling goddess, and only the Underworld muted the resonance that pained her.

The only comfort was Sans remaining true to his promise. She saw nothing of him after he returned her to the garden. Though there were moments where Frisk swore she felt eyes upon her. Glimpses of movement in the shadows. In response, her agitation seeded thorny vines and bristling branches. Around the lush paradise of delicate blooms was a menacing hedge that dared intruders to come suffer her wrath.

Daisy sighed as she laid a bowl of figs by Frisk’s hand, yellow flames invading her vision for a flash before the elemental retreated. “It saddens me to see you this way,” she murmured. “Hurting. Angry. Is there nothing I can do for you, my lady, to persuade you to eat and sleep?”

“Bring me his majesty’s head on a platter,” Frisk muttered.

There was a pause before she knelt in the soil, “What happened to cause you such despair? You and your lord husband were amicable and then—”

“Then I found out that he was keeping secrets,” Frisk curled her hands, the plants responding to the goddess’ emotions, twisting and shifting like ghouls amongst shadows. “My mother is so heartbroken she has forsaken her duties, and my HUSBAND, despite being at fault for taking me from her, refuses to intervene. Refuses to confront her. He’s despicable. And a coward. And...and....”

Daisy opened her arms and Frisk tossed herself into the warm embrace, “The ways of gods is often strange and unfathomable to us mortals.” The elemental smoothed a hand over the goddess’ back, her voice soft and crackling, a reminder that this language was not her native tongue. “I can only have faith...but you, my lady, you are a goddess. His wife. His equal. With a command alone, your lord husband has taken leave of your presence when it would be in his right as King and spouse to do otherwise. He listens to you.”

Frisk pushed away from Daisy with a frustrated huff, “You don’t understand! He is furthering the suffering of the mortals on the Surface through not only past actions but his current inaction. Nothing I said, nor can say, will sway him on this matter. He is heartless and cold and—”

“Your husband.”

“Stop saying that. Stop calling him that,” Frisk snapped, shoving to her feet and stalking away from her handmaiden. Daisy did not rise nor follow, hands folded on her lap, head bowed. “We may be married. He may have manipulated me into accepting the crown. But he is nothing to me. Nothing!” Once more, those unbidden, horrible tears she couldn’t keep away burned down her cheeks, carving little paths like the banks of the Phlegethon. “I hate him. I...I wish he never saw me. I wish I had never left mother’s garden.” Living life as a Nameless nymph, sheltered and cosotted, it had to be better than this entrapment. This gilded cage and its false promises of power. She’d never felt so helpless.

“Hate is a strong word,” Daisy murmured. “It is as destructive as a wildfire. It burns and burns and burns until nothing is left. Nothing but ashes. Though at least with a fire, life can find its way again. In time seeds will sprout anew and one day tall forests may take root in the land that was razed of all that once grew there. But hate, it salts the earth after, poisons the water that once nourished it. A worthless emotion, hate, but so easy to embrace when it whispers sweetly in your ear and numbs the hurt.” Frisk turned, eyes still red and damp. Daisy’s flames were dimmer, shorter, her amorphous face, at that moment, little more than a pair of pale embers for eyes, false lids hooding them with thought. “I am not saying you cannot and should not hate. Or that your lord husband does not deserve your hate. But that hate, if you allow it, will fester and blacken the hope inside you.”

Frisk curled her hands into loose fists, “You want me to forgive him.”

“Not today. Not tomorrow even, but perhaps one day. Forever is a long time to hold onto one’s anger.”

“Daisy.”

“Yes, my queen?”

“You speak as if you’ve hated someone before,” Frisk let herself walk to the elemental’s side and knelt again, eyes fixed on the garden made jagged by her tumultuous emotions. Daisy hummed low in her throat, head tilting with thought, shoulders straight and prom, composed as ever, the picture of ladylike perfection.

“I have lived the life I was born to fulfill, nothing less, no greater destiny in store,” a crack split the molten curves of her visage, revealing the false mouth she used to express emotions like a human may, for such was unneeded for speech or eating when one was a living flame.. “And that life is to serve. It is a great honor to serve in the home of the Delta’s third throne. An even greater one to be the servant of her majesty.”

“But?”

Daisy’s false mouth quirked into a smile, white eyes drifting to peer back at Frisk, “But while it was always my fate to serve, I have not always served this house, as you know, and it while it was Lord Fyre’s intention to gift myself and my sisters to your husband and by extension, you, his future wife, there was the possibility that Lord Death would not accept us. He has rejected others from Lord Fyre’s harem in the past.” Frisk stiffened at the word harem, but Daisy continued nonplussed. “As such, myself and my sisters were given a complete and exacting education, so that we could serve in any manner that was requested of us. My sisters...to say the least, they are smarter than me, my lady. Quicker to accept authority. And I was a very foolish ember. Too many daydreams. Too many short-sighted ideals.”

She reached out and curled a hand around Frisk’s, still smiling, “I hated, my lady. I hated that my world was trapped within the walls of the palace. I hated the other girls who were happy not knowing a life beyond that which they were born into. I hated my sisters for conforming. I hated Lord Fyre for...for many things.” Daisy unfurled Frisk’s fingers as she pulled her palm into her lap, and began to smooth away the dirt. “I hated. And found only misery in it. I hated in bitter, agonizing silence. I hated enough that I dimmed my own flame. I hated until I was hollow and I was left with no choice but to let that hatred render me to ashes...or to learn forgiveness. To learn to let go. And allow myself to live. I have a good life, my queen. I am happy. And if this servant of yours may be so bold, I desire only your happiness, whatever that entails.”

“What if that happiness includes leaving my lord husband forever and taking my share of lovers outside our marriage bed?” Frisk asked, her voice raspy. “What if my happiness is found in fighting for what I believe in?”

“I will pass no judgement. I have no right or rank to do so. My only warning is that to act on your hatred, in spite, may poison what has the potential to be something good. You are far from the first stolen bride, nor will you be the last, as is the way of the gods. But you are the first to stand equal with a King. A King who may be most amenable with the right coaxing.” The flirty note in her voice earned a small, distant smile from Frisk.

“Back to the husband seducing. Need I remind you I loathe the man?”

“So?” Daisy sassed. “There is fun to be had if you put your mind to it. You may loathe him, but he most certainly does not loathe you. I’d say he’d do most anything you asked if you invited him to your bed.” She gave a prim and dismissive sniff, at last releasing Frisk’s hand. “He is a man after all.”

Frisk arched a brow, “You don’t think highly of men, do you?”

“I do not know what you mean, my lady,” Daisy stood. “Now, I believe I have been idle far too long, and your poor hands are a mess. And your hair! Come along now, I think a nice hot bath is due.” Frisk was helpless to do anything else but follow.

.

Far above in the heavens, Asgore, Lord of the Skies, King of the Gods, held court with his council. His bulky form was hunched with a mortal weariness that he hadn’t displayed in centuries, since his son died and his wife fled to her hidden sanctuary on the Surface. He leaned over the war table that stretched out between he and the others, duo-hued irises of red and blue fixed on the map of the world that laid flat beneath his palms. Figures dotted the map, some plain and carved of wood, others glittering gold. Standing prominent in emerald was his wife. Toriel. Who for so long hid herself from the gods, tending her work in diligent silence...until recently.

Now she ravaged the mortal world with a fury that could only be named a mother’s wrath.

“We have to stop her, sir!” growled Undyne, goddess of war, vengeance, the hunt and the moon. Born of the blood spilt from the gods during the First War that fell into the sea, she was among the youngest of them to stand in the Pantheon. She sprung fully armored and wrathful from the seafoam that crashed upon the shores near Mt. Ebott, and helped literally turn the tides to aid in the fall of the Old Ones. The Forgotten. The Forbidden. The Silent. Time had tempered her some, though he suspected that it was Gerson’s influence that helped calm her rage the most. The God of the Seas was the oldest among them, having come into maturity and power during the Last Era, one of the few to side with the young gods when they rose into power. His body trembled with age as he moved, a strange thing to witness as it was unfamiliar to his fellow immortals. Most mortals did not even even attribute the oceans to him any longer, but to his heir, Undyne. And Gerson seemed nothing but content with that fact. As if he was ready to surrender his domain soon and just...cease existing. Soon, but not yet.

The greying tortoise poked Undyne in the back with the butt of his war hammer, earning a snap of jagged teeth and a glare. In her hand alit a harpoon like bottled lightning. “You wanna fight?” she shouted, but Gerson only chuckled in response.

“Calm down, guppy. There is little reason for hostilities.”

“Tch. I’d say there is plenty of reason. The Surface is in absolute chaos because he,” she jabbed the harpoon towards Asgore, “won’t control his wife.”

“I d-d-don’t think it would b-b-be wise to confront the q-q-queen with violence,” Alphys, Goddess of wisdom, strategy and invention, stuttered out meekly.

Undyne whirled, “Queen? QUEEN? She hardly deserves that title when she abandoned her throne and left us to—”

“Enough.” All fell silent as Asgore spoke. “Enough. Put away your weapons, all of you. We are here to have a civil discussion, not argue or brawl like ruffians.” Undyne huffed and dismissed her harpoon, arms crossing with the creak of metal. Gerson chuckled and laid his hammer on the floor. Asgore looked across the table, letting his eyes linger on each other gods, his gaze falling last onto the two gods that did not join the bickering. Grillby and Mettaton, who were both sipping wine, eyes peering discreetly at each other like the gossip mongers that they were.

Grillby offered a wide, craggy smile, his scarred, molten form held in elegant repose befitting a god of festivities. It was almost easy to forget who forged weapons during the divine wars, and knew how to craft ones that could shatter even a god’s soul into the nothingness of eternity. A skill that he hadn’t put in use once the pantheon came to be and the creation of such weapons was forbidden. Now only Death was in possession of a god slayer, an unsettling truth, but even Asgore wasn’t willing to start a conflict over.

Beside Grillby was a creation he helped Alphys forge a body for, Mettaton. A god crafted by her claws to move the sun when the primitive, celestial being fell into an endless slumber and no longer traveled the skies on its own. None knew if it would wake again, or sleep until it fell silent, like its lover, the moon. Mettaton combed a metallic hand through his false hair and winked, his body of iron and bronze harboring a soul stitched back together with stardust and determination from the fragments of fallen and fading gods. A ghost with a metal shell, one might call him, but living all the same. Since his creation he’d come into his own, doing more than charioting the sun, but expanding his domain into music, dance and the arts.

Neither of the pair looked especially interested or concerned in the matter at hand. Their reasons, however, were their own. Mettaton looped an arm around Grillby’s shoulders and pursed his lips, “Whyever are you looking at me? I, who hold the might of the written word above that of the sword? I’ve no weapons to lay down.”

Asgore let out a sighed, “If everyone is paying attention. We have a serious matter at hand. Mother Nature is no longer maintaining balance on the Surface. She is not only neglecting her duties to the mortals, but is actively harming them en masse.”

“She always did have a temper,” Grillby mused aloud. “What is so significant about this occurrence than any other? This would hardly be the first time he has stirred storms or withered crops. Perhaps one of the human cities offended her.”

“The difference is that she isn’t stopping and it isn’t limited to one city. Or one continent. She is roaming the whole Surface and destroying everything in her path. There is famine and blight everywhere you look. The messengers I have sent have been unable to get close to her before she assaulted them...they...described her as lost in rage and grief.”

The gods murmured amongst each other, curious as to what would cause such a response from the otherwise discreet goddess. Grillby was one of the first to fall silent, leaning back in his seat, hand to his mouth, brow furrowed with thought. Before Asgore could inquire as to what the god of fire knew, a minor messenger god threw open the doors of the council room, panting, wings fluttering. “She’s here!” the whimsum squeaked. “The Queen! She’s here and she demands to see you, your majesty.”

Everyone turned to the open door, Asgore stepping forward, unable to keep the hope and awe from his face. His wife, the beautiful woman he loved and adored and drove away with his bitterness and vengeance after the loss of their son, when he blamed humankind for it happening, was here. On Mt Ebott. Once more in the realm of the heavens. The kingdom of the skies. Their home. A home she swore she would never step foot in again.

Suddenly, her presence filled the room, tall and mighty was she, standing taller than all but Asgore himself. His mouth went dry as he realized that she looked little different than when they last spoke, her voluptuous form clad in the humble earthen fibers instead of the silks most of the pantheon preferred. Her eyes were wide and a little crazed, her fur damp from rain, her feet stained with soil. Wrapped loose around her shoulders was a mantle he thought she had long since forsaken, the purple fabric marked with the Deltarune. On her brow rested no crown, for that she threw at him before she fled, but she held her head high all the same.

“Where is she?” Toriel hissed. “Where is my child? Which one of you took her?”

“T-tori,” Asgore began weakly. His wife silenced him with a stare.

“I have scoured the Surface for her. I can sense her presence nowhere among the mortal world. But she is alive, I know she is...she has to be. That means she was taken. Taken by one of you.” She swept her arm across the room. “WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?”

Asgore and the others were rendered silent. Daughter? Toriel was fond of her foundlings, thus it was possible she had some nymph or godling she was fostering that was spirited away, but the way that she said it. The way her very soul seemed to cry that it lost something of itself. Asgore wondered if it was possible that his wife...that she...He swallowed. That she took a lover outside of their vows. Then again, she accused him of breaking them first, long ago, and faulted him for their estrangement. But oh, how he missed her.

“Tori, please, be calm so that we may better ascertain what has caused your upset.”

Toriel snarled at him, “Do not Tori me, Asgore. And I will not be calm. Not when I know one of the gods has stolen my daughter. And if none of you do, I will not return to my duties. I will raze the whole of the Surface if I must!” She was hysteric, her voice jumping up in pitch as she threatened the room.

“Toriel, we do not know where your daughter is,” Asgore soothed.

“Lady Toriel to you.”

“Lady Toriel,” Asgore corrected.

Undyne scoffed and summoned her harpoon again, jabbing it at the nature goddess, “None of us even know who your daughter is, your majesty. As far as I know you’ve lost your mind and you’re causing typhoons over some flighty flower nymph you adopted.”

“Hush, Undyne,” Gerson warned. “No need to be rude.”

“RUDE? She’s the one that abandoned the throne to hide with the mortals. She’s the one that left a gaping hole in the pantheon. She’s the one that is throwing a tantrum and stormed in here to spit accusations.” Undyne slammed her open palm on the table, “Let me tell you something, Nature, if your daughter was one of my maidens, I wouldn’t give her back even if I could!” The air was cold with tension. Undyne’s domain had a strange dynamic with Toriel’s. Where Toriel encompassed fidelity, fertility and marriage, Undyne was a goddess soaked in mortal blood, who relished in their wars, and had a habit of recruiting mortal females into her pack of eternal, maiden huntresses. She openly snatched girls from their homes before weddings if they were willing to swear themselves to her.

Of course, if they fell in love and wished to leave the hunt, they could, but married folk and men had no place amongst the huntresses.

Gerson grabbed her by the back of the armor and pulled her down, into her seat, “I said hush, Undyne.” The goddess of War pulled a face, but complied to the King whose footsteps she followed. He cleared his throat, “Lady Nature, you honor us with your presence after all this time. Please, sit, so that we may discuss your missing daughter.”

Grillby and Mettaton were once more silent, and Alphys sat frozen, her claws covering her snout as she trembled in terror.

“This is not a discussion, Gerson,” Toriel said coolly. “My daughter has been stolen and whichever of you took her will return her or regret it dearly.”

“I wasn’t I, my lady,” Gerson replied. “Nor Asgore or Undyne. And I have every doubt Alphys would be brazen enough to steal your child.”

Toriel’s gaze snapped to Grillby, who held his hands up placatingly, “I have my flames, your majesty. I can assure you that your daughter has not become an unwitting member of my harem.”

“How can I believe you?” she closed in on him and he stood.

“Simple, you can ask Lord Death of my whereabouts these past few days. I was in his kingdom, after all.”

She shuddered, “You still voluntarily visit that ghastly place?”

Grillby shrugged and smiled, “It is not so bad as an invited guest.” He did glance around the room, “Though he is not here today, I see, too occupied for a meeting no doubt.” Sans rarely made the meetings. It was an unspoken agreement of sorts. The gods left the business of the underworld alone and didn’t interfere with matters of the dead, and he would not meddle in the affairs of the Above. Annually, he would attend the end of year gathering on Mt. Ebott, and if Asgore requested his presence, Sans would come. But generally, he was a sight rarely seen outside of his realm.

Toriel let her gaze trail to Mettaton, who looked terribly uninterested, “My lady, unless your daughter is a muse, what interest would I have in her? And where would I hide her? Alphys’ library?”

“One of you must be lying,” Toriel said. Her hands balled into fists. “Where is she? Where is Frisk?”

There was a flicker of recognition on both Grillby and Mettaton’s faces, and the pair glanced at one another. “It couldn’t possibly,” Grillby murmured.

“But what if it is?” Mettaton asked.

“What do you two know?” Asgore boomed, and the pair straightened.

“Well, during one of my trips to move the sun, I spied the most peculiar sight. A group of nymphs was out picking flowers in a field when one of them broke away from the rest, and suddenly, the poor thing fell into a hole. This great chasm in the earth! Straight down into the Underworld, I’d reason. The others couldn’t seem to find her, nor did they see her fall, and they wandered about calling the name Frisk.” Mettaton’s expression was sympathetic. “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

Toriel shook her head, “No. NO! She is not dead!”

“A fall that far, even if she survived it, a mortal would not live long after—”

“Silence!”

Mettaton pursed his lips.

“She is not dead. She cannot be. I can feel her connection to me. She is alive. She...she has to be,” her voice cracked.

Grillby spoke up at last, “She may not be, but it might be best for you to consider her so.” All eyes fell upon him as the frivolous god took on a serious tone. He sipped his wine. “Your daughter cannot return to you, my lady, if she is who I believe she is.”

“Oh? And why is that Lord Fyre?”

“Simple. She is married.”

“Married,” she echoed in disbelief. “To whom? I can annul her marriage to whichever cur stole her away.”

Grillby swirled his goblet, “She is wed to Lord Death the Elder, King of the Underworld.”

Toriel bared her teeth, “Impossible!” She slammed her palms on the table, leaning close, their faces almost touching. “She is a mortal.”

“Not anymore,” he replied with impressive serenity. “She is Lady Spring, both a goddess and a queen.”

“I...I can still annul her marriage. Everyone knows Death cannot consummate his vows.”

At that, the god of fire laughed, much to the horror of everyone else in the room, “Oh, I would not say that. I saw him hold her hand, bare skin to bare bone, and she remained quite alive. You should be happy, My Lady. Your daughter has married well. She will want for nothing and their children will serve to inherit the throne of the Underworld should there be a day that Death himself wishes to abdicate.”

Toriel whirled to face down Asgore, who stepped back, uncertain why her fury was on him when it was Sans who not only took Frisk, but wed her without permission. Not that he truly needed it. His stealing of his bride was a touch outdated, but still acceptable practice. This matter was outside of Asgore’s paws.

“Lord Death will return my daughter to me. And you will make sure of it. Three days, Asgore. I want her brought back to me by then.”

And just as swiftly as she came, Mother Nature stormed away.

Chapter Text

“Death the Younger, darling, might I have a word with you?”

Papyrus lowered his hood to meet the gaze of his unexpected visitor. Few gods went out of their way to cross paths with him, especially while he was working. He and Undyne were the best of friends but only because War and Death were grim companions since the dawn of humanity, giving them plenty of time to get to know each other. Though, he wished they could spend more time together outside of work. Undyne had her duties to the Throne of the Sea as heir, and well, his job was never over. Ages of peace could arise, but such wasn’t the same for a god that carried the burden of collecting mortal souls when they sputtered out.

“LORD SUN, IT WOULD BE MY HONOR,” Papyrus replied, pleasantly surprised by the request.

“Oh, please, darling, call me Mettaton. Or just Metta,” the beautiful, metal-forged god winked a sparkling amethyst eye, “Or Ton-Ton if you prefer~” Papyrus knew Mettaton distantly from events held at Mt. Ebott and from Undyne’s occasional ranting. He loved parties, but his...condition and job made it very hard to attend with any sense of regularity. But as a skeleton of good taste, he did so admire Mettaton and his influence upon the arts of both gods and mortals. Perhaps one day his domain would include beauty! It would be apt. (Even if Undyne thought Mettaton was pigeon posing as a peacock.)

“LORD METTATON, WHAT BRINGS YOU TO SPEAK WITH ME TODAY?”

He folded his hands delicately, suddenly the picture of pity and remorse, “You must be well aware of Mother Nature’s unrest, yes?” They both looked around at their devastated surroundings. “Well, just as a friendly word of warning for you and your brother, Lady Nature knows the whereabouts of her daughter and is adamant about her return. She came storming through the gates of Mt. Ebott this morning, gale winds at her back, lightning in her eyes, the Surface trembling in the wake of her fury!”

“OH DEAR…” Papyrus frowned. “IT SEEMS THAT IN THEIR HASTE TO BE WED, THEY FORGOT TO TELL LADY SPRING’S MOTHER OF THEIR FATEFUL NUPTIALS.”

“It was a spontaneous love affair?” Mettaton swooned. “Oh I can picture it now! The dark and solemn Lord of the Underworld, alone and in despair from centuries of isolation, leaves his kingdom of darkness only to spy a lovely maiden picking flowers with her fellow nymphs. And oh, how he must have her, for he is struck by a desire so intense that it can be called nothing less than love! Then in a chariot—”

“I DO NOT BELIEVE ANY CHARIOTS WERE INVOLVED!”

“Shush, I am the artist,” the younger god scolded before continuing. “Then in a chariot of blackest black, pulled by steeds of bone and fire, he set upon his conquest. But not first, without luring the maiden away from the others with the most lovely flower he can find. When she goes to pluck the flower, the earth opens up and he charges out from the ravine, snatching her into his arms and dragging her down below.” Metta sniffed. “And oh how the maiden feared. For she was just a nymph, the youngest daughter of Mother Nature, yet here was the great Lord of the Dead, whisking her away into his kingdom, where he showered her in gold and jewels and pleaded upon bent knees for her to brighten his world by becoming his wife. Fear turned to pity so bittersweet, and then into fascination...and within days of meeting, the both are enraptured with the other, unable to withhold their love and passion for one another. For the maiden was so very lonely before she met her Lord and together they will never be alone again! A love story for the ages!”

Papyrus shifted and blinked, “WHAT A CREATIVE INTERPRETATION OF THEIR COURTSHIP! BUT WE DIGRESS. YOU MENTIONED LADY NATURE IS DEMANDING MY SISTER’S RETURN? SHE IS MARRIED AND QUEEN OF THE UNDERWORLD NOW. I AM CERTAIN THIS IS JUST ONE BIG MISUNDERSTANDING AND SHE WILL CEASE THIS DESTRUCTION ONCE LADY SPRING EXPLAINS EVERYTHING.”

“One can hope. The King is at a loss for what to do otherwise.”

“I WILL PASS ALONG YOUR MESSAGE, LORD METTATON!”

“Until we meet again~!”

Papyrus waved the other god away, watching as ethereal horses melted from the sunbeams to canter down from the sky, a gilded chariot in their wake. Mettaton was then gone in a literal flash, swept away by the stallions that helped him pull the sun across the sky. He lingered for a moment longer, the souls of the dead and dying dragging him a thousand different directions, constant and impossible to ignore. So many mortals needed his attention, and there was little he could do to appease their troubled souls. It was not war or plague taking their brief lives, but the fury of a goddess that was supposed to take care of them all. With a long breath, he let himself fall backwards into his own shadow, and followed the call of the Underworld, letting the darkness take him home.

.

Little did he know that his brother wasn’t holding court that day.

A different god, one who had an open invitation to come to the Underworld, had already approached Sans and shared certain news with him.

“The Lord of the Skies wishes an audience with you regarding your new wife,” Grillby said upon gaining audience with the ruler of the dead. With goblets of wine between them, the longtime allies didn’t regard the other with any reproach. “Will you go or force him to summon you by a formal messenger? I admit I am curious.”

“you are curious and the rivers of the underworld are many, my friend.”

“To think such a thing as an impromptu meeting would render you ill at ease.”

“you’re not the one married to the illegitimate daughter of the king of god’s estranged wife.”

Lord Fyre tossed back his head and laughed, “No, but I cannot blame you. She has quite the...inner fire. How is she getting along with my Flames?”

“well enough. i’ve heard no complaints.”

“As much as I admire your attempt at keeping up with inane pleasantries…”

Sans sighed, “yes, yes. ass-gore has a bone to pick with me.”

“Only because Mother Nature does. He should be the sensible one in this matter.”

“one can hope,” he lifted from his throne and swept past where Grillby stood. The goblet vanished with a flick of his wrist, and from the Void he pulled his golden bident. “i believe you have stayed your welcome, lord fyre.”

The god of fire offered a craggy, molten smile as he bowed, “I will see myself out.”

Sans gave him a dismissive wave before leaping through the shadows, and traveling to a place he rarely stepped foot in unless summoned. Mt. Ebott. The Kingdom of the Skies. The realm of the heavens. The home of gods.

.

When Papyrus arrived in the Underworld, he realized in an instant his brother was not there. But the young lady of the court remained. Regardless of where Sans had bone-doggled off to, his wife was still Below, which meant he was likely doing something terribly lazy or irresponsible. His brother was a good king, but nobody was perfect...well, except for Papyrus. Despite his deathly aura he was a phenomenal specimen of godhood. In fact, it just enhanced his mystique! Yes, yes, he was so very mysterious. As was Lady Spring. She was his brother’s fated spouse, the love of his eternity, but here they were apart when they should instead be together like proper newlyweds. Peculiar and more peculiar.

Maybe he should check on her.

The Underworld led him to one of the oases that dotted the mostly barren realm. It was blooming with new life, no doubt thanks to the goddess working tirelessly within the little patch of paradise. He watched for a long moment, her emotions thick in the air, a puzzle of a thousand pieces to muddle through. Papyrus wasn’t nearly as adept at reading Souls as his brother, but he knew when one wasn’t at rest. Frisk was troubled, and not with the jittering nerves of a monarch awaiting her crown.

No, she was troubled with a dark, thorny ire that bespoke of pain and hurt. Her husband did leave her all alone, so no wonder she was feeling angry and abandoned. He would need to have a stern talking to with Sans about leaving one’s wife all alone when she was clearly in need of companionship! Well—he eyed the elementals tittering nearby—companionship that was of the husbandly variety.

“SISTER!” Papyrus called out, keeping to the edge of the garden, not wanting to harm the fruits of her labor. “WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE A CUP OF TEA?”

.

“Tea?”

Sans was silent as the King of Gods went through the pleasantries afforded to his fellow monarchs. He poured two cups to the brim with glittering ambrosia, brewed from the golden flowers that grew in his private gardens. There were echos of grief in Asgore’s eyes as he stared at his own reflection in the cups, overtly avoiding looking at Sans directly. Guilt. So much guilt twisted and coiled around the Lord of the Skies’ soul. Guilt. Grief. Shame. Despair. Anger. Hatred. It was an ugly, serpentine thing, like blacked, rotted vines that he’d yet to brush away despite their hold being brittle enough to fall to dust.

He mourned for a son lost too young.

Godlings weren’t supposed to die like Asriel did.

Asgore drew a cup into his massive paws, the distance between the pair small, as he chose to host this meeting in the privacy of his chambers than at the council table. It was a deceptively bright and cheery place, the palace, with its white stone walls and vibrant portraits. Pots painted with portrayals of the King of Queen of Gods were set in the corners of the room, filled with flowers. So many flowers. It gave the air a thick, cloying aroma, like they were picnicking in a meadow in springtime. Sans made a token effort in appeasing his host’s sensibilities, lifting the cup to his teeth, well aware that neither of them were especially at ease. Mt. Ebott, a realm lush and bright, often fell hush when Death visited, the memories of gods long, their suspicions seeded deep.

With a small cough to clear his throat, Asgore laid his cup down and fiddled with the end of his wheat-colored beard. Distant were the days where this man was a fearsome war-mongerer, a conqueror and general who led the young gods to triumph against the Old Ones, and formed a new pantheon in their stead. But not so distant were those years where he lost himself to hatred and maddened grief, willing to scour humanity from the Surface to avenge the loss of his only child. A grief that tore apart his marriage and the throne of the Heavens.

“Lord Death,” the King began, voice low, tone amicable, as if they were friends instead of merely peers. “I have heard rumors of your recent nuptials. Am I correct in extending congratulations?”

“indeed, you are,” Sans leveled his empty sockets with Asgore’s paternal stare. “one could say it was fate that she and i met. i would have no other for my wife and queen.”

“I see,” Asgore tugged a little more on his beard. How childish the action appeared on such a giant god, clad as he was in a mantle of royal purple over gold-and-white armor made for war. “Who might she be? There had been quite the stir and—”

“you’re poking your nose into my affairs, yes i am aware. she is known as spring. she only just received her name, so it is no surprise you know nothing of her,” Sans let his smile broaden. “our vows were spoken and witnessed by the wise ones. she swore an oath to the underworld. i had planned to introduce her at the next gathering, once she had time to settle.”

Asgore nodded but there was disapproval knitting at his brow, “So young? A godling who only just received her Name you took as your bride?”

“we have eternity.”

“And we have known eternity. Some could say forever is not long at all.”

“then why would it matter now?”

“Because the godling we speak of was a child still yet in her mother’s care.”

“goddess,” Sans correctly, sharp and firm. “she is a woman grown. if her mother hadn’t coddled and hidden her away as she did, she may have found her name sooner.”

“Her mother is distraught and raining havoc upon the mortal world,” Asgore leaned forward, just as stern and serious. “Which implies deceit on your part. That you stole the girl away when her mother was unaware.”

Sans laughed, “do continue and make a hypocrite of yourself. i’ll wait.”

“I am not condemning you, Lord Death,” he shifted, gaze adverting to the pottery. “It is your right to steal a bride, though it is a fading tradition…”

“a tradition i followed faithfully. i took her to be my wife and queen. our lives sworn together.”

“And the consummation?”

Sans fell silent, bitterness welling in his ribs at the accusation he sensed. As if he was so callous a god that he would force his unwitting bride into bed simply because it was his right as her husband. (Though hadn’t he himself wondered if he was capable of such harm when the Fates declared that their union would not be barren in their own, obscure manner?) “our vows are binding,” he gritted out. Asgore could interpret that however he wished. “do not worry yourself over my bride’s well-being. she will want for nothing and is free to visit her mother once lady nature ceases her fit.”

“You would return Spring to her mother?”

“no,” Sans said. “a wife’s place is with her husband. a queen’s place with her people. but i am not opposed to her seeing her mother and tending to her duties and domain above. she is, afterall, a nature goddess.”

“I see…”

“if that is all you wish to speak of with me, i have a kingdom to run.”

“I’m afraid not,” Asgore stood. “Lord Death, I, Asgore, Lord of the Skies and King of Gods, hereby order you to bring the goddess of Spring to Mt. Ebott at dawn tomorrow.”

Sans craned his neck up, smile cold and a little crooked, “you order me?”

“Yes. Do not make this a fight, please. I only wish to clear the air of misconceptions. I have no desire to separate you from your wife, but Lady Nature is distraught and must see that she is well with her own eyes.”

“and if i refuse?”

Asgore sighed and drew a trident from beneath his cloak, the tips sparking with lightning, “That is a scenario I do not wish to discuss. You will be here at dawn.”

“heh. as you say, your majesty.” And with that Sans slashed his bident through the air in a gilded arc, for a brief moment the weapon appearing as did when Asgore last saw him in the midst of battle. A massive, gilded draconic head with gemstone eyes and a blade that could shatter even the soul of an immortal. As the arc came to its end, it was once more only a bident, little more than a two-pronged scepter, but the air was a little colder. Lucky for Asgore and the pantheon, Sans was too lazy to take advantage of the fact that he held in his possession the last of the god slayers. He preferred the quiet of the Underworld to the pomp and bustle of the Heavens, anyway. “if that is all.”

Sans stepped back through the shadows without listening for a dismissal.

.

Frisk quietly thanked her handmaidens as they finished preparing a tea for her and Papyrus. Away from the hum of the kitchens and the comfort of loamy earth, they were enclosed in the gilded cage that were the queen’s rooms. The antechamber was meant for hosting guests, though previously, all they served was as a place for the elementals to teach Frisk on the art of being a lady. They were merciless tutors. Their education startlingly vast. They knew law and politics as well as they did manners and charm, though they cut the edges into pretty little conversation pieces, for it was wise to know more than one was willing to reveal. Which meant all Frisk could think of, as she watched her new brother pick up his cup, was how the girls would pick apart her posture later.

“AHEM, I MUST CONFESS I WISH TO SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT MATTERS THAT MAY BE SENSITIVE IN NATURE,” Papyrus began, the tiny, feminine cup in his gloved hands looking both ridiculous yet charming. He didn’t yet drink. Neither did Frisk. Nothing passed her lips since she ate the seeds. It would be a lie to say she didn’t hunger, though the feeling wasn’t the same as when she was mortal. No, it was more longing, craving, a desire rather than a need. Her handmaidens encouraged her to eat and sleep, for though she was a goddess, she was a young one, and even elder gods indulged in those things to improve their comfort and vigor. “ARE YOU...AWARE OF WHAT IS HAPPENING ABOVE?” He said it in such a way that it implied that he didn’t want to mention it at all. Like it was a terrible secret.

“That my mother is destroying the surface as we speak, killing countless mortals? Yes. I am aware.” At the corner of her eye, she saw the handmaiden’s flames flicker. They were most certainly going to have words with their mistress later.

“OH…”

Frisk breathed in the scent of the tea and wrinkled her nose. It was pungent and fruity. A pleasing smell, generally. Right now, however, it made her stomach roll. She laid the cup down as politely as she could muster. She liked Papyrus. It wouldn’t do to take her anger at Sans out on his brother. “Did you know,” she asked. “during my coronation, that Lady Nature was my mother?” Because the goddess had to have been causing damage then. Making more work for the gods of Death.

“NO, I DID NOT,” he confessed. “I KNEW YOU WERE A CHILD OF NATURE, BUT NOT MOTHER NATURE HERSELF! SHE WAS HIDDEN FROM ALL OF US FOR SO LONG...THEN ONE DAY SHE RETURNED AND STARTED BREAKING THINGS. TERRIBLY RUDE OF HER...MY APOLOGIES, I KNOW SHE IS YOUR MOTHER NOW, BUT IT BRINGS ME NO JOY TO COLLECT SOULS BEFORE THEIR TIME! SHE IS MEDDLING IN THE BALANCE!” Papyrus sipped his tea. Loudly. It reminded her of a small child playing at nobillity, and making sure they drank as loudly as possible so everyone knew how fancy they were pretending to be. “...I HAVE LEARNED FROM SOURCES THAT SHALL NOT BE NAMED BUT ARE MOST RELIABLE...THAT THE DESTRUCTION ABOVE IS, ERM...BECAUSE OF YOU.” Papyrus shifted, cup clattering against the table as he set it down too forcefully. “Lady Sister,” he began, “did you tell your mother you had fallen in love or in your haste forget to tell her? Or perhaps you feared she would disapprove?”

Frisk wanted to rage at Papyrus for his willful ignorance, but the desire guttered out like a flame in a windstorm. Instead she folded her hands on her lap and picked at uneven, work-chipped nails. Her handmaidens would be sure to fuss over their state later during her bath. “I never had the opportunity to tell her,” she said. “As Sans stole me away and then would not permit me Above until we were wed and I was crowned his queen.”

“Oh.” For a moment, her heart lifted at the prospect of a proper ally. Papyrus was a death god. He could traverse between the Underworld and the Surface same as Sans. He could help her escape and quell her mother’s rage! But that hope shattered when he cast her with one of his disarming smiles, “HOW TERRIBLY OLD FASHIONED! WHO WOULD THINK THAT MY BROTHER WOULD BE SO ROMANTIC AS TO FOLLOW SUCH AN OLD TRADITION.”

“Romantic!” Frisk caught Hyacinth covering her mouth, mirth flickering in the white embers of her eyes.

Papyrus nodded, “AND TRADITIONAL! ALL THE DELTA KINGS HAVE STOLEN THEIR BRIDES. THE LORD OF THE SEA WAS MARRIED THRICE OVER EVEN. HIS FINAL BRIDE WAS SAID TO BE THE DAUGHTER OF A GENERAL FROM THE LAST WAR WHOM HE WHISKED AWAY AFTER HE RESCUED HER FROM A TERRIBLE ASSAILANT! AND OF COURSE YOUR MOTHER WAS A STOLEN BRIDE HERSELF. SHE MUST HAVE TOLD YOU HOW, AFTER THE GODS ROSE TO POWER AS A NEW PATHEON IN THE WAKE OF TOPPLING THE OLD ONES, HE STOLE AWAY WITH HER, PICKING HER UP RIGHT THERE IN THE MIDDLE OF MT. EBOTT!” He reached out and laid a hand on the table, as if to extend a sense of reassurance, “I am certain your mother will calm once she learns that you are truly married and not a fancy my brother took to spite her.”

Frisk shot to her feet, temper getting the better of her, “I didn’t want to be married! I didn’t ask to be queen! This isn’t what I want!”

And in return for her declaration? Pity. Papyrus rose, his smile a little sad, “And I never asked to be unable to touch another living being without causing them harm or even death.” He curled gloved fingers, “I beg forgiveness, Sister, because I cannot condemn my brother for accepting a chance at happiness.”

“At the cost of mine.”

“All isn’t fair in love or war, yet even immortals succumb to them,” he wrapped his cloak around him, so that he stood tall and dark, the picture of a proper reaper. “And Sister? I hope you can forgive me.”

“...Sans’ actions are not yours,” Frisk took a step forward. “Papyrus...brother...could you take me Above? To my mother? So I can stop the needless death of mortals.”

“no. he can’t.”

“SANS!”

The elder god of death loomed in the open frame of the door, not stepping in, crossing the boundary into her living space without permission. “papyrus cannot take others through the void without killing them. a trip with him would, heh, be the death of you.” He blinked, looking like a feline that had awoken from a nap in the sun. “but no need to fret, my queen, you will see your mother at dawn tomorrow. we have an audience with the king of gods, and i have, hehehe, orders to ensure you are there with me. your handmaidens will provide you with appropriate dress. this is, after all, your first showing as a goddess and queen of the underworld, and you do so care about first impressions.”

The trio all stared at one another, leaving Frisk to break the silence.

“Very well. Tomorrow then.”

Tomorrow. She would be free.

Chapter Text

Grand and solemn was Frisk when Sans came to fetch her at dawning. She was as radiant as when they married, clad in the colors in which she was crowned queen. Her favored pink chiton was replaced with white, the hem dragging the ground, hiding no doubt bare toes. From her shoulders tumbled the royal purple of the Delta monarchs, the gilt Detalrune stitched to lay in the center of her back. She held her head high and imperious, hair combed and oiled until it gleamed in the glowlight, a crown of flowers resting upon her locks where precious metal ought to be. But Sans wouldn’t push. Who was he to stand on formality? He traced her form, eyelights lingering on the twin stars, one pinned to either shoulder in polished gold. The symbol of her reign as Queen. All the others wore their husband’s symbol, but not Frisk, no, when she was ready to accept it, she had a throne of equal height beside him in the Judgement Hall.

“Are you going to take us Above or oggle?” His lovely wife’s ire was on full display; she kept her chin elevated, her gaze cast to the side, as if to continue her protest of their union, determined to ignore his existence until she saw her mother.

“can’t a husband do both?” Sans asked, a little too innocently if Frisk’s puckered brows and narrowed eyes were any indication. His smile pulled at the corners and he extended a hand, phalanges splayed in invitation—one like a spitting viper apparently given how his little wife hesitated, lips curling as a dainty hand latched onto bone with uncertain quickness. She was warm. So warm. So full of life. “i suppose that joke was dead on arrival. we’d better bury up or we’ll be late to the meeting.”

He stepped backward and together they walked into the shadows and through the void. Sans may have exaggerated a touch when he said his brother would kill her if he tried to take her Above on his own, but the temporary half-death of an immortal soul Shattering, was an unpleasant thing for all parties involved. He did not wish to see Papyrus subject himself to witnessing his new little sister crumbling apart before his eyes before she pulled herself back together. Then again, given her unusual relationship with time, it was possible that if she were to Shatter, it would be like the first time, when her soul was mortal, and she would bend the very laws of the universe to a point before her not-death. Sans awaited the day his wife, his queen, came into her own as the force of nature she was destined to be.

A near inaudible gasp escaped Frisk’s lips as they emerged from the shadows to stand at the gates of Mt. Ebott, tall and gleaming in gold, beyond them white pillars of marble with vines crawling skyward, bursting with a rainbow of blooms. Sans squinted. It was bright in the kingdom of sky. The heavens perpetually bright even during nightfall, set aglow by the moon and a tapestry of stars, and at dawn? It was almost dreamlike, hazy the painted hues of the sun’s awakening, pinks mingling with topaz and citrine. A kingdom of light. So different from his realm of stone and shadow, most illumination from the crystals and rivers and fungi, their glow steady and cyan, cool and unchanging.

He kept his grasp on Frisk’s hand as he waved open the gate, ancient magics responding to the presence of the godly monarch. Then he lowered his hood, revealing his own laurel of gold, a match for the rune on the formal cape he wore for ‘special occasions’ such as these. In fact, his whole attire was formal in unrelenting black, no trace of the purples typically worn to show status, though his symbol gleamed at his shoulder. With a flick of a wrist, he summoned his bident, then he led his queen into the pristine courtyard, his pace steady but slow, unhurried. What a sight they made. He felt the eyes of the realm’s inhabitants watching from afar, hear the murmurs alive in the air. The dark Lord of the Dead and his pale Lady of Spring.

Her hand wrapped in his.

A goddess unknown to the court walked at his side, immune to his cursed touch, her heritage both known and a mystery. The daughter of the Sky King’s estranged wife. Was it by blood? Had the goddess of marriage partaken in an affair? Was she born a godling or mortal? Or perhaps she was born dead, Lady Nature’s grief caused by witnessing her child in the arms of the one who stole her. Oh, how they talked. And given how the wife that despised him so did not try to break his hold, she heard too, and was left adrift, sheltered was she by her mother first, and then by the quiet of the Underworld.

Too soon they reached the council chambers, where the others sat, waiting, almost grimly, as if expecting him to either not show, or for him to drag some quivering, beaten thing before them instead of the proud, uncertain creature at his arm. Lord Fyre noticed them first and offered a craggy smile. Lord Sun was next, his metallic visage soft with surprise, eyes drifting to their hands before he covered his smile. He elbowed Lady Wisdom, who could barely look at him for longer than a beat before hiding her face, which drew Lady War’s gaze. She stood, chair knocked back with a screech, the air humming with the static of unfocused energy. The Huntress was a protector of maidens and evidently, she was appalled by his marriage to one. But she kept her mouth shut, fury tempered by the hand at her shoulder, the Lord of the Sea nodding to Sans and Frisk in turn. Sans then looked to Asgore, who had yet to look up, transfixed by the tea in his paws.

“tibia-honest, wasn’t expecting dead silence when we arrived,” Sans said, breaking the almost unnatural hush. “there a reason it is quiet as a, heh, grave?” When no immediate response came, he led Frisk to their designated place at the table. A chair reserved for him and one for his queen. “you are all aware by now that i have married and lady spring now wears the title of queen of the underworld.”

“A lie!” Wind whipped through the room as the last member of the ruling pantheon stepped in. Lady Nature looked as wild and dangerous as she did in her youth, regal in deep green and purple, her husband’s symbol pinned at either shoulder. How fitting were the sharp bolts of lightning carved into golden discs when she had a storm brewing at her back. “You are a liar and a thief and will not stand aside as you make a mockery of such a sacred oath.” Hypocrite, Sans wanted to say, but he stayed his tongue, choosing to instead lift Frisk’s hand above the table and press his teeth to her knuckles.

“you were saying, my lady?”

Suddenly, Frisk ripped her hand from his and flung herself from the table. She dashed across the room and jumped into Lady Nature’s embrace. The raging tempest quelled in the wake of a blooming flower. She wrapped her arms around Frisk, a joyous wail escaping her throat, “My daughter. My precious daughter. You have returned to me.” Her paw smoothed over the back of Frisk’s head and tears beaded down her cheeks, “He won’t hurt you anymore, my child. We will go home and leave these awful memories behind, and no one will ever separate us again.”

“I—” Frisk stiffened in her mother’s hold before the goddess tucked Frisk behind her, looming tall as she glared at Sans. If looks could kill and he wasn’t the lord of the dead, he’d be dust from the ire in her eyes.

“I will be taking my daughter home, Death. This farce is over. I cannot believe you would stoop this low, that you would steal and ravage an innocent child too naive and helpless to defend herself. And then you had the audacity to claim that you are married? This union is hereby dissolved and if I see you anywhere near her again, I will bring you and the Underworld to its knees.”

.

Sans was silent.

Frisk strained against her mother’s hold but found the hand on her shoulder as immovable as stone. “Mother, it wasn’t—” she began, the tiniest seed of pity budding in her chest. His greatest sin was abducting her and coercing her into marriage. While she did not approve of his actions or wish to remain married to him, Sans never did what her mother was implying. (Though one could argue that his shattering of her soul was worse. Even if it was supposedly Fated to happen and earned her a Name.) “He didn’t—”

“Shush, my child, you do not have to defend this vile god’s actions,” Toriel crooned, cutting Frisk off and nudging her further behind her, practically under the larger goddess’ cloak. Maybe it was because she spent the days since her kidnapping in the company of those that treated her, quite literally, as a queen, but it stung to be silenced in this fashion. To be treated like...like...like a child. Frisk wilted, shoulders dropping. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To return to her mother and for life to be the same as it was before she was swept up in prophecies and marriages and politics? To be as naive as a nymph, spending her days playing in the gardens, walking barefoot through fields and braiding her handmaidens’ hair, no worries in her head beyond whether or not it would rain.

Frisk peered around her mother’s hip and watched Sans accept Toriel’s tongue lashing with hollow-eyed nonchalance, his grin ticking wider and wider. When she stopped her accusations, he cocked his skull to the side, reminding Frisk of a crow that saw an especially shiny rock, “heh, ewe done disparaging my character, lady nature?” He dropped his gaze to Frisk, held her stare as he continued to speak, “we could have a long discussion of your faults and the grievances you have caused just in the past few days. after all, i was not the one who abandoned my throne and my people. i was not the one who carried an affair with a mortal while hiding from my spouse. i was not the one who began ripping apart my own domain and slaughtering the mortals under my protection because i couldn’t control my temper.”

“How dare you!”

Sans drifted closer, looking a little bigger with the edges of his robes curling up like tendrils, creeping into shadows and across the floor, “i dare because i am not the one who broke an oath. i dare because that is my wife you are infantilizing. she is and has been a woman grown, and now she is my wife and queen, and there is nothing you can do to change that. i dare because a wife’s place is with her husband, and a queen’s place is with her people. two things you forgot, queen of the skies.”

“ENOUGH!” The King of Gods’ voice literally boomed, thunder rumbling, the hiss and crack of lightning accentuating his command. While Toriel could stir terrible storms, it was his domain. “Cease with your arguing. We are not here to bicker, but to determine Lady Spring’s proper custody.”

“I am her mother!”

“Lady Nature,” Asgore grimaced as he warned his estranged wife once more.

She curled half around Frisk and nudged her away, “Go outside, my child, you do not need to hear this nonsense. I will handle this and collect you when it is over.”

“I have the right to speak for myself on this matter,” Frisk protested. “I’m the one Sans—ah, Lord Death—abducted. I’m the one who this whole talk is about. Shouldn’t I have a say in this? Why do I have to return to anyone’s custody at all?”

Toriel gave her an odd look, “My dear, please, I know you are distressed, and this must have been very traumatic to you, but it is best that you allow me to speak on your behalf. You have gone through a great struggle, and you are confused, but I swear he will never touch you again.” Frisk staggered as she was ushered back, like a misbehaving toddler. As much as she loathed Sans for what he did, how angry she was even when they arrived, that stupid seed of pity had grown roots. Suddenly, there were furious tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She was sick of people taking away her agency. Husband. Mother. King. Queen. All of them kept denying her a choice!

“I. Am. Staying.” Frisk pushed away Toriel’s paws and strode around her mother, the mantle of purple burdensome when it carried no weight, not even those of flimsy expectations. But she didn’t even want it. She wanted none of this! She didn’t want Sans to take her or marry her or make her queen, but he did. She didn’t want her mother destroying the Surface because she was missing, but Toriel did. She didn’t want to be shooed from a meeting about her future and this time, she was going to make herself heard. “I...I am a Named goddess, not a child. My K-king,” she peered up at Asgore. “I request to remain and partake in the discussion as it pertains to MY future and well-being.”

“It isn’t appropriate,” Toriel insisted.

“she has every right to stay,” Sans drawled. “she is a delta queen. denying her a seat in the council room is an insult to both her and the underworld.” He took his seat again, leaving Frisk’s puled out beside him. “i believe it would be unwise of you to continue your objections given your own...circumstances.”

“Lord Death is correct. Lady Spring should stay if that is her wish,” the Sky King rumbled.

Toriel once more curled a hand around Frisk’s shoulder, “She will sit with me. Not with him.”

“Lady Spring will sit with me,” was her estranged husband’s reply. Frisk took advantage of her mother’s surprise to slip away and approach the king of gods. He smiled at her, a little sadly. “Many apologies, my lady, this was not the manner in which I wished us to meet. I am Asgore, though I ask you to not use it when formalities are required of us all. Please, sit.” Frisk could do little else but comply. When she was settled, he motioned to everyone in the room and the gods all took a seat if they had not already. “Today we will settle a dispute between Lady Nature and Lord Death the Elder. The matter at hand is the custody of Lady Spring.”

Custody. That word. Frisk didn’t like it. She wanted to kick his shin.

“Lady Nature, as it was you who, ah, brought the issue to the Council’s attention, please state your case as to why Lady Spring should return with you. As, to our knowledge, she is a Named goddess and before us she wears the symbols and the title of Queen of the Underworld.”

Toriel shivered. Frisk could feel her mother’s distress, could see her panic, could read the grief ripping her apart. A mother who lost a child and was terrified of losing another to Death. She was frightened and desperate and despairing. Despite the crooning and coddling and her neglect of the mortals, Frisk loved her mother. She wanted to be with her mother. To help her become that wonderful, loving, cheerful person again. Not this literal walking disaster that brought destruction wherever she walked.

“Before she vanished, she was Unnamed,” Toriel began. “A child!” She curled her paws together, “Despite her mortal soul, I knew she could possibly have a Name, but that is not a thing that should be forced! My daughter, my sweet, helpless daughter, never knew a life outside of my sanctuary. And one day, when my attention was away, she did as children often do, and strayed from the boundaries of the garden and that was when the despicable Lord Death stole her. The god of the sun bore witness to the depravity. Saw the earth open up and swallow her whole. One can only imagine the torment she endured in the short time he held her hostage. Please do not let him take another of my children. I couldn’t bear it.”

Frisk watched everyone’s faces. Lady War especially looked disgusted. Whereas Lord Fyre was stoic, unmoved by the goddess’ impassioned speech.

“Lord Death the Elder, what say you?” The Sky King bid.

“stealing one’s bride is tradition,” Sans said with a shrug. “we were bound accordingly and i planned to present her when she was ready. children grow up. and as you can all see, my wife is no child, but a woman. and a woman grown hardly belongs to her mother.”

“I refuse to acknowledge this marriage as legitimate!”

“then it is just as well that we were wed by the fates, our lifeline’s tied in their infinite web.”

Toriel slammed her fist on the table, “You lie!”

“i do not understand why you’re dead set on denying the legitimacy of our marriage,” Sans replied. “as it is your domain, should you not be pleased with your daughter’s husband’s fidelity? none but the fates themselves can rend our oath asunder. frisk is and will always be my wife and queen, and i will have no other.”

“Enough,” the Sky King warned. They fell quiet again. He looked between them and then to Frisk. “My dear, would you kindly share your story for our consideration?” Frisk nodded and he settled back, one paw twisting thoughtfully in his beard.

“They both speak the truth,” Frisk began. “I was Unnamed before Lord Death took me. But that was because I was not a godling, but a mortal. Mortals do not have domains. I went with my handmaidens to explore the Surface and spied a strange flower. When I reached for it, a chasm opened beneath me and I fell. I did not know at first, but I had fallen into the Underworld. All I had to aid me was a stick that fell down too, and since I could not climb back up from where I fell, I did the only thing I could do, I walked. I walked for a long time. Days perhaps? Could have been hours. I do not know. Time had little meaning down there. And it was not long before the inhabitants noticed a living soul…” The others nodded their sympathy. Mortals and gods alike had stories of heroes that traversed the land of the dead. Some crept through quietly, unnoticed until Death himself found them, while others fought to keep their life. Frisk was somewhere in between. “I did what I had to in order to survive. I ran or bartered. I once even danced. Then I came upon an oasis and it was there I...where Death and I met.”

Frisk noticed Lady Wisdom watching her, clawed hands no longer covering her face.

“He...he is responsible for my discovering of my name. He attempted to reap my soul and—” her eyes darted to Sans, who wasn’t making any move to interrupt. “—and I Shattered. But instead of dying, I was, I suppose, awakened. And it was then I knew my Name and there I shed my mortality. It was also there that he said we were to be married. The rest is as he said. We were married and later I was crowned queen. But,” Frisk narrowed her eyes at her unwanted husband, who tilted his skull at her. “that is not to say I wanted either to happen. I agreed when it seemed as if I had no other choice. All I wanted was to see my mother again.”

“Then it is settled,” Toriel said. “Frisk was coerced into this union and should return home with me. I can and will protect her from this fiend, as his coming into my sanctuary would be trespass.”

Lady Wisdom was now gnawing her claws, and suddenly, she sputtered out, “There is inf-f-formation b-b-being withheld!” She was pale as Sans turned his hollow grin at her. There he stared for a long moment before withdrawing a familiar red fruit from his robes. He leaned his bident against the table and pulled out a small eating knife.

“whatever do you mean?” he asked, the picture of languid calm as he slowly carved open the fruit. Pink juices dripped as he broke the two halves apart and plucked a single seed from within. He held it out teasingly towards the reptilian goddess, “pomegranate seed?” When she shook her head, he shrugged and popped it between his teeth.

“Lady Spring, did you partake in ambrosia from the Underworld?” The king of gods inquired.

Frisk watched Sans pluck another seed and chew it. Then bowed her head, “Yes.”

“Frisk!” Toriel gasped out. “Why would you ever—?”

“Because I did not realize what it was!” Frisk snapped back. “I was ravenous, mother. Weak, injured and thirsty and exhausted. I was a mortal wandering the Underworld and I didn’t see the harm in eating some fruit.”

Lady Wisdom fidgeted in her chair, while Lord Sun was practically starry-eyed, leaning forward on the table as if this was a marvelous drama. Lord Fyre’s flames flickered a little more intensely. And Gerson nodded along, holding Undyne by the back of her armor.

Toriel let out a short breath, “It doesn’t matter. She is here, which means she can leave the Underworld. She does not have to stay in there with him.”

“K-k-kind of? She is bound to the Underworld, not j-j-just married to its king. She cannot stay Above.”

“I will not allow her to go back. He cannot have her.”

Sans shrugged and continued to eat, “i will not force her back below. she has duties on the surface, this i acknowledge, and she may come and go as she pleases. i am her husband, not her jailor, i have little interest in barring her from her domain or her mother.”

“Then it truly is settled.”

“It isn’t, m-m-my lady,” the nervous goddess swallowed and fussed with her chiton. “If she consumed a f-few seeds, then the effect should b-be less but...Lady Spring, how m-m-much did you eat?”

A strained smile pulled at Frisk’s lips, “All the seeds of a whole fruit.”

“For her own well-being, it would b-b-be best if she stayed in the Underworld m-most of the time. M-maybe three months on the Surface?”

“That is unacceptable!”

Lady Wisdom flinched away from Toriel’s anger, “Well, I s-s-suppose six months is p-p-possible. A full year would be...terrible, just terrible. Anything less than three months and—”

“If she must go back for any time at all, it will be for a single day a year.”

“That is unadvisable! I am uncertain if that is even p-p-possible without causing great harm! N-no, I am certain! My Lady, she is b-bound. To break an oath to the Underworld could Shatter her to...to...”

“to me,” Sans quipped. “i rather like my wife alive and her soul in one piece. and one would assume you wish the same.” He ate another seed, his teeth stained red. “but you know what they say about assumptions. my king, if your wife turns mine into a tree, i will have to retaliate.”

The Sky King hit his fist on the table, calling for silence and order, “I have come to a decision.”

It was foolish, but Frisk was tired of choices being made for her. She stood up, “So have I.” He looked at her with baffled disapproval. She swallowed. “I will return to live on the Surface with my mother until such time that I must return to the Underworld. Be that a single day a year or...or longer.” She pleaded with her eyes for the King to listen, to not overturn her, to let her grant custody of herself, to herself. To give her this agency over her life.

“And if that means staying in the Underworld for all but a day a year?”

“Then so be it.”

He nodded, “Lady Spring will choose where she stays and for how long. And neither Lady Nature nor Lord Death may interfere. As she has requested, she will leave today with her mother. This meeting is adjourned.”

Frisk’s heart pounded as Toriel swept her up in her warm embrace, whispering adoration and bittersweet promises. In the faces of the Council, she saw more pity than she could swallow. Sans merely lifted the half-eaten fruit and watched her be carried away. As he crushed another seed between his teeth, Frisk wondered if she had made the right decision today after all.

And hated that she was uncertain.

Chapter Text

Frisk didn’t know how heavy the cloak upon her shoulders weighed until Toriel unclasped it, thick, purple fabric pooling between them. Large paws gingerly tousled Frisk’s hair and pet her shoulders, as if she was a skittish filly in need of soothing. She pulled away and glanced at her mother, who looked as weary as Frisk felt, the bright, golden light of Nature’s garden sanctuary illuminating every wrinkle of tension. Home. They were home.

“You likely desire a bath and a change of clothes,” her mother murmured, paws dropping to the golden bands resting on both of her upper arms. With a tug, cool metal slipped free and once past Frisk’s wrist, Toriel made them vanish. When she reached for the pins holding her chiton closed, Frisk stopped her, silently, gently, slim fingers on giant ones. Something dark and worried passed over the goddess’ features as she dropped her paw away. “Apologies, my child, in my haste I had forgotten the traumas you must have endured.” She said it like Frisk was some broken, pitiable thing. “Be honest, are there any injuries in need of attending? I have seen it all in my many years of life. I would rather you endure embarrassment than suffering.”

“I am...ah, not wounded, mother.”

Toriel tilted Frisk’s chin up, now stern, “That skeleton is neither known for gentleness or kindness. He cannot touch you here. I must know if—”

Frisk flushed and batted the paw away, “Mother! He never...we never...it wasn’t like that.” Though she was guilty of believing Sans was capable of that very act. When her mother’s expression remained disbelieving, Frisk widened her stance and squared her shoulders stubbornly, “Mother, I will say this once and only once. Lord Death did not ravish me as you seem to believe. Our marriage was a chaste one.” Beyond the kisses upon her hand and the attempts at courtship, Sans never showed any particular passionate urges. There was no doubt he could have taken his due, but instead, he left her mostly to her own devices. “There is nothing for you to heal.”

Tension ebbed away from Toriel’s shoulders at that declaration and she smiled. But the expression faded as quickly as it came, “I will do everything in my power to protect you, my child. I apologize for failing you before, but knowing what we do now, we can work together to ensure your safety.”

“Mother, I will have to return to the Underworld—”

“That is not definite.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Frisk ignored Toriel’s sharp inhalation and walked to the doorway of their modest little home built of wood and clay. The sun was high in the sky, but instead of glowing with life, the garden was grey and wilted from Nature’s neglect. “As was discussed at the meeting, I ate the fruit of the underworld. I am bound to it. One day I will have to return to it. To him. To my husband.”

Toriel was quiet as she came to stand beside her, head bowed, long ears dangling over her chest. As they stood together in silence, the color began to return to the garden, to their sanctuary, to their hidden home. Frisk reached out to a bush that grew wild by the front steps, flowers budding and blooming with a touch. She was a goddess of nature. And as her mother displayed, there was more to that than flowers. Would she herself be able to wield the very plants she nurtured as weapons? To turn a thorny vine into a trap? Would she be able to fill the air with pollen and spores to distract and immobilize an enemy? What were her limits? What was the true nature of her Name?

“An important lesson, then, for you to learn now that you are a goddess,” Toriel began, haltingly, reluctantly. “One that is quite necessary with fertility as part of her domain. Should your husband take advantage of you when you are outside of my care, you need never carry his ill gotten spawn. Your fertility is yours to control. You may render yourself barren during your time with him, no seeds planted to ever take root, assuming he is even capable of siring life.”

“Mother—”

“Frisk. This is important.”

“—please stop,” Frisk huffed as she stepped off the steps and walked down the dirt path, flowers blooming beneath her feet. “Lord Death wouldn’t do as you keep implying.”

“He’s already manipulated you, child,” Toriel snapped. “There are more ways than force that a man may use to take that which he believes himself owed. I am trying to protect you, Frisk. I am trying my hardest to save you from a fate I’ve seen happen too many times. I have long since lost track of the number of young women, mortal or not, who have been used by men. I have seen them charmed by sweet words and promises then left alone and without recourse once she fell with child. I have seen the sanctity of marriage used to excuse terror and abuse. Understand, my child, that I seek to protect you!”

Tears sprang unbidden into Frisk’s eyes, emotions heightened by the stress of recent events. As she tried to scrub them away, Toriel wrapped her up in a tight embrace once more, “I am sorry that I have failed you once already. But no more. You will be safe, Frisk, please let me promise you that.”

Frisk said nothing and buried herself once more in her mother’s warm arms.

.

It was harder than expected to return to routine. Spoiled, perhaps, was she, by the brief stint in luxury. Baths in a cold stream in the company of her childhood nymph companions, who chittered and babbled about everything and nothing at all, were suddenly uneasy instead of companionable. There were no lessons in politics or how to compose oneself in Court. No clothes spun of fine spider silk or friendly teasing about how best to seduce her unwanted spouse. Which was fine. She never wanted those things. Frisk preferred simplicity. She wanted to regain that life which she lived before, innocent and guileless.

But then came the long walks through the gardens and forests that comprised her childhood home. How any attempts to do more than perk up a wilting bloom were discreetly discouraged by any whom were with her. She should relax and play. Maybe take a nap in the sunshine. Once, in her frustration, thistles and brambles erupted violently from the soil, carving a jagged divide between her and the nymphs that kept her company.

“I want to be alone,” Frisk commanded. She stood as tall and fearsome as she could manage in her chinton of translucent, blushing rose. Her chin was up, her posture proud, putting to use what she learned during her time Below. They whimpered and scattered, one leaping to vanish into a nearby pond, while the others seemingly melted into the trees. She should have felt guilty. But all Frisk felt was relief. Shoulders dropping, she inhaled slow and deep, the scent of loam and life, thick and earthy, upon the air. At last. Quiet.

The young goddess eyed the prickly plants and pressed her lips into a firm line. This was a part of her. A part of her powers. Her domain. The limits as of yet unexplored. She wanted—needed—to know. To learn. To experience. Wind tangled through wild brown locks left untamed by oil and combs as bare toes curled into the clover carpeting the earth...and filled Frisk with Determination.

.

“Frisk why are you not with your handmaidens?” Toriel began before she faltered, caught off guard by what she saw in the hiddens depths of a grove. Upon reuniting with her daughter almost a month prior, she knew Frisk to be changed. A goddess recognized another. Potential untapped burned within her, but oh, in her innocence, Frisk was as helpless as she had been when she was mortal. She hoped to guide the girl slowly into womanhood, let her blossom with the passing of seasons as her power matured. Toriel expected Frisk to be of dear help during the planting season and harvest time, but only after she was a little older, her domain more familiar.

Standing in the grove was not her delicate flower who she raised barefoot with buttercups in her hair, but a strange force of nature surrounded by terrible, hideous abominations of plants! It was a garden of poison and death barricaded in by walls of thorns. How long had Frisk been sneaking off to do this?! Why had she done this? Toriel stepped back, ill at the sight before her. Her dear, sweet child. Oh, her poor innocent girl! What had Death done to her? Evidently her time spent Below in the Underworld left deeper scars than Frisk was willing to admit, for why else would she make this place? She was coping with pain and grief.

“Dear child,” Toriel whispered before parting the thorny wall. Frisk made a startled noise, the vine she had been coaxing from the soil suddenly dropping onto the ground in a haphazard coil like a beheaded snake.

“Mother!” the girl toed the vine, as if to discreetly hide it away. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Obviously not. What is all this?”

“Practice,” Frisk crossed her arms, defensive in a fashion she’d never been before. This was unacceptable. Obviously distance and privacy wasn’t what Frisk needed to heal from her stint Below. Not if this was what she was spending those precious afternoons doing. “I want to know what I can do, Mother. I need to know. I believe I can do more than make flowers bloom and plants grow, but I can control them as well with enough concentration!”

“My child, there is no need to force things,” Toriel cooed. With a wave of her hand the foul, toxic plants wilted away, the thistles and thorns replaced with more inviting greenery. “And why would you need to know how to control plants? Plan to send an army of trees to harass mortal villages? It would be far more beneficial to learn to nurture grain so that the mortals have a plentiful harvest despite what...occurred recently.”

Frisk’s eyes were brighter with interest, “You will let me join you outside the sanctuary?”

“I...that is…”

“Please, Mother, let me help you.” She bounced a bit with delightful eagerness, achingly familiar to how she acted before the incident. Toriel missed the days where Frisk played in her skirts, begging for treats, easily placated with a fig or a slice of freshly baked bread. “With two of us working we can restore the Surface twice as fast. And I can learn more about the extent of my domain. There are no downsides—”

“Perhaps in the future.”

“—to...what? What do you mean?”

Toriel smoothed Frisk’s hair, noting how it had grown. Maybe she would let it fall long upon her shoulders instead of shearing it boyishly short. Since she was little more than hip high on Toriel, Frisk cut her locks to her chin, claiming that it was easier to manage when she spent so much time outside. “As I said before, there is no need to rush things. Going outside the garden is unnecessary. Give yourself time, my child.” She patted her cheek.

“How much time?”

“Hm, no more than a decade or two. Hardly any time at all.”

Frisk squirmed, trying to slip away, “I want—”

“What you want and what you need are different,” Toriel said, keeping her voice firm. “And as your mother it is my job to make sure you have what you need. Understand?”

A long pause then a nod, “Yes Mother.”

“Good. Now why don’t we go bake some bread together. That will be quite fun!”

.

A child.

That was how Toriel perceived her and treated her.

Frisk once more swallowed the bitter seed of pride that dared lodge itself to the back of her throat, but couldn’t shake away the unease that haunted her steps. It was harder each day to get up and go back to routine. To open the chest of clothes suitable for a maiden that hadn’t yet experienced her first moonblood. To stand at her mother’s side in the kitchen, warned to keep her hands away from the morning bread until it cooled, as if she was ignorant of even the most basic hazards. To have Toriel tut and fuss over her appearance when the nymphs dared help Frisk look more womanly despite her attire.

This is what I want, she told herself each time she wanted to protest or was gently brushed aside. I want to be with my mother. I love my mother. My mother didn’t kidnap me, break my soul with a touch or force me into marriage. Mother Nature also didn’t grant her privacy when Frisk demanded it. She didn’t show any inkling of acknowledgement that Frisk was indeed a woman grown, Named and with desire to discover herself. Most mentions of Sans or attempts to foster her powers in all but the most passive of ways, earned a disapproving stare and a change in conversation.

She escaped.

She was free.

Except...she wasn’t.

The sheltered cage of childhood was suffocating despite her willingly returning to it. Limits she tested before were now barred even tighter shut, the walls built higher than ever. In the past, Frisk would sneak off with her handmaidens to see nearby villages, but now, Frisk struggled to stray into the forests of the sanctuary without Toriel fetching her, acting as if she would get herself hurt if left alone.

Eventually, Frisk cracked. She needed out from beneath her mother’s watchful gaze, if just for a day. (Or for an evening Below, tending her own little private garden, filling it with whatever plants she desired, be they lovely or dangerous.) Wait. No. Banish those thoughts. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—think about the Underworld. She certainly didn’t yearn for it like Sans implied she would. Instead she put her energy into planning her adventure on the Surface.

It took weeks, the days slogging by slower and slower (her time Below so brief in comparison that she could almost dismiss it as a surreal dream), her desire corrupting into desperation, but one day, Frisk knew it was her chance to act. Toriel was away, mending the damage she wrought, and her handmaidens had yet to come act as pseudo guardians in her wake. Thus nobody was watching. No one would notice her gone. It was ridiculous how when she was far younger she had more leniency than she did now. Well, Frisk would prove that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself! It wasn’t as if she wanted to run away and abandon Toriel forever. Not at all.

She needed room to grow. A little faith and trust. Freedom. Agency. Choice.

It was her life. She wanted to choose what she did with it.

Spurred on by that notion, Frisk scampered from the little house and through the gardens, and ran through meadow, stream and forest until she crossed the veil between Nature’s private realm into that of the mortals. Her chest rose and fell steadily, sweat dampening her neck and hair. It was nice to stand in the sun, but she wasn’t out here to loiter. Flowers bursting to life with each step she took, Frisk savored the change in scenery, and let memory guide her to a little place not too far from home. Where she and the nymphs would discretely explore. She was near out of breath when she clambered over the craggy slope that would lead to...the...village?

The young goddess of spring stilled, upright with the same shock of a lonesome deer that just heard a noise in the dark.

“No,” she murmured. The little village was in ruin. Once vast fields of crops were mouldering wastes, no animals beyond the carrion eaters in sight. There was a musty, acrid reek to the air. Rot. Decay. Death. Frisk delved deeper, curiosity and disbelief carrying her as swift as babbling brook might a leaf after a rain shower. The further she trekked, the more her heart broke. Quiet little huts were torn apart, garden beds flooded until nothing stayed rooted. And the bodies. She hadn’t expected to see them in the street. If there were survivors of her mother’s grief here, they had long since fled, leaving the village to its blight...or they were too weak to give the dead proper ceremony.

“did your mother give your permission to leave home or did you sneak off on your own.”

Frisk whirled, traitorous heart skipping a beat at the sight of her unwanted husband. “What are you doing here?” she asked, earning a low laugh from the skeletal god.

“i believe i asked first, dear wife of mine,” Sans countered.

“You’re following me. I’m not going back to the Under—”

He held up a hand, “i am afraid that our meeting here is but a matter of happenstance.”

Frisk eyed him with suspicion, “Why should I trust your word?”

“do you know me to lie, my lady?”

“You deceive.”

He shrugged, “that is a sin we are all guilty of committing.” Slowly, he drifted closer, close enough to touch her if he so chose. But he didn’t. “when you return to the underworld it will be at your behest, frisk. you will call to me and ask to return below.”

“Never.”

Sans chuckled, “and yet here you are, away from your mother’s protections, making yourself vulnerable when you know what could happen. it is as if some part of you wishes that i would play the villain and snatch you away again.” Frisk crossed her arms and watched him drift past, “be at ease, my queen, i am simply here for duty’s sake. not all souls take their final rest in peace.”

Wait. That meant someone was alive in the village! Frisk followed Sans, uncertain how anyone possibly endured the destruction of this place. A moment later, he passed through a door with the same ease as a shadow. Frisk gingerly pushed it open. There, curled in the corner of the room, was an emaciated, feral-looking child. There was a wildness to his eyes. A curl to his frame. He tried to stand upon seeing her, but didn’t have the strength. Sans watched with interest. If she recalled correctly, he didn’t involve himself in collecting souls on the Surface much anymore, the ruling of the Underworld his burden. But when a Soul couldn’t be settled and wouldn’t come without a fight, that was when Sans took it upon himself to do the reaping.

This child wasn’t alive, not really. He was dead, all Death had to do was collect his soul from his stubbornly persisting body.

“you can’t help him,” Sans said, not looking at her.

“Sssss...iissster?” Both immortals paused at the human’s raspy query. There was hope and it tugged so bittersweet on her heart that Frisk was unable to resist. She crossed the room and laid a hesitant hand on his arm. He blinked at her...and smiled. “You’re...safe…”

“I....y-yes. Yes I am.”

A skeletal arm reached past her and a blink later, the boy went limp. There was a hum and…when he withdrew, a pale red soul rested above Sans’ palm. With a flick of his wrist, it was gone.

“heh. maybe it wasn’t happenstance we were here at the same time after all,” Sans murmured. “perhaps it was fate. he didn’t fight. according to papyrus, this one was ruthlessly stubborn.”

“He was a child.”

“children can be even more determined to cling to life than adults.”

“All he wanted was to see his sister one last time,” Frisk realized.

“he got to see a goddess in his final moments instead,” Sans said. “more than most mortals can claim.” Before Frisk could reach out to the boy again, Sans stilled her hand, “there are times and places for us to meddle beyond the reach of our domain. this is not one of those times.”

“But his body—”

“is a body,” he gently took her wrist and guided her back into the open. “go home, my lady. before i interpret your lingering amidst decay as an invitation to return you to my side below.”

Frisk obeyed.

Turning from Death, she hurried as quick as she could to the perpetual life of Mother Nature’s eternal garden.

Chapter Text

“My child, are you unwell?”

Frisk blinked at the sound of Toriel’s voice and offered the older goddess a wan smile. “I am fine, mother. Just...daydreaming.” The past few weeks were lived in a daze, a haziness smudging at the corners of her mind. Distracted barely described her attention, for she caught her thoughts wandering into a grey, mindless nothing more often than not. It was a mental itch that she couldn’t scratch, couldn’t soothe, always prickling and pestering, persistent and impossible to ignore. Frisk wasn’t worried by this feeling, as in an odd way, it was far too much effort to do so. Just considering fretting over her fogged head and the lost hours left Frisk with an uneasy stomach and a need for a nap. Tired. She was simply tired. After months Above, the stress of her abduction was at last catching up (or so she told herself).

Toriel laid a paw on the young goddess’ brow and Frisk permitted it, though both knew there was no fever to find. “You haven’t been eating,” she murmured.

“Yes I have.”

“The last substantial meal you partook in was a fortnight ago.”

That long? “Oh,” Frisk leaned away, delicate hands curling in the loose fabric of her skirts. “I haven’t been hungry. It makes sense to lose my appetite, eating isn’t necessary anymore.” The look she received reminded her that required was not synonymous with preferred. To eat with regularity was comforting and beneficial to an immortal’s mood and focus, same as sleep. Papyrus didn’t care for sleep and rarely did so, though he did eat heartily when home, Frisk recalled from her talks with her elemental handmaidens, but Sans—

“Your thoughts are wandering again,” Toriel’s tone held warning that she released with a sigh, shoulders falling, long ears tumbling forth over her bust as she bowed her head and drew her daughter into a loose embrace. “You also haven’t been sleeping well. You wake late, but all the night you toss and turn. I am neither blind nor deaf, child, I know how often you leave your bed to pace or walk in the garden.”

“I...I don’t know what to say.”

“How about what is ailing you,” she bid softly. “If not physically, then what lay so heavy on your heart or mind that you cannot rest. You were...reticent about sharing what occurred Below, and though I have worried, I believed that perhaps, with time, you would have healed or spoken to me. I am an open ear, Frisk, you can tell me anything. As your mother, I worry. I worry especially when that which burdens you is a weight that I cannot lift from your shoulders. I ask you, please, tell me what is wrong.”

Frisk was without proper words, “I don’t know what is wrong. If there is anything wrong. You said time heals, so please, give me time.”

“Very well. Will you at least join me for a meal?”

Together they broke bread, both pretending not to notice how few bites passed through Frisk’s lips, or how slowly she chewed, the talk between them falling to silence like a veil of unseasonal frost upon a field of wheat, cold and unwelcome.

.

Frisk lost track of the days. Had it been one month since she came home or ten? Had a year passed them by or were the hours dragging by at such slowness that they felt like weeks? At first, after her encounter with Sans, Frisk kept slipping out of the garden, heartbroken as she saw the ruin her mother’s grief left in its wake, the Surface in such disrepair that the mortals would be suffering for decades, recovery possible but slow, even with the aid of their gods. But her trips eventually stopped, the heaviness and lethargy dragging her under its spell, neither sorrow nor stubborn spite sparking in her belly to urge her to make right what was so unjustly broken.

But one day, despite the fog, Frisk found her feet carrying her to the edge of the sanctuary. Not with the urgency that once spurred her. There was no care or heed for whether someone would find or try to stop her. She simply walked and kept walking until she found herself outside of the garden, eyes fixed dully on the sky, clouds masking the sun from view, the world overcast but warm. Yet she shivered, skin prickling and clammy, as if she’d just emerged from a cold spring, its deep wells of water fed from the snowmelt of mountains. Frisk rubbed her arms, unable to chase away the chill, her shivered intensifying when a gust of wind whisked through her skirts and hair, damp with the promise of rain, scented with the richness of overturned soil and blossoming flowers. She could smell the trees. Feel their roots curling into the soil, their branches reaching higher and higher—

“you’ve learned a new trick.”

Frisk inhaled sharply, eyes flying open, heart skipping with an intensity she hadn’t felt in what felt like forever. There before her was her husband, his sockets not upon her, but over her shoulder. She glanced back to see a sapling that hadn’t been there prior, tall and spindly and familiar. In her trailing thoughts she must have felt the seedling’s presence and willed it to grow, to answer her command. However, unlike flowers or small plants, trees were in proximity to her domain, but not fixed firmly within it. Growing trees wasn’t exactly natural to her...normally. Was this a sign of her growing strength or something else? There were more pressing concerns than a tree, however, and Frisk faced said concern with narrowed eyes.

Sans was looking at her now. Quiet and composed, as if he belonged there.

“Here to reap another wayward soul, Lord Death?”

He tilted his skull, once more a crow with a shiny thing in his sights, “no. i am not here for reaping. however, that is not to say i will not collect a soul today.”

Frisk swallowed, “Oh? Well, go on then. You have no business with me, so be gone.”

Sans’ ever present smile curled a little at the corners, “as you say, my queen.” She blinked and he was gone.

.

Frisk wished she could say that was the first, last and only time such a meeting occurred. But once more, after a morning she couldn’t remember, she found herself at the edge of the sanctuary, unaware of how or why she’d come to be there. (Or why neither her mother or the nymphs stopped her.) She considered retreating, but the flowers were indeed lovely that day, and temptation won out. Soon she sat amongst the tall grasses and scattered blossoms, braiding stalks into a crown, the task so ingrained into habit that she hardly needed to think at all. She’d finished a third crown when a shadow fell upon her. There, sprawled above, floating on nothing but air, was Sans. For a busy god, he certainly seemed to show up rather quick whenever Frisk stepped out of the garden.

“Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Thrice is a habit,” Frisk set the crown of grasses upon her head, pointedly not looking at the lord of the underworld. “You’re following me.”

“i go only where i sense my presence is required.”

“Your senses are faulty. I do not need you in any capacity.”

“your soul contradicts your words.”

Frisk laid a hand rather pointlessly across her sternum, well aware that the action wouldn’t stop the god from seeing her soul, “It is rude to look without permission.”

Sans scoffed, “the rules of propriety cannot alter what is inherent to myself and my domain.”

“You say that as if you do not have a choice in the matter.”

“i don’t.”

“Oh,” Frisk had not considered that a god that saw people’s souls might be unable to stop doing so. Her handmaidens mentioned that names meant little to a god who could—wait, no, don’t think of them. She forced down every urge to recall the elemental’s lessons and chatter, their companionship. They were loyal to Sans. They always tried to convince her to see the best in him and her situation. That she wasn’t merely a captured bride, but a queen. A queen with power over her domain and her husband if she was willingly to wield it. She didn’t feel like she had much power. She didn’t feel much of anything as of late.

Well, beyond annoyance at Sans. She could give him credit for that. Her mother’s suffocating meddling was background noise, routine even, but Sans showed his face and buried emotions bubbled to the surface, little pops of color in the grey.

“Why are you here, then, if you are supposedly not following me?”

He stretched and gracefully eased from his horizontal pose to be more vertical, bare feet brushing the grasses, withering them with his touch, “as i said, i go where i am called.” He offered a hand and like a slap, Frisk realized that she wanted to take it. To curl her fingers around bare phalanges. She sucked in a sharp breath as ire burst through the cracks and for the first time in a long time, the world no longer dragged her under a monochrome sea. Sans inched a little closer, silently bidding her to do what every impulse screamed at her to do.

“No,” Frisk spat. “I’m not falling for whatever trickery this is! I am not going back Below, not now, not ever.”

Sans let his hand fall to his side and he glanced away. His smile remained tight, sockets as dark as ever. He chuckled, “as you say, lady spring.” The radius of decay crept further, plants that had just been bright and blooming, drooping and browning, withering then rotting. But as death’s aura reached her own, Frisk noted something. Something small or monumental, she wasn’t quite certain. But something all the same. Though the grasses wilted all around her as Sans lingered, those closest to her remained stubbornly alive. Some yellowed or otherwise discolored along the edges of her presence, while those within it remained green.

(All things died. Were subject to decay. Mother Nature long since learned that all her mortal creations would leave her one day to rest in the hands of Death.)

“Leave me,” Frisk commanded, her voice softer (weaker) than she desired.

Her lord husband bowed and vanished into the shadows.

.

That night Frisk dreamed of the Underworld.

Stone walls that once left her feeling trapped were instead comforting in their permanence. She was not caged, but sheltered. The cyan glow of crystals painted her white chiton in ethereal hues and the whisper of the rivers filled the quiet with a pleasant hum. Her handmaidens were awaiting her return. She should find them. But as she navigated the tunnels all the way to the heart of the palace, it was not the elementals she found, but Sans. He sat languidly in his throne, golden bident in one hand, a single pomegranate seed in the other. Idly, he pressed the seed to his teeth, then reached for another from a dish at his side. Frisk stepped forward and Sans stilled, his smile strangely soft.

“my queen,” he murmured. “you have returned.”

He motioned her to come to him and her feet moved without permission. One. Two. Three. Until she was before him. To her surprise, he had lights in his sockets, like stars in the night sky, and he raked them across her form as a lover might.

“i missed you.”

This wasn’t Sans. Not the one she knew. He wouldn’t speak this way. She wouldn’t feel so...welcoming to his blatant appreciation.

Your husband is a powerful man, but a man all the same. A man who desires his wife—

The intrusive voice that sounded eerily like Daisy was cut short by Sans gently taking her wrist and tipping her into his lap. He smoothed a hand up her back, buried his phalanges in her hair, stroked her skin like she was something delicate and precious.

“welcome back.”

Suddenly, his grip was less worshipful, his eyelights gone, replacing with yawning voids of black. He pulled and pulled until Frisk fell. Into him, through him, until she was tangled and twisted in a writhing mass of shadows. She tried to breathe in but choked on the blackness.

You belong to me.

To me.

To me.

Frisk staggered, now on all fours, the only trace of life in sight a single echo flower whispering its sinister message.

“Oh my, you seem to have strayed from home, dearie.”

The young goddess looked around and startled when Mother Night—Muffet—sashayed from the darkness. Her many eyes blinked out of synch with one another, two arms propped on voluptuous hips, the picture of surreal divinity, both seductive as well as unsettling. She came to idle by the flower and gently caressed it, before giving the petals a flick, and causing the plant to burst into shards of glittering blue. Now it was just Frisk, Muffet and the swallowing dark.

“Come along, no need to linger here.”

“W-where is here?” Frisk asked as she stood up, still weighted by an unspoken, formless dread.

Muffet giggled and patted Frisk’s head, “You’ve ensnared yourself in my web, dearie. I felt you writhing and thought you might be some unfortunate mortal that tried to walk upon the edge of reality and dreams, or a foolish godling testing the limits of his power in my domain.”

“This is the astral realm?” The land of dreams and nightmares both.

“Indeed!” Muffet nudged Frisk and they both entered the shadows, nothing to guide them except for Muffet’s own dominion over the realm. “Not a place for someone like you to linger. Whatever would your husband think if you tangled yourself too deep or I didn’t find you? Why, you could sleep away the eons before someone stumbled upon your soul and freed you.” She tutted.

“I...I don’t know how I got here.”

“I believe I know.”

“Oh?”

Together they stepped back into a familiar scene, the throne room, where Frisk saw an echo of herself entangled in Sans’s embrace. Frisk looked away, flushed with embarrassment. Muffet hummed and leaned against one of the columns, a delicate hand pressed to her lips, “Your body is Above on the Surface right now, yes?”

Frisk nodded.

“For how long?”

“Months, though the exact number I am uncertain. I’ve...I’ve lost track of time.”

“You are a god of the Underworld,” Muffet said. “Same as me. Same as the brothers Death. It is a greedy, selfish realm. It does not surrender what belongs to it easily.”

“I don’t,” Frisk began, but Muffet cut her off with a look.

“You are married to it. Sworn to it. Bound to it. Lord Death the Elder is as much the Underworld as he is its king. Oh, one day it could choose a new ruler, grip its claws into another god, bind its will into them same as it has with Lord Death. But for now, your husband and his realm are one.” She waved her hand and the image of the royal couple canoodling on the throne faded from sight. “It wants you back. Enough so that it was willing to try to drag your very soul to it through your dreams. My realm touches all others. To twist a dream into a nightmare...well, that is well within its power upon its gods and goddesses.”

“You say that as if it has a mind of its own beyond Lord Death’s.”

“Yes and no. But your husband isn’t consciously dragging your soul out of your body like a petty child who wants its shiny new toy back. However...if he didn’t wish your return at all...it may have resorted to other tactics.”

Frisk covered her face, “I hate this. I don’t want to feel this way. To be dragged around, manipulated and forced into doing things because somebody was bigger and stronger than me. I don’t care what the Fates say or what the Underworld wants, I just...I just want…”

Muffet laid a pair of hands over Frisk’s, “Then take control, dearie. Take what you want.”

“I want to stay on the Surface with my mother.”

“Do you?” She pulled Frisk’s hands to lay palm up on her own. She traced the lines there with gloved thumbs. “You are saying this dream of yours was spun from nothing but resentment for your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Fuhuhu, well if that is what you want to believe~” Muffet brought Frisk’s hands to her lips and kissed them. Before she could ask what she was doing, Muffet used her other set of arms to pull Frisk’s head closer and she placed her lips on Frisk’s brow. “There.” She released the young goddess. “My blessing should mask your presence in my realm from everyone but me. It should last long enough for you to make a decision.”

“You mean give up and go back Below?”

Muffet released her and waved a hand, parting the shadows to reveal the faint glow of dawn, “I said what I meant, dearie. Do you want to be yanked back-and-forth between your pride and your calling, or do you wish to take control? We all have boundaries. Obligations. Restrictions. But we do choose how we maneuver within those bounds. I cannot leave the Underworld except through the dreams of others. You, at least, have choices.” She smiled, “Go on. Time to wake up, little one.”

Frisk woke.

.

For days after the encounter with Muffet, Frisk did not sleep. There was a nervous edge to her fatigue that turned to jittery wakefulness in the late hours of the night. Then there were the voices. The whispers. They sounded like the echo flower. Like Sans but...not. It was sinister but seductive, terrible but kind. It filled her head until there was room for nothing else, not even her own thoughts.

Come to me.

Come home.

You belong to me.

With me.

We need you.

Come back.

It wasn’t until she found herself once more out of the garden one late evening that the voices quieted. She drew in jagged breaths, thankful for the clarity, on the verge of tears from the mental bombardment.

“you haven’t been sleeping.”

Frisk didn’t look at her husband. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared instead at the moon. “How would you know?” she muttered. “Is it because you’re harassing me?”

“no. outside of these meetings beyond the edge of nature’s realm, i have left you alone, as per your wishes.”

“Liar,” Frisk said, though it was far less pointed than intended.

“if i wished it, i could fetch you from your mother’s home without either of you being able to stop me. i could come in the dead of night and whisk you from your bed or break the earth beneath your feet when you are out frolicking in the garden. i could take you right now,” was his light reply. “but i won’t.” He reached out as he always did, but this time, slowly, giving her time to react, he let his phalanges brush her hair. He tucked a lock behind her ear, thumb whispering against Frisk’s cheek. Then he pulled away. “i will leave you to your midnight stroll.” But before he could vanish, Frisk found herself reaching for his back.

“Wait.”

He hesitated, “yes, my lady?”

Frisk was tired. So tired. Sick of the voices and the nervousness and the terror of dreams that may very well swallow her whole. Yet in his presence her mind was quiet. “I hate you,” she mumbled. “I hate that you changed everything. I was happy.” Sans didn’t speak, wordless as Frisk petulantly grabbed his robes at the elbow. “You owe me.”

“i am at your command.”

“Until it inconveniences you,” Frisk countered. “Sit.” Sans sat down, mindful to stay above the ground, though his near proximity wilted the greenery. Frisk ignored it. She ignored her own resentment and ire, choosing instead to sit beside him. Sans inquired what was next, and to that all she had to say was, “You said I wasn’t sleeping enough.” With a narrow-eyed warning to not touch her, Frisk laid in the grass, breathed in the familiar scent of loam and found herself unconscious almost disconcerting quickly.

.

“Frisk. Frisk. My child, wake up.”

Frisk blinked awake to see Toriel standing over her, the light of dawn painting the world in hues of pink and gold.

“Goodness, what on earth compelled you to sleep out here?!”

Sans was gone. No sign he was ever present. Not even a single dead piece of grass. Instead, all around Frisk were lush plants and flowers, a natural cocoon of life. Submitting herself to Toriel’s fussing, she followed her mother back into the garden, a little more clear-headed and confused for it.

.

A few days later, the voices returned. As did the dread. The fatigue. Frisk was listless, yearning for the clarity of mind she possessed when she first arrived here. It wasn’t fair. She hated it. And she loathed her own weakness. She should have been stronger than this. Able to go years before she crumpled to the will of her bond to the Underworld. But in this moment she was small. She was tired. And she knew what she had to do.

“Frisk?”

Toriel’s voice cracked when she saw Frisk don the cape and emblems of her queenhood. It clashed terribly with the childish cut and color of her chiton, but she couldn’t find what she wore that fateful day in court with the council.

“What are you doing?”

She smoothed her hair. No flowers were in it. She didn’t have the energy.

“My child…”

Frisk faced Toriel with grim determination, and Nature bowed her head in resignation.

“I see. Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“No. I have to go.”

“You don’t. You don’t have to—”

“Yes I do,” Frisk snapped. She drew in a slow breath and forced her shoulders to drop. “I will come back. I won’t be gone forever.”

“So certain?”

Frisk threw her arms around Toriel.

“I am Spring.”

“You belong Above.”

“And I belong to the Below.”

“Frisk.”

“I love you, mother.”

Toriel let Frisk go and with a pained expression on her face, she strode to her personal chest and withdrew the pair of golden cuffs she removed when Frisk arrived. She helped put them on her arms and shook her head, eyes damp with tears, “Go, child. Before I can stop you.”

With a whispered goodbye, Frisk fled.

.

When she left the protections of her mother’s garden, Sans was once more there to meet her, hand held out. With her head high, she approached him, drew in a deep breath, and took his palm in hers.

“is this what you want?”

“Yes,” she wasn’t a helpless victim. She couldn’t frame it that way or she’d never make it through however long she had to endure being Below. This was her choice. It had to be her choice. And she chose to return to the Underground as Lady Spring, Queen of the Underworld.

Sans’ smile was knowing as they both fell through the shadows into his—their—domain.

Chapter Text

As if only days passed instead of months, the triplets rushed to Frisk’s side when she stepped into the Queen’s chambers once more. Sans lingered in the hallway, watchful, expression betraying nothing of his thoughts as the elementals fussed over their mistress. They clucked about the length of Frisk’s hair (how it fell low on her shoulders), the color of her skin (too pale for a Goddess that spent so long Above in the sun) and other little, mindless details. When they began to unclasp her cloak and reach for the closings on her chiton, Frisk flushed, shooting a dark look at the god lingering just outside the room. Sans waved, clearly curious if Frisk would remember his presence once her handmaidens began their routine. Well aware that he wasn’t welcome to watch any longer, he dismissed himself, closing the door as he left.

When Frisk was certain he wasn’t going to peek back in, she let the fabric fall from her body and stepped from where it pooled at her feet. It was almost easy to let them corral her into the bathing chambers, her fatigued body and mind relishing the hot, bubbling water. She was dozy and relaxed when they ushered her to stand so they could dry her form and dress her for bed. Too thin, one of them said, the others quick to agree. And before Frisk could drift off to sleep, they presented her with a tray of fruits, cheeses and bread.

She shouldn’t eat the food of the Underworld anymore than required. But her compromised willpower left her weak. She was hungry. So she ate. The plate picked clean, they left her to rest, her sleep deep and dreamless. When Frisk woke, all was quiet and dark. There was no sunshine pouring through windows, or the scent of baking bread. Her mother’s soft humming and heavy footsteps were absent as well.

“I am back,” Frisk murmured.

Back Below. Back in the Underworld. Back in the dark embrace of her husband’s realm.

.

The first day passed slowly.

Her hair washed and cut as Frisk desired. Her meals frequent but light. They spent the better part of the morning reintroducing Frisk to lessons on proper behavior, ethics and law. All things a queen needed to know. When afternoon arrived, the handmaidens followed her to the private garden she abandoned when she went Above, and found it overgrown but still alive.

“We did our best,” Daisy said. “His majesty would have allowed no less.”

“What do you mean?”

Hyacinth smoothed delicate hands over the wrinkles of her skirts, as if to brush away non-existent dirt, “This garden was a gift to you. It is yours and is thus maintaining it in your absence is part of our responsibilities.”

Iris nodded, “If it was allowed to die from neglect, then you might have been distressed! Lord Death only wishes for your happiness, my lady.”

Frisk curled and uncurled her hands, uncertainty breeding hesitation. She eventually cast the elementals a smile before kneeling in the dirt and embracing the newfound scope of her powers.

.

“interesting.”

Frisk whirled, bare feet planted in the soil, stance wide and strong. Surprised faded when she spotted her husband lurking at the edges of her personal oasis. He drew no closer. Only idled at the edge as he examined her ‘work’.

“Are you going to tell me I am wasting my time too?” Frisk asked. “That only time will show me my true potential and I shouldn’t rush things?” Would he tighten the bars of the cage now that the bird who flew away had returned?

Sans let a hand lift and brush against the petals of an Echo flower. A plant native to the Underworld that the mortals claimed held the last words of the dead, and that listening to them would drive one mad. It didn’t wilt at his touch, though it greyed. His aura may not destroy the life that grew in the Underworld as it did Above, but he was still Death and his touch innately deadly. As his hand fell back to his side, he tilted his skull back in Frisk’s direction, “i believe you are very determined, my lady wife, and if anyone would defy the nature of time itself...it would be you.”

She wasn’t going to be swayed (charmed even) by his praise. Frisk turned away at the very thought of her face flushing with an inkling of heat. “flattery doesn’t suit you, lord death.” Frisk floundered for what to say next. Since he stole her, she had a single, powerful goal in mind. Freedom. Even agreeing to marriage and queenship was part of the ‘game’ and she had to admit, she was out of depth. Now? She wasn’t sure what she wanted. It was a peculiar realization that left her both frustrated and adrift. The freedom she desired was impossible. She was confined by circumstance as well as her own, blundering choices. How different would her life be now if she’d withstood hunger a little longer and did not allow those seeds to pass her lips?

“i speak only the truth.”

“And yet, you are prone to such deception, what value can I place in your truths?”

Sans straightened, a little taller, more imperious, “i see. i will leave you to your gardening, my lady, as i have apparently intruded upon your graces once more.”

Later, when she was readying for bed, Frisk told her handmaidens what occurred, and elicited a huff from the Flames. Hyacinth combed her hair, but Frisk could feel her disapproving stare on the back of her head.

“Say your piece, Hyacinth, before you burn a hole through me with your eyes.”

“It would be improper to—”

“Yes, yes, manners. Propriety. We have established I am rather bad at both.”

The lilac elemental sighed while both Iris and Daisy hid their amusement by becoming increasingly vigilant in their inspection of Frisk’s nails for dirt. “Almost a year has passed since you married Lord Death and became queen. Most of that time you spent Above because of a tiff with your husband.” A tiff? That was stating her feelings on the matter lightly. She wanted to escape the Underworld and leave Sans behind forever, and Hyacinth considered their resulting dispute a tiff. “And now you continue to be disagreeable to spite him.” When Frisk stiffened, she let her hands fall to her lap, chin dropping apologetically, “You bid me to speak my mind, my lady.”

Frisk forced her own shoulders to drop as she turned to look at the elemental, her amorphous face featureless beyond her white-ember eyes and impossible to read. “You know full well I did not want to be married or to be queen. I have accepted that I cannot change those things, but I do not have to pretend I am happy about the fact I was tricked into this situation. Especially around the man that tricked me.”

“You have accepted you are bound to the Underworld, but not the Underworld or its King or your role within it.”

Daisy’ breath hitched, her flames flickering high and bright. Iris kept her head down, holding Frisk’s hands firmly. Frisk gave Hyacinth a hard stare which she allowed to soften. The Flame was correct. But the truth was not always a kind or gentle thing, often sitting heavy in the gut and mind, if not slapping the unsuspecting in the face. “You are not usually this outspoken. You must be quite angry with me.” The lilac elemental’s hue darkened a shade.

“Never, my lady, but I care for you dearly. You are my mistress and Queen. I wish to see you happy beyond all else, and your outright disagreeableness with your lord husband brings to you both nothing but sorrow.”

“He isn’t without his faults or without blame.”

“No. But he is your husband until the last of the stars in the heavens burns out.”

“...I will take your words into consideration.”

“You honor me, my lady.”

Iris giggled suddenly, “Pardon, it is just...I assume this means we shouldn’t expect nighttime visits to your chambers from his majesty?” Frisk’s face went red hot. “Pity. And here I was hoping to have a little one to fuss over soon.”

“Why in the Sky King’s name would you think he would be visiting me in the night?”

She blinked back coquettishly, “I had imagined that Lord Death spent these long seasons courting your favor Above.” Iris swooned against Daisy. “He was ever so distracted in Court. Often taking leaves of absence from his duties like a lovesick boy who couldn’t wait to see his beautiful wife again. And his temper! It was most foul and dark indeed. He was a stormcloud no one dared approach except for his own brother and Lord Fyre. The Underworld feels lighter since you have returned and I thought, perhaps, it was because you and he reached an accord.”

“You just want to hold babies,” Daisy teased.

Iris did not deny it, a molten smile splitting a mischievous line across her face, “I do feel much of this needless bickering and tension can be resolved in the traditional way.” The discreet but crude gesture she made was enough to tip Frisk over the edge and she yanked her hands free to cover her face.

“No husband seducing!”

“I wasn’t suggesting that...I was suggesting letting yourself be seduced. There is a difference.”

“Not. Helping.”

“I would like to think I am being very helpful.”

“Iris!”

“You agree with me, Hyacinth.”

“True as that may be, our Lady—”

Frisk stood up and walked away, abandoning the elementals to catch her breath in the hallway. It was quiet and cool amongst the dark stone and cyan crystals. She rubbed away the heat from her cheeks and leaned against the wall. It felt impossibly long ago when the whole Underworld wanted her dead. Now, the very realm itself seemed to cling to her skin like a lover’s last touch. She shivered. Muffet’s words of warning quick to surface. She was bound to this realm as much as she was her husband.

Perhaps visiting a certain spider goddess was in order. But where did she live down here? Wandering aimlessly would do her no favors.

“Are you looking for something, Lady Spring?” asked a high-pitched voice. Frisk shot a glance over her shoulder and saw no one there. “Down here!” She blinked and did just that, spotting a knee-high buttercup with a boyish smile. A flower monster? Plant monsters in general were uncommon and often shy, many taking on rolls as protectors of forests, and slumbering when their homes were thriving. To see one in the Underworld, looking quite alive, was baffling. And he didn’t have the distinct blue petals of an echo flower either, nor the cyan glow of what little did grow natively here. His petals were a little worn on the edges, and his coloration pale, but he was most definitely a Surface flower.

Where had she seen him before? He looked so familiar…

“Pardon, I didn’t know that your kind could grow here,” Frisk replied, kneeling to be more on his level. “Have you been here very long? Were you born in one of the gardens—?”

The flower monster blinked, as if baffled by her onslaught of questions, before giggling, “We can’t, silly, I’m dead!” Frisk floundered for a response as he continued, ”Welll. Mostly dead. Dead enough that the other inhabitants of the Underworld don’t notice me any. I’m just little, unimportant Flowey the Flower! Tee-hee. But enough about me, you looked lost?”

“Oh, I was searching for someone who lives in the Underworld, but I must confess I do not know where.”

“Well golly, it is just grand that you ran into little me. I know about everyone here.”

“Everyone?”

Flowey’s smile went coy, “I have lived here a long, long time, Lady Spring. It never hurts to be mindful of when newcomers arrive and listen. So who are you looking for?”

“The Mother of Night.”

He bobbed his head, golden petals bouncing as he visibly pondered the name, “She doesn’t have many guests that aren’t her children or the Brothers.” Flowey hummed and added, “Pap—ah, Lord Death the Younger frequents her parlor for cider and spider cakes. Says it’s because she is ‘a very nice goddess’ and ‘seems lonely’. Between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these millenia there’s some terrifying skeleton-spider abomination spawned from her lair.” Frisk felt her face heat. She hadn’t expected the flower to be this...brazen! For a moment she questioned how such a child would be born before remembering that Muffet was a Mother goddess. If she shaped one of her children to resemble the younger brother of Death, then that was her prerogative and certainly not the information she was looking for! Frisk cleared her throat. Flowey had the grace to appear chastised, “But I am sure she will enjoy your company! Here, follow me. I’ll take you to her.”

Without second thought, Frisk followed, trailing behind the curious flower as he led her deeper and deeper into the fathomless dark, where the glow of crystals was scarce and the spider webs were denser. She was straining to see by the time Flowey announced they had arrived.

“I will wait out here,” Flowey said before his form vanished beneath the stone. It was impressive how easily he could pop up and down, but that was likely due to being ‘mostly dead’ as he described it. She had a lot to learn about the nuisances of the Underworld. How some of its citizens were quite alive though bound to it, while others knew nothing else of the world but it, and while others still were dead yet walking. And while not desolate, it was still a vast and empty place, with friendly faces few and far between.

Frisk drew in a long breath, “Mother Night? Might you be here? It is Spring.”

A few, long heartbeats passed before the curtain of webs that clotted the doorway parted, revealing nothing but a void of perilous, unknowable black, “I was not expecting your company, dearie. Otherwise I would have prepared for your arrival.” The spider goddess did not emerge, so Frisk stepped forward, plunging into the darkness, blinded by it. She’d never known darkness this dark before. Her breath caught. Her very soul trembled. This room. It left her cold, drained of hope and happiness and—

“Shhhh. Be at ease.” Cool hands cupped Frisk’s face and shoulders, and soon, the sensation of terror ebbed. “You know much fear, dearie, but I suppose that is to be expected of a mortal born goddess. Come now, take a seat, I shall find you some light.” Frisk complied, her body stiff with the effects of fear she couldn’t name nor quite shake off. It was impossible to quite relax or slow the racing of her heart. Suddenly, a violet star pierced the gloom. No. Not a star. But a crystal. Then another. And another. Over the span of a minute, a thousand tiny shards of light cracked through the blackness, revealing Muffet’s personal sanctuary to her sight. The spider goddess hummed in a sing-song fashion as she sashayed back to Frisk, a large crystal in her palms, which she laid on a low table before perching on an elegant couch of bronze and marble. She was enthralling in her repose, lilac skin and silvery attire aglow, the very definition of lethal allure.

It was little wonder that Papyrus might find himself...appreciative of Muffet’s presence on occasion.

“Welcome to my humble parlor, dearie, now what might have brought you here? Shouldn’t you be amid the palace walls with your husband?” Spiders skittered across the table and her exposed skin. A few even settled in ink-dark braids and coils. A peek at the floor revealed it to be a mass of webs and little, scuttling bodies, a living sea of churning black without reprieve. Suddenly, a large spiderling skittered from the shadows with a tray of steaming herbal tea and sweetened bread. It hopped up onto the low table and laid its burn before them, squeaking when Muffet stroked its back, “Good boy. So very attentive of the needs of my guests.”

Frisk didn’t question how it could have prepared a meal in such haste. Instead, she plucked up a cup of tea and brought it to her lips, nearly dashing it to the floor when she tasted pomegranate. Muffet chortled and held her own cup close, a hand pressed to lacquered lips, pearly fangs peeking at the corners with deadly promise.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” Frisk murmured.

“No need. You are Queen of the Underworld, I am honored to have your company.”

“I...I have questions.”

“For me?” Muffet’s many eyes blinked one at a time. A silver-bangle adorned wrist bent towards her chest in artfully feigned surprise. “Whatever would you need to ask? Your husband knows this realm better than I. You have handmaidens for questions of womanhood.”

“You understand dreams.”

“Indeed. Though nightmares are more my forte.” She sipped her tea. “Have you a dream you wish interpreted?”

“No. Not...exactly?” Frisk frowned into the pinkish brew, unable to ignore the bitter aftertaste of the tart fruit that bound her with a bite. “When we met in the astral realm, you mentioned my husband and his realm being one, yet independent of one another. Implied as well that my feelings for my husband couldn’t be entirely that of hate. And now, here I am, back where I started nearly a year ago. It feels like all of my fight was for nothing.”

“Like the web the Fates have spun has you firmly in its grasp?”

“...Yes.”

Muffet gave a long sigh and cocked her head, one long leg crossing over the other, reminding Frisk of the mostly unspoken association she had with the Spinners. Was she really related to them? A daughter? A creation? She was old and primal, her physical form a deceptive facade, even if it bore a certain eerieness not unlike the Brothers’.

“My dear, Death and Fate have little to do with matters of the heart or the needs of the flesh,” she ventured after a time, the silence as thoughtful as her gentled reply. “Neither can compel you to yearn or to love.” She held up a hand to halt Frisk’ interjection. “And while I do not know your heart nor his majesty’s, I do know dreams, as you mentioned. I also understand fears. You are afraid.”

Frisk pursed her lips and looked away.

“You are afraid to surrender control. Afraid to take it for yourself. You are afraid his WILL will consume yours and yet you fear his spite. You fear that he may desire you. And in turn, you are afraid to want him...and you are afraid of losing yourself.”

“All that from a dream?”

“From a dream turned nightmare.”

“I can’t escape this marriage. Or him. All my choices were stripped of me. Am I supposed to be joyous?”

Muffet tutted, “Your mortal heritage is never more obvious than when you speak as such.”

“Pardon?”

“You are a goddess: Lady Spring, Queen of the Underworld!” she thrust a hand towards Frisk, a single finger pointed in accusation. “His kingdom and domain are yours. His power and influence at your command. You want choices? You want control over your future and to not be dragged along by the ankles into some farce of a life? Then take what is yours, foolish girl!”

Frisk was wide-eyed as the mother goddess continued.

“When Lady Nature took offense to her husband’s choice to declare war on the mortals she locked herself in a sanctuary that none could find but she. And when she wished to make two Delta Kings bend to her whims she raged storms and blighted the earth. When Lady War found injustice beneath the moon she charioted, she righted them by force, denying mortal men their brides by whisking away maidens who pleaded to her grace on the eve of their wedding days. When your husband wished to keep the last of the godslaying weapons...he dared the whole of the pantheon to take it from him. While not every feat will be met with victory, you forget that you are no mere mortal anymore. You are a Delta Queen.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Walk into the throne room while he is holding Court and start commanding the souls there?”

Muffet’s laughter filled the room, “Oh dearie, that would be a most scrumptious start!”

Chapter Text

Frisk did not barge into the throne room. She considered it as she wandered back through the halls to her room, but a mixture of leeriness and spite kept her from doing so. And thus time passed, the idea a germinating seed that readily rooted into her psyche. Days tumbled and blurred into the next without a single sign of her husband, and Frisk spent less time gardening and more with her handmaidens, the days and nights spent in lessons on how to walk and other formalities. Hyacinth brightened a shade when Frisk asked for more details on the laws of the gods, specifically that of the Underworld.

“About time you took a proper interest,” she stated. “I was half expecting you to spend a century skulking about, attempting to ignore your duties as Queen.”

“As far as I can tell, I don’t have any duties as Queen. The Lords Death seem to run everything themselves just fine,” Frisk sassed in return.

“My Lady, a King may rule a realm, his word law. But it is the Queen who rules the hearts of the people.”

A hesitant query regarding how and why earned a Frisk a mischievous smile from all three of the triplets. Life Below was far more complex than she had first thought it to be. While it rarely boasted the kind of activity of the heavens, there were rituals, celebrations and events. Lord Fyre often offered his services for these days, but as Queen, she could take arranging them herself. Or, if that did not appeal, there were other duties she could take upon herself to raise moral Below and perhaps even improve the image of the Underground. A king kept his realm fortified. A queen kept its people devoted.

While the fastest way to their hearts and hopes would be through providing an heir (Frisk raised a brow at that, the subject waved away with a titter of laughter as always), showing the people she cared for them was the next best thing. Frisk considered her conversation with Muffet as well as what the elementals taught her of godly politics. It was indeed well within her right to walk into the throne room while Sans held Court and assume her place upon the throne beside his. Equal in rank and power. Frisk could choose to never take on any formal duties. She could stay obstinate and distant, the pretty little trophy that hid from her people until she could escape Above. Or she could seize with both hands what she had been offered.

“I wish to wear white today,” Frisk announced when her handmaidens came to help her with her morning ritual. Hyacinth’s amorphous face split with a flickering grin of approval. They were quick and diligent in their care, Frisk’s hair combed and oiled to perfection, a crown of gold laid upon her brow. When they were done with their craft, she was a painted picture of purity and light, and impossible to mistake for anything less than royalty. Shoulders burdened by a trailing mantle, her feet bare save for the lacquer on polished toes, Frisk left her quarters with a singular goal in mind. The elementals kept close, heads low and demure, but she could feel their anticipation upon her back, their flames agitated and warm, their magic a steady thrum akin to a human heartbeat.

Shoulders squared and jaw set, the young goddess marched onward, hands balling into fists to prevent slim fingers from pinching and picking at the folds in her chinton. Movement caught her eye. Though he did not greet her this time, she caught Flowey watching from a darkened corner, his sunny petals not quite melding with a realm of stone and shadow. In a blink, he was gone, disappearing into the earth as if he’d never been there at all. Perhaps one day she would know his story. How he came to exist here in the Underworld, somehow dead yet apparently not. And why he looked far too familiar.

It was not much further until they reached the Judgement Hall. Frisk, however, had never seen it in its full glory while The King of the Dead held Court. At first, she lingered by the discreet doorway through which she entered, her form obscured by dark pillars. It was much easier to observe this way, peering around to watch a clamor of reaped mortal souls have their judgement day. Though it was an eerie sight to behold. The room was cast with what appeared to be mist, but if one stared, the outlines of the mortals’ bodies came into focus, all huddled in a mass, awaiting their turn. It was quiet—deadquiet—though some of the souls appeared in distress, screaming and floundering about, their plight muted by their incorporeal state.

One-by-one the souls were brought forth to stand trial before Lord Death by the crook of a skeletal finger. Frisk shivered at the sight. Though he was not a large god and she’d since lost much of her fear of him, the Sans sprawled in indolent repose upon his golden throne appeared ominous and mighty. Dangerous. Imposing. There was a blackness to his aura that suffocated the very idea of hope, the edges of his robes inky and creeping in mesmerizing curls as if alive. She couldn’t see his face, his hood up, concealing it and no doubt void dark sockets. In his left hand he idly held his bident, as if prepared to strike down any errant fools that dared stand against him.

Sans was one of the elder gods and a Delta King. A primal and primordial force that assumed a mortal form and manner on a whim, and was a lethal force in the wars of old. It was never more plain to see than in this moment, and she never wished to see it moreso, for that would mean Death himself having a reason to meddle again in divine conquest.

Suddenly, Sans’ head turned in her direction, golden magic blazing in his left socket like fire, his gaze sparking a shudder through her form. For an instant she was consumed with a lifetime of regrets and guilt, of promises broken and lies told, of every instance of damage wrought by carelessness that could never be mended. As quickly as the sensation came it retreated away. He watched her with that singular spec of sun before it simmered into a brilliant sapphire blue that glittered with the infinite shades of a flawlessly cut stone thrust into a sunbeam. It didn’t fade. He crooked a finger, bidding her to come closer, his expression still obscured by the distance between them.

The Underworld held a collective breath as its queen hesitated, the goddess tempted to turn away, to snub her husband once more. But she didn’t flee. No, she skirted around the column and strode towards the raised platform on which the thrones stood. Her handmaidens followed until they reached the edge of the crowd, unable to go further, though Frisk wasn’t sure if it was by choice or by design. The souls parted to let her pass, and as she did, the silence was shattered by murmurs. Their voices became louder the further she walked, every one intermingling and layering upon the other in a deafening cacophony, their words a meaningless riot of noise. Eventually, Frisk came to stand before her husband, body shaking against her will. Sans watched—a beat passed—then he waved his hand and a hush fell upon the room, and it was silent once more. Satisfied, he leaned forward and offered Frisk that same hand.

“her majesty, lady spring, queen of the underworld, has graced us with her presence today,” Sans announced, his gaze never leaving Frisk’s face. She could feel the confusion and curiosity humming through the room, a plethora of questions left unanswered. When had the solitary Lord of Death, King of the Dead and the Underworld, taken a queen? Who was this Lady Spring? Why was she here? Why wasn’t she here before? What did this mean for them and their judgement day?

Pale fingers entwined with proffered phalanges. She held Death’s hand without consequence. Frisk stepped upon the dais, cloak trailing behind her, a vivid splash of color against unyielding obsidian. He did not release her right away, instead watching her expression with that eerie eyelight, wordlessly searching for an answer to an unasked query. Then he gave a single huff of amusement and brought her hand to his teeth as he was wont to do, kissing her knuckles in a manner that was both impersonal and terribly brazen. It brought a flush upon pallid cheeks and a heat to worry-chilled skin. Without a word, he released her, touching lingering, almost affectionate, before he motioned to the feminine partner of his own throne. Ornate and delicate, with vines and flowers, there was no denying this was made for a nature goddess...for her.

One could argue that it couldn’t possibly have been personal in design. That Death hadn’t known for certain that the nymph he spied on the Surface so very long ago would be able to endure his touch. But one could also counter with that very same logic. That he commissioned this for her because he was, in some way, as certain as the Fates that she was the one who would be his queen one day.

”i planned your fall as soon as i realized the role i played in your naming.”

He planned far more than her fall.

And Frisk once more felt too small. Too young. Too ignorant for the games of gods. Not for the first time she wondered why he did not simply court her in secret. He was old and clever. He could have so easily lure her into trusting him, maybe even loving him, with a mortal guise and a tragic story. Or perhaps it was never destined to be easy. If he hadn’t stolen her right away, maybe there would have been some other disaster which would have spurred him to take her Below. And he wasn’t known for his empathy or kindness. Her own mother and she was certain most of the gods believed he locked her away and ravished her, was cruel and selfish and consuming.

(He gave her distance. He gave her time. He gave her gardens and independence. In return for the childhood he so abruptly cut to an end, he gave her a chance to grow, to embrace change.)

“it is where you belong, my queen,” Sans murmured, breaking Frisk from her racing thoughts. The glittering eyelight gleamed closer to the ethereal cyan of the Underworld’s luminescent crystals. “none can claim otherwise. heh. not even yourself.”

Swallowing down the urge to flee once more, Frisk sat, back straight, head high, hands folded upon her lap. Sans’ gaze lingered a moment longer before her looked away, once more focused on the mist of souls. This was his duty and somehow she was supposed to help him bear the burden. She knew nothing really of how Sans determined the final fates of souls, thus all she could for now was watch. So watch she did.

She watched in silence as individual souls came forth, some with more defined forms than others, and Frisk noted that more solid the outline, the more prominent were their souls. Some were so pale they were practically translucent, little more than smoke or glass. While others blazed with the color of their most prominent trait. The elementals were rather thorough in her education regarding mortal souls in the Underworld. Frisk knew what each color meant, and how the brighter it blazed, the stronger—purer—that soul’s conviction...it’s power. Most mortals did not shine like beacons Below, but those that did were to be regarded with caution and interest. A truly powerful soul often belonged to those known Above as Heroes—some were even the halfing children of gods. They were forces of change through sheer power of will and truth to their innermost self.

The first dozen or so judgements passed with very little in the way of words.

They were pale, barely present spirits that Sans regarded with a golden eyelight and a dismissive flick of his wrist. “asphodel,” he would say before urging forth another. Then came a soul with a distinct color—a watery orange of courage, his form the hazy outline of a terribly young soldier, ill-fitted for the battered armor he wore and the gruesome scars that marred his face. Sans’ stare lingered.

“you were a soldier and killed in the name of your king and the gods you worshipped,” Sans said and the man bowed his head, his body strained as if fighting against an immense weight. “for that alone, you are no more condemned than any other soldier to stand before me. however…” His skull tilted as it did whenever he was curious. “not all the blood on your hands was drawn on the battlefield in honor.” The soldier’s knees buckled and he dropped to the floor, crouched upon hands and knees, as if in supplication. “murderer.”

The orange of the man’s souls suddenly burned brighter as he jerked his head up in indignant defiance, “He was a ruinous drunkard and a fool that led us into a slaughter. Good men died pointlessly under his command.”

“and you thought yourself judge and executioner?”

“I saved lives by slitting his throat.”

Sans perched his chin on one hand, as if bored, “only long enough for them to be fodder in another battle. how noble and honorable of you.” He flicked his wrist, “asphodel, but first you will drink from the lethe.” The river of forgetfulness and oblivion. Frisk’s brow furrowed. Wasn’t drinking from the river a part of how souls were cleansed of all memory to be reborn again? Sans, as if noticing her confusion, did not summon another soul immediately.

“some souls will languish in asphodel until the passage of time renders them naught but the echo of memory. others will not fade into oblivion, for it is not fated to be. his soul will be the foundation for new life one day, and i cannot have it tainted by the actions of its past. the lethe will take all memory and the asphodel meadows will claim his sins.” He gave a lazy blink. “your domain encompasses rebirth. i would be unsurprised if this day in our court offers you some clarity into that aspect of yourself.”

Sans faced the mists again, and once more souls stepped forth for judgement.

.

Frisk was changed by the trial and her subsequent time Above. It was almost quaint to witness. She was so malleable and adaptive even in her stubborn denial, every ounce of her being brimming with determination. Sans busied himself with work in those too long months that she was absent, uncharacteristically aware of the passage of time. He was immortal and ageless, his very existence older than his consciousness, and yet, a year without his bride left him achingly aware of her absence. The greedy part of his soul—the piece that snarled with a primitive possessiveness—wanted to so dearly to whisk her back Below. To invade upon Nature’s sanctuary to bring Frisk home. But he smothered the urge with routine. He clamped it down further when her resistance wavered. She called him. She came to him. And almost immediately spurned him with challenge burning in her eyes.

She thought him a liar. A deceiver. A cheat.

How odd, ironic even, for that to be the impression she and so many of his peers to carry of him. He, Death, King of the Underworld, Lord of the Dead, The Judge of Souls...The Arbitrator. They thought him trustworthy and capable when it came to judging mortals, but found reason to doubt his words regarding the divine. He who knew all souls with a look and found little use for lies.

But regardless of Frisk’s thoughts on his honesty, there was one attribute that few could deny. Death was a patient god. Though he did not wish to wait longer and could admit he had acted in haste regarding his bride, he knew he could outlast her curiosity. He let work consume him as she sought to find her place in her own kingdom; allowed her the distance and freedom she so often declared she required. And knew the instant that his patience was rewarded.

Dressed in her royal regalia rather than the flowery hues of innocent youth, Frisk spied upon him from a distance. She thought herself discrete, and though he couldn’t see her, he could feel her. He could always feel her and that red soul of hers. A beating, living pulse of untapped potential and power. Sans was tempted to let her remain a silent spy, let her come to him in a fit of misplaced obstinance and demand. But as his gaze fell upon her, his domains of Judgement and Justice coloring his perception, he didn’t wish to wait.

Not when he SAW her uncertainty and confusion. Not when he SAW her guilt and shame and fear. Not when he SAW her need for a purpose. A need for answers. A need to understand. It would be a disservice to them both when he could so easily offer her an invitation.

Though she hesitated, his queen joined him, sitting beside her king for the first time. For a moment he was content. This was all he could expect of his stolen bride. A reluctant sort of acceptance of her role, and a tolerance of his presence and touch.

Yet he found himself unsatisfied

Chapter Text

Frisk’s presence at Death’s side drew less curiosity as the trials progressed, her near silence likely noted by the dead. Did they think her a pretty little piece of furniture that Sans found amusing to keep near? Did they assume she had no influence or voice (were they right)? Or perhaps the novelty of her presence was overshadowed by the stark reality that was their eternal end. If they stood before Death, then they could not deny that they were no longer amongst the living and would unlikely to return Above with the memories they still held.

Eventually, Sans motioned towards the gathered mists and they scattered from sight, as if banished. “there will always be souls awaiting judgement,” he said before Frisk could speak. Death rose from his throne and flicked his wrist, his bident vanishing into the shadows. Then he offered her an empty palm, “no harm in taking a break. come. walk with me, lady spring.”

Slim fingers slipped between cool phalanges. Frisk found herself growing more accustomed to the feeling of bone against skin, her husband’s brief touches almost familiar. He guided her to her feet and down from the dais, his free hand rising up to brush her waist, as if to catch her should she trip. Her breath stilled and she froze as she looked upon his hooded face, that single eyelight burning between gold and sapphire, hints of emerald flashing as the colors mingled. Sans blinked and the magic disappeared, the pressure in the room alleviated in the whisper of an instant. He tugged gently, purposefully, and Frisk obeyed the silent request, falling in step beside him as they moved across the now empty court floor.

“did today’s events sate your curiosity?” he asked. “or do you wish to return and observe again in the future?”

“Is that an invitation?” Frisk wanted to brush him away. To rebel against an act that seemed to please her unwanted husband. But in the same stroke, she didn’t. This wasn’t a play at courtship nor a facade to tear down. This was work—his work—and it was work he willingly offered her. If she was loathe to be thought of as a useless, helpless prize to be kept in his chambers, then she would be the fool to reject this simply to spite Sans.

“if you wish it to be.”

“How vague.”

“you habitually take offense to me expressing my desires.”

“A lady tends to protest when a man’s desires lead to abduction and subsequently marriage to her captor.”

Sans huffed with amusement, “what if his desire is merely to have his queen at his side where she belongs? ruling her kingdom as is her right.”

“Considering the circumstances previously listed? She would be tempted to grind any desire he might have beneath her heel.”

“only tempted?”

Frisk sniffed and her chin lifted, “Forever is a long time to spend swimming upstream when conceding to the flow of the currents would be to her benefit.”

“i confess, i am intrigued.”

“As am I.”

“tomorrow then?”

She nodded, “Tomorrow.”

Their slow amble brought them to stand before the elementals, who stood with bowed heads, hands folded before them, silent and deferent. “have your handmaidens dress you in formal court attire. and do not forget your crown. it shall make quite the statement for us to match.”

“Match? You have other robes beyond what you wear now?”

“even death is subject to the formalities of ceremony. it has merely been a while since i’ve wished to indulge in them.”

Frisk arched a brow, “Should I be offended you did not wish to indulge in formalities on our wedding day?”

Sans cocked his head to the side, his voice pitched with mischief, “if it pleases my lady wife to be offended…”

“You’re teasing me.”

“i, the king of the dead, ribing my dear bride? is it my turn to take offense?”

A scoff turned into a sputter of laughter as Frisk shook her head. Sans lowered his hood, his softened smile plain for all to see. Her laughter faded almost as quickly as it arrived, silence falling between them.

“until tomorrow,” Sans murmured, lifting their joined hands and bestowing another kiss upon her knuckles. It was then she realized that they had stood with palms clasped since he helped her down from the dais, like an affectionate couple might. He turned away, leaving Frisk to dwell upon her thoughts as her handmaidens began to usher her back to her rooms.

.

“THERE WAS QUITE THE STIR AMONGST THE SOULS TODAY.”

One could never claim Papyrus to be a master of the art of subtlety. His voice and attire and manner all far too loud with a confidence beyond that of naive youth. He was a god matured and jaded by his own domain, and yet he managed a joyousness that often befuddled Sans to no end. The King of the Underworld peeked open a socket, regarding his brother from where he sat languidly upon his throne, having found himself back there despite a lacking urge to do any Judgements.

“A CERTAIN SISTER OF MINE WAS SEEN AT YOUR SIDE AND THERE WERE AFFECTIONS SHARED BEFORE THE PUBLIC,” he lifted a browbone, his aura light with approval, his soul vivid with hope. Was Sans ever this way? They were forged of the same dust and birthed from the same Void, brothers in more than name alone. “DOES THIS MEAN YOU TWO HAVE MADE AMENDS?”

“she made it quite evident she has no plans of forgiving me any time soon, however...she opposes my presence and touch far less than she claims.”

Papyrus propped his hands upon either hip, “ONLY YOU, BROTHER, WOULD LOOK LOVESICK WHEN YOUR WIFE DISLIKES YOU LESS THAN SHE SAYS TO YOUR FACE.”

“lovesick? hardly.”

“FOR A GOD THAT CAN SEE THE TRUE NATURE OF SOULS, YOU CAN BE QUITE BLIND TO MATTERS OF YOUR OWN.”

Sans snorted, “and you are merely delusional with fancy.”

“WHO BETWEEN US HAS LEGIONS OF ADORING LADIES SEEKING HIS ATTENTIONS?”

“as i said, delusional.”

Papyrus laughed and turned away, “GOOD LUCK, BROTHER. I DO WISH TO BE AN UNCLE ONE DAY, PREFERABLY BEFORE THE NEXT AGE!”

.

Once more Frisk was dressed in white.

The cut of her clothes were grander than the simplicity she wore previously. The fabric had the weightless luxury of spider silk. Upon facing her reflection once her handmaidens finished their work, she saw what Sans meant. Dressed like this, she looked more than like a goddess of the Underworld, but truly like the Queen of Death. There were no flowers adorning her person, rather, she was weighted with precious metals and gemstones, a shimmering dust brushed into her hair. Once more her feet were left bare save for the lacquer painted upon her toes.

“I do not look like myself,” Frisk said, as uncertain as she was upon her wedding day. The woman staring back at her was not a sun-kissed and wild nymph, but a pale and glimmering goddess fit for her kingdom of shadows.

“Lord Death likely won’t ask you to dress up like this every day,” Iris said as she smoothed Frisk’s hair. “Think of it as a fun diversion. A proper lady does like to look her best at every opportunity. Though, if I may say so, flowers do suit you better than gold, perhaps because you hold yourself more at ease.”

“You are regal,” Hyacinth interjected. “His majesty will be struck by your radiance.”

“Struck dead?” Frisk dryly quipped.

Daisy tittered with giggles, only hushing when her sisters gave her silencing stares. Her flames still flickered with amusement, her white-ember eyes dancing with humor. Eventually, all three took on a visage of neutrality and led Frisk from her chambers, back to the throne room. Sans awaited them, souls not yet summoned to the court for judgement. He stood in his usual palette of black and grey, though his robes were heavier, more layered, the sleeves untattered by wear. Instead of the usual single pin at one shoulder, he wore two, a cape of black trailing behind him. And upon his head was a laurel of gold, simple in design, but no less denoting him as ruling monarch.

He reached out to her and Frisk joined him, her handmaidens remaining behind as she crossed the dark hall to clasp his hand. The touch of his teeth against her knuckles brought an unexpected warmth to her face. She shouldn’t be flattered. She wasn’t. Not at all. Sans helped her up onto the dais and once she was seated, only then did he sit and summon his bident.

“are you ready, my lady?”

“Yes.”

The air grew heavy with tension as Sans pulled up his hood, and Frisk knew a socket would be shining with light. As she steadied her breath, he summoned souls to the room once more, and mist filled the throne room. He motioned the first soul forward. It was time.

Frisk watched as she did the day before, but she found herself frowning. The judgements began normal and often brief, but soon they felt harsher—colder—than before. His tone was as brisk and chilling as ice and sent unpleasant shivers through her blood to settle heavily in her gut. They weren’t unfair judgements, just...harsh. Frisk remained quiet, hoping soon there would come a soul that was innocent and provide relief from the deepening spiral. Surely there was a hero worthy of Elysium Fields amongst the souls gathered! But no, another soul came forward, and another cold and passionless judgement passed.

This...felt odd. He was known to be cruel but fair. He was the god of justice! Of judgement! He was trusted to be neutral in his dealings with mortals no matter their godly affiliations or status. She watched as a soldier was scolded and a nobleman scorned, neither acceptance nor bribery swaying him from his growing severity. Then came forward a woman with the brightest purple soul she’d seen. Her form was still transparent, lacking the vibrance of the living that a ‘hero’ soul would possess, but Frisk found herself no less in awe of the mortal as she approached, head held high. Her eyes—Frisk couldn’t look away from her eyes—they were daring and haunted, as if even standing before Death himself couldn’t compare to the horrors she’d known.

Frisk wanted to embrace the woman, to tell her that all was well now, that she could drink from the Lethe and be well, her memories no longer a burden. This was a soul that was destined to be reborn. She couldn’t quite say why, but she knew. SHE KNEW. She could feel it in her core like an instinct yet to be untapped. But instead of dismissing the woman to Asphodel with a flick of his wrist, Sans’ gaze lingered and the woman stared back, unyielding in the face of her judgement.

“murderer,” Sans sneered. Unlike the men who heard the accusation before her, she remained defiant and upright. She did not buckle at the knee or bow her head. She did not look away. She also did not deny it nor offer any excuse. “do you repent for your sins? have you any guilt in your soul for your atrocities? you killed your husband and your children and then yourself.”

The pain in her gaze—the ache that haunted her perseverance soul—grew in intensity, but she did not break. Her denial was brief. Just a firm utterance of, “No.”

He scoffed and whirled his bident towards her chest with accusation, “have you any idea of the extent of crimes? you have spited the very gods with your actions. on your hands is the blood of the divine, your children twice over.” Frisk’s mind raced. That would explain her bright soul. She wasn’t a demigod, but a descendent of one. And her husband must have been one as well, giving their children the blood of the gods through them both. “not only were your children of the blood, but they were named in honor of them as well. yet you stand before me without guilt or shame? do you know where those that spite the gods spend their eternity?”

Tartarus.

Frisk’s heart raced. This wasn’t right. This judgement was all wrong! She couldn’t stop herself. She leaned forth and grabbed Sans’ extended wrist, drawing everyone’s attention. He didn’t shrug her off. He was deathly silent. Frisk swallowed, “Let us hear her story...lord husband.” For the first time, an emotion beyond defiance graced the woman’s face. Her eyes flickered between Frisk’s hand and her face, as if truly seeing and registering Frisk’s place and status. She was Queen, but not just that, a Queen with a voice who had touched the god of Death without repercussion. Admiration mingled with a strange breed of fear. Why would she fear Frisk?

“very well,” Sans said, lowering his arm. “speak. unless you wish to insult the gods further by denying my wife’s mercy?”

The woman nodded and drew in a slow breath, “I am a murderer, but I do not hold regret for my crimes, your majesties. My husband—loathe am I to call that bastard by that title—was a monsterous man, charming until the door closed behind him. He took advantage of my naivety. Led not only myself but our village to believe him a good man. When I married him, I thought he was perfect...then...then he ruined. my. life.” She detailed how he would force himself upon her and his violent nature that would grow when he became drunk. How he was careful not to leave bruises at first until he convinced the village she was a liar and how pregnancy had made her hysteric. They were sympathetic and sent her home.

She was helpless. She had nowhere to go and no support. She relied on him and yet he was the greatest threat to her. And oh, he was careful not to rough her up too much when she was with child. But once the children were born? He’d scream at and pinch and bruise them. When they were larger, it turned to open-handed swats and broken noses. She did all she could to protect them...until she realized how badly she failed to do so. One day she found her oldest daughter broken and bloodied in a manner that near shattered her soul to witness. There was nothing to be done for her. The girl took ill from her injuries and in her sharpened clarity, she saw how broken and suffering all of her children were. They were pale ghosts compared to others their age, too thin from denied meals, weakened and aching from broken bones that were blamed on childhood carelessness.

She could bear it no longer.

They’d only known suffering in their short lives. They would only know more if she tried to take them away from their father. They were trapped with only one way out. An odd peace befell her as she prepared an afternoon snack for them all. Once she was certain they were safe from her husband forever, she would take her own life and be with them forever more. What she didn’t expect was for her husband to come home early, reeking of drink and belligerent. She never learned why he was not at work, as he staggered in and found his children dead. All of them. His wife stroking their youngest’s hair. He went into a rage and she instinctively defended herself from his blows.

She wasn’t quite sure how it happened really. But as she tried to break away, she shoved at him and he lost his balance. In his drunken stupor, he couldn’t catch himself and he broke his head open on the floor. There was blood. So much blood. She huddled with the bodies of her children for a long while, but when he did not move again, she checked his form and found him cold, his heart no longer beating beneath her hands when she laid her palms upon his chest. He was dead. So were her children. Nobody would suffer from his actions any longer. Not even her.

So it was in peace she consumed the poison she gave her children.

And prayed that the gods would have mercy on her childrens’ souls, even if hers was damned.

“she has said her piece,” Sans declared when the woman’s story came to an end. “and confessed her crimes. she is guilty. i wonder how long it will be before your perseverance soul breaks as—”

“Mercy!” Frisk interjected.

Sans bristled, “she murdered her children and her spouse, and then took her own life. what mercy is there to give?”

Ire rose in her chest and she stood, pushing the hand holding his bident away from the woman, “Consider the circumstances that led her to her decision! You are supposed to deal justice, not condemnation without consideration for nuance. Let her drink from the Lethe like the others, she has suffered enough.”

“return to your seat.”

“She isn’t supposed to go to Tartarus! You’re making a mis—”

“sit.”

Frisk balked at his drop in pitch. She then remembered where they were. What they were doing. His burning eyelight left her shuddering with guilt and shame and—

She sat down. She just challenged Death in his court. She just accused the god of Judgment and Justice of being unfair. Suddenly, the reality of what she did gripped every inch of her soul and left her mute. He...he wouldn’t hurt her...would he? Sans was quiet and pointedly looking away from her, silence drowning the blackened hall. When he at last spoke again, it was to the woman before him.

“it appears your tale has appealed to my beloved queen,” Sans drawled, as if bored. “she begs mercy of me for your wretched soul. you should thank her, for it is only her plea that has saved you from an eternity of torment.”

What?

“T-thank you. Thank you! Lady Mercy, thank you for your kindness,” her voice trembled with relief.

“i believe she mentioned the lethe. you will drink from its waters, then to asphodel with you. now, be gone.” Frisk could hear the murmur of souls. Sans had the gall to chuckle as he brought forth the next in line. After what felt like an eon, he dismissed them as he did before, leaving them alone once again. Frisk pushed from her seat without waiting for Sans and stormed from the dais, but before she could get far, he was there, looming over her shoulder.

She whirled before he could touch her, “I cannot believe—” As she prepared to scold him for his ruthlessness, half-afraid that he was furious for her intervention, he closed in on her further, backing her into a column. Her breath stilled as he caught her chin with his fingertips and tilted her face up as if to kiss her.

“you were magnificent,” he said, his voice breathy with reverence.

“What? You are not angry with me?”

Sans chuckled, “hardly. you exceeded my every expectation. the world below and above will soon know of your fearlessness and claim to mercy. how you temper my brutal, uncaring nature. the stories they will tell. the pictures they will paint. i can imagine it so clearly.” He skimmed his thumb along her cheek, “i was never going to send that woman to tartarus. i knew all that she had to say by looking at her soul. but you, when you thought my judgment unjust, you intervened. you stayed my hand. it was perfect. you were perfect. in a few words you established yourself as my equal for all to see. a queen befitting the underworld.”

Fear turned to bafflement and then into anger. She slapped his hand away and stormed off, “How dare you test me like that! You horrid, insufferable, awful, evil man!” Frisk continued to shout insults as Sans chuckled behind her, unoffended by her tirade. When she finished blowing hot air, she glowered at him.

“tomorrow then?”

“I WILL DROWN YOU IN THE STYX!”

“i will make arrangements in my very busy schedule. perhaps we can visit cerberus while there?”

Frisk stifled a frustrated scream before leaving the room, her handmaidens close. It wouldn’t be long after the doors of her rooms shut behind her, that her anger fled, replaced with an onslaught of strange feelings. The woman called her Lady Mercy, same as the Spinners did. Her domain guided her actions in Death’s own court. As if…

As if everything that had happened was fated to be.

Chapter Text

The scheduled drowning in the Styx did not occur. Though Frisk did consider it.

Instead, Frisk returned Court.

Not the first day, no, she was still too angry with Sans then, but by the next, her ire had simmered away for the most part. She was Mother Nature’s daughter—her temper and penchant for grudges both inherited from the goddess. But she was, in a way, quicker to forgive, or at least set aside her anger in favor of satiating a bubbling curiosity and burning need for purpose. When she arrived during Judgements, Sans acknowledged her with an unflappable grace, as if he expected her. And if she chose not to come at all? So be it. He offered no comment or protest.

Of course her handmaidens were utterly delighted by the turn of events.

Their queen was acting as a queen! Instead of hiding away in a garden or in her chambers, she appeared before the denizens of the Underworld as Death’s equal and opposite. And yet, while they tittered praises, Frisk couldn’t help but note the growing fear and awe on the faces of the mortals that came to be judged, as well as the almost timid reverence of the native inhabitants of the Underworld. It was as if, through a single action, beyond that of even marriage, thrust her into the upper echelons. Turned her from someone to respect, to something to be feared.

It was...peculiar.

“Though he is a fair ruler,” Hyacinth offered in a way of explanation. “He is also feared. Not many who defy Death live to tell the tale, much less stand equal beside him despite their defiance.”

“So they are afraid of me now?”

“They are in awe of you, my lady,” she demurred. “As they should be.”

Frisk hadn’t quite known what to say then, but murmured under her breath, “Some call me cursed. That as Lady Death, surely I would hex them for any slight or display of insolence.”

“And others know you as Lady Mercy. No god or goddess possesses a perfect reputation and mortals are often superstitious creatures.”

She narrowed her eyes, “You are mortal. I was once mortal.”

Hyacinth’s flames didn’t even flicker, “Can you claim my assertion to be wrong?”

“There are times I wonder if you find enjoyment in being right.”

“One must amuse themselves somehow,” she quipped, a molten smile cracking across her face for a fluttering instant. Frisk chuckled. The elemental was in a rare humor.

As days continued to trickle past, Frisk’s presence in court more frequent and expected, the goddess of Spring almost lost herself in the rhythm of her new life. Most mortals did not live lives of such extremes that they warranted punishment or reward. Though, much to her chagrin, Sans spoke in earnest of his desires for Frisk to be his Mercy, and continued to position her to contradict him. At first, she raged at him, same as when he did it before, but as each judgement passed, the outrage turned to something akin to acceptance. Sans wasn’t being malicious. If anything, he was being...mischievous? Playful? Cunning? What word encapsulated Lord Death playing the part of villain so that Frisk could play counterpoint? Because that was what he was doing. Playing. Like Court was both a duty and a game.

It wasn’t unbelievable that this was his concept of fun. He was a god that favored wordplay and displayed a sense of humor. He was a bit of a trickster and found humor in Frisk’s ire.

Frisk, however, wasn’t exactly certain what to make of these revelations of her husband’s character. Just because he was trying to be sporting or funny, didn’t mean his jokes or games couldn't be cruel.

“Lady Spring, you’ve made quite the stir!”

“Oh, Flowey. It has been a while since I saw you last. Where have you been?”

It was late in the evening. Court duties were done. Meals were long since had. And handmaidens ushered away. Frisk, caught by a spell of restlessness, found sleep evasive, and made for her personal garden to pass the time. She hadn’t expected a familiar flower monster to pop up and pay her visit.

He gave her a big, boyish grin, “Here and there~” His features warped with concern, “Say, when was the last time you ate, my lady? You’re looking rather...what’s the word...peaky. Golly, pardon my forwardness, you seem like you may want to stop by the kitchens for a spot of ambrosia.”

Frisk laid a palm over her stomach, “It has been a while. Yes, perhaps you’re right. I should go have a snack.” Maybe instead of gardening, a light meal of bread and cheese would bring slumber. “It was good seeing you, Flowey. Do try to say hello more often!”

As quickly as he arrived, Flowey vanished, and Frisk wandered her way to the kitchens. However, she faltered at the door, the sound of giggling brushing her ears.

“Oh m’lord~ You’re such a charmer~” It was...Iris? Who was she talking to?

Frisk peered through the doorway and spotted the blue elemental tittering away, all of a hand’s width from Papyrus. The younger god of Death was in his garish (and rather revealing) home wear rather than his formal robes, and was very obviously basking in the attention.

“IT IS TRUE! YOU ARE A PLEASANT MORTAL TO CONVERSE WITH AND YOU MAKE THE MOST DELIGHTFUL TEA.” Papyrus sipped from his cup as Iris sighed, white-ember eyes hooded, her flames tinted violet at the tips.

“You work so hard. A hot drink at the day’s end is but a small token.”

Papyrus hummed, “WILL YOU TELL ME YOUR TEA MAKING SECRET? LADY NIGHT WON’T DIVULGE HER SECRETS, THOUGH I HIGHLY SUSPECT SHE MAKES HERS WITH SPIDER DUST...AND LADY WAR’S ADVICE OF INFUSING EACH POT WITH THE HEAT OF MY PASSION HAS ONLY RESULTED IN...WELL...FIRE! AND POT FULL OF FIRE IS HARDLY TEA AT ALL.”

Iris fluttered her ashen lashes and sipped her tea primly, “Can’t a woman keep a few mysteries to herself?”

“AUDIBLE SIGH!” Papyrus’s shoulders slumped dramatically. “VERY WELL. KEEP YOUR SECRETS, MORTAL. I WILL ASK METTATON NEXT! ALTHOUGH...I HAVE SEEN WHAT HE HAS EATEN AND SOME OF IT HAS BEEN VERY QUESTIONABLE. I DO HOPE HE DOESN’T TELL ME TO MELT GOLD IN A FORGE AND DRINK IT. THAT WOULD BE...UNPLEASANT.”

Frisk stepped back. She was eavesdropping.

As she hurried to her quarters, her reasons for leaving them were forgotten, replaced by a strange feeling in her gut. It wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t anger or any other familiar emotion. It was like concern but bitter like the tea they discussed. As she stepped into her bedroom, her eyes fell upon the tapestry separating her room from her Lord Husband’s.

A queer image arose in her mind. Of herself in Iris’ place as Sans replaced his brother. She saw herself smiling, eyelashes fluttering, her shoulder so close but not quite touching his. She saw Sans sipping tea and making puns, before turning his sockets in her direction. She pictured the conversation falling into comfortable quiet before he reached a hand between them to cup her chin. And then he leaned in and she helplessly mimicked him, her hands resting upon his shoulders. And then—

Frisk banished the unwelcome daydream, face hot. No. That wasn’t....she wasn’t...she couldn’t be…

Jealous?

There was no reason to feel envy of the easy way Iris and Papyrus spoke, or how effortless the elemental’s flirting fell off her lips. It wasn’t like anything could come of it. Iris and Papyrus couldn’t even touch...each other...and Iris was mortal. Papyrus was very much aware of said mortality.

“And I am very well aware that I will never have his heart.”

“Iris?” Frisk spun, realizing that she must have been speaking aloud to herself when the elemental arrived. “I...I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I saw you at the kitchen door,” she said. “Many pardons. I should have been here so that I could have aided you, my lady.”

“It is alright. I was...unable to sleep. I considered tending my plants but I changed my mind, and decided to seek out something light to eat instead.”

“Would you like me to bring you nourishment?”

“No. Thank you,” Frisk paused then began again, “Iris. You and Papyrus?”

She offered a small, sad smile, “The younger Lord Death is a kind and gentle god. Everything a woman wishes in a suitor. If not for the decaying touch that he and his brother share, I think mayhap he would have a string of broken hearts behind him or a harem much like Lord Fyre.

“My sisters and I were taught, since we were but embers, how to serve. How to please. We were groomed into everything a proper lady and concubine should be. Arts. Poetry. Music. Dance. History. Literature. The fine craft of conversation. How to seduce a heart without even a touch. I was content. I think Hyacinth was even happy with our life before we became your handmaidens.

“And if you make an order of it, I shall not even look upon Lord Death the Younger again. But, I must confess that it...it makes me happy to bring a little happiness in his life. To make him feel desirable and desired. It is a part of who I am. And if I love him? So be it. No heart is being harmed, not even my own, for I can love unselfishly, with the knowledge that it will never be reciprocated.”

As her speech drew to an end, she clasped her hands before her and bowed, as if awaited judgement. Frisk swallowed the ashes of her momentary (and confounding) envy and bid Iris to rise and look up. She cupped the elemental’s face in her hands, “It makes you happy? He makes you happy?”

“Yes. It is improper, but yes.”

“I...I won’t ask you to stop, then.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

The innocent delight on her features brought a flutter into Frisk’s chest. How easily Iris loved. The same experiences that jaded Daisy and hardened Hyacinth, left Iris gentled.

Suddenly, the elemental’s smile turned impish, “Now, even if we cannot touch, there’s nothing stopping us from touching our own Souls as—”

“IRIS!” Frisk clapped her hands over her ears, the moment utterly shattered.

“Pish. It’s only a fancy. Not as if it is something that will ever happen. Really, my lady, where is your imagination and womanly desire for divulging your deepest, darkest fantasies with your fellow women?”

“It doesn’t exist. Never will. To the Void with that talk!”

Iris giggled and coyly covered her false mouth, “Of course. Perish the very idea that when you blush so prettily when you hold your husband’s hand or when he whispers into your ear, that you are possibly thinking anything less than the most pristine of thoughts.”

Frisk groaned and pointed to the door, “Shoo. You are dismissed. Moment over.”

“I think, my lady, that you would find his majesty’s door unlocked if you are ever...curious about exploring those...innocent ideas of yourself.”

“OUT!”

With a flounce, Iris left the room, and Frisk dropped onto her bed with a shake of her head.

“I do not blush when he holds my hand,” she muttered, before attempting once more to chase sleep.

After three more failed nights of rest, Frisk was irritable and couldn’t quash the words Iris left to germinate in her brain. No amount of unleashing her energy into the earth and twisting plants to her whims could unroot the stubborn little seedling. Her eyes trailed once more to that tapestry and the implications of opening the door behind it. She hadn’t stepped into the hallway since after their wedding, when she was fraught with confusion and despair. Sans was...kind then. He took her on a walk. Gave her a garden.

“His door is locked, why am I even thinking about this?”

Silent minutes ticked by until she groaned in defeat. If his door wasn’t shut and locked, he likely wasn’t even in his room. And even going into that hallway would give him the wrong idea. She was just...curious.

And curiosity was a terrible temptation when one was tired.

Upon opening the door, she found the hallway the same as before, but this time, she crossed the distance without falling to her knees in hopelessness. Though when she reached the other end, her knees were shaky. And when she arrived?

“It’s...cracked open.”

An invitation.

Frisk took a step back, heart pounding. She needed to return to her own chambers.

“you can come in, my dear lady wife.” Frisk froze at the sound of her husband’s voice. Once more she was caught, well, not eavesdropping this instance, but loitering around open doors. “no need to linger in the passageway like a frightened mouse.”

“I’m not afraid of you!” Frisk snapped as she pushed into his room. Heat suffused her face when she saw how he was dressed. For stars sake, he was only wearing cloth wrapped about his hips! She turned away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Sans chuckled, “you have interesting timing, my lady, i had just swim-ished my bath.” He moved behind her, “is there something you wished of me~?”

“No. Not at all. Nothing. Goodnight.”

“how domestic. my wife bidding me goodnight before bed. you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I wasn’t...I was just...Oh go dust yourself!”

“so cruel. it was not i who entered your chambers, but you stepped into mine. however will my cold, dead heart keep beating? oh woe is i.”

Frisk fought the urge to glower at him, “Don’t be dramatic. Besides, you don’t even have a heart. You’re all bones.”

“so certain? you do not wish to inspect my person to verify that assumption?”

“NO!” Frisk whirled and recalled too late why she had her back to him in the first place. He was within arm’s reach, his expanse of bare ribs gleaming in the cyan glow of the crystals. Like any of the elder gods who existed during the First War, his chosen form bore scars. Most were faint lines of long-since-healed wounds that would have killed a mortal. If one let their gaze linger on his sternum, they would see the fine impression of a one such deadly strike, the impact of the blow forming a spider web of fractures that never quite faded. There was a chip about the size of a fingernail missing from one of his bottom ribs. And a long, hair-thin mark bisecting his lower lumbar. “I should go.”

“such haste. you have only just arrived,” the mischief in his voice also curved at the edges of his sockets. He caught a lock of hair between his phalanges. “you’re shaking.” Sans’ hand fell away. “am i so much a beast of a husband that you believe you need to fear me?”

That kind, courtly moment they shared arose to the forefront of her mind. When she wondered, for a brief span, if he had approached her thus instead of using deceit, she would have fallen for him; that her naive, maiden heart would have swooned in the wake of a powerful god taking interest and treating her so gently. There were moments—heartbeats—where that same feeling returned, that same wonder. Only for pessimism to crush those childish hopes. Sans could be kind, yes, but he was calloused by his domain and his realm. There was a distant kind of apathy—a brisk lack of empathy—that Frisk had to admit was common amongst the gods.

Sans was not, never had been, and never would be mortal. He was a primal force with physical form, birthed but not really born. Not like her.

“I do not fear you, Lord Death.” She tilted up her chin to meet his gaze.

“a pretty lie. all creatures fear death. even the gods.”

Frisk promptly poked him between the sockets with a single finger, “I have no reason to fear that to which I am immune.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, “immune to my domain perhaps.” Sans took her hand into his and kissed it, as he had made a habit of doing as of late. “but not to me. and that frightens you, yes?”

“Now you are making erroneous assumptions in your arrogance,” Frisk said as she escaped his loose hold.

Sans cocked his head to the side, “your words and your soul tell very different tales, my lady.” Before she could respond, he turned away. “be at ease, i have little interest in ravishing an unwilling bride, even if she intrudes into my chambers and oggles my half-nude body so shamelessly.” Frisk sputtered as he continued, “i would rather invite you to walk with me tomorrow. we did plan a delightful diversion the other day when you decided to take a temper with me.”

“To drown you in the Styx on the way to visit Cerberus?”

“indeed.”

“Lord Death, are you asking to court me?”

He gave a negligent shrug, “i am asking for an afternoon with my wife that does not involve work. perhaps by the solstice, we may even be able to attend that dreadful festival asgore hosts every year while arm-in-arm.”

“Festival?”

“i receive an invitation every year. i often find excuses to be absent, much to everyone else’s preference, i am certain. however, if you wish to—”

“Yes. I want to go.”

“tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow.”

“cerberus will enjoy the company.”

Frisk drew in a deep breath and moved back to the door, “Goodnight.”

“sleep well, my queen.”

And with that, Frisk retreated back to her chambers.

Her sleep was deep and dreamless.

Chapter Text

They met in the throne room.

Sans was there first, standing curiously still, his head bowed, shoulders lax, his breathing slow with the steadiness of sleep. But when Frisk approached, breaking from her gaggle of handmaidens, his head tilted up, his shadow-veiled face offering no sign of emotion. He was dressed in his usual robes, his hood up, no bident or crown glittering against pale bone or inky cloth. If one did not already know his station, it would be easy to think him but a dour shadow not worth mention or notice.

A hand held up, sleeve slipping down to bare a pale wrist, was the only invitation he offered. Not a word nor another motion. Just that unblinking stare and the foreboding symbolism of Death’s extended hand.

Frisk did not hesitate.

Her stride was quick and long, closing the space between them in the span of a few steps…a few breaths…a few heartbeats. She slotted her palm in his, warm skin against cool bone, and as was routine in their newfound dance, he brought her hand to his teeth and kissed the back. She shivered. He did not let go this time. They stayed like that for a moment, neither breathing or moving or speaking, before Sans shifted their palms and interlaced their fingers. He waited, the silence spanning between them seemingly asking if this was okay. Frisk made a small squeeze and their hands fell to their sides still entangled.

In Frisk’s mind rang the words of her handmaidens. How she wasn’t the first stolen bride, nor the last. And how it was up to her to decide what kind of relationship she wanted with her husband. Love seemed an unlikely, distant thing—her heart and pride too bruised to allow for that kind of trust, as she was not so innocent or foolish to think it wise to invite him in so easily and forgive his transgressions without time for them to heal. But friendship—companionship—felt within reach, the flickering flame of a candle she could coax higher or snuff out with the flick of a wrist.

She could hate and resent Sans forever, or explore what being his companion could mean. Frisk was Queen of the Underworld. Queen of Death. She whose throne stood equal to his. Frisk drew in a slow breath, “You promised me a walk?”

“to visit cerberus and to drown me in the styx. preferably in that order. wet robes are rather heavy and uncomfortable.”

“Of course. I will take that into consideration, lord husband.”

“how amenable of you.”

“You are quite fortunate that I am in a merciful mood this morning.”

“i will consider myself such. shall i also extol your virtue in allowing me your presence?” Frisk shot him a warning look and Sans chuckled at her peevish expression. “a glare suiting the queen of my domain. how lovely you wear it. had i skin, surely, it would be bloodless from shock.”

“and yet you fail to cower.”

“would my lady delight in a display of theatrics? i must warn that i am poor at acting.”

Frisk huffed, a hint of a smile arising with that bubble of almost laughter, “You’re quite sociable today. Should I expect you to continue to be this verbose through the entirety of our walk?”

“would you prefer my silence?”

An earnest question that Frisk contemplated for a moment, her mind drifting to the coolness of the bones in her hand to the dampness of the air. The Underworld was quite beautiful if given a fair chance, even if alien compared to the lushness of the world above. Her gaze trailed up a glowing crystal as tall as herself, its cyan cast illuminating them as they passed through the circle of light it radiated. “I think, today, I prefer conversation,” Frisk would eventually reply, allowing herself to look again at her husband. She saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

“then i will aspire to fulfill your expectations, my queen.”

“...Frisk.”

“hm?”

“For today…no titles between us.”

“how risque~”

“Do not tease.”

“perish the thought. i would never!”

“You would and you know it. You, Lord D—ahem…Sans…find delight in causing mischief and unsettling me.”

“i unsettle you?”

Frisk puffed her cheeks, “Fishing for flattery?”

“my ego is hardly that diminished,” Sans chuckled. “at ease, frisk, i shall not attempt to unsettle you further.”

“Good.” She bobbed her chin and their shoulders brushed as they walked, the Ferryman—The River Person—and his boat docked ahead on the banks of the river Styx. Not the most romantic place, but if they were to visit Cerberus as they planned, it was these waters that they needed to cross. He held out a hand as they approached and Sans placed two gold coins on his palm. “Passage granted,” the bent, hooded figure rasped. Apparently even the King of the Underworld himself still had to pay for safe crossing.

Sans stepped onto the boat first and with care, assisted Frisk into it, once more displaying his godly strength through the absolute effortlessness of the action. As if Frisk were no heavier than the head of a dandelion. When they settled, the Ferryman began to pole them down the river and once more, Frisk was surrounded by the eerie mist made of spirits yet to be judged. Heard whispers of panic and pain. A terrible place, this river. Her time spent in court did not make this journey any easier to bear. Her own soul twisted and ached, almost hyper aware now of the enormity of Sans’ kingdom and the burdens that came with it.

She wanted to weep from the overwhelming bigness of it all. The urge was sudden and swift, like a spring flood, and threatened to sweep her away. But Sans squeezed her hand and Frisk breathed.

“as your power grows, so does your sensitivity to things that affect it.”

“Is that your way of expressing pity?”

Sans rubbed the back of her palm with his thumb, “i believe the word is empathy.”

Empathy.

Not something the God of Death was known for.

“you are a good queen,” he said, again breaking the silence that had fallen between them. “the fates foresaw that you would be the balancing element to my judgment. you are my mercy. but beyond that, where i am death, you are rebirth…resurrection. you are the spring, that which blooms after the dead of winter.”

“...And yet, you know little of who I am beyond my Domain.”

“i would think i know more than i did when we first wed. elsewise, a poor husband i would be, yes?”

“That is true,” Frisk conceded, a pang twisting in her gut. What did that say about her, when she knew so little more about her husband now than she did back then? Oh, she knew of his humor and his loneliness. His resignation to be judged the villain no matter the circumstances. His subjects were loyal and thought him fair. He could be wicked…but was not cold and cruel. When her mother relegated her to being a child forever, he treated her like an adult, capable of making up her own mind.

She glanced away.

Sans drew in a deep breath, “you have changed.”

“Everyone does.”

“would it be wrong of me to say i found the changes pleasing?”

“I am unsurprised. You have what you want. A wife and queen.”

“is that so?”

“I suppose you could desire…other things.”

“i suppose that is a conclusion one could make~”

Frisk huffed again, shaking her head, “I see the gates ahead.”

Sans nodded as they reached the far bank, “at last you shall properly meet cerberus.”

.

When their hands parted once more as Sans helped Frisk out of the boat, that feeling of dissatisfaction returned. A tolerance for his touch. A desire to do her duty as queen. A role in his kingdom beyond that of a pretty prize. It was all he could expect of his stolen bride. He knew that. He told himself repeatedly to not yearn for anything more since that first day in the throne room where she accepted his invitation to sit with him. Yet he saw small, subtle changes that left him wanting…searching…reaching…daring to selfishly crave a fragment more than what he had before. A festival companion who could feign tolerance was not a great burden, no? Frisk seemed delighted at the prospect of mingling and Sans reaped the reward that came from her hopes. Her desires.

She wanted to go Above to celebrate and he wanted to hold his bride’s hand. Not an unfair trade. And yet…

Sans watched as Frisk hesitantly walked up the bank and towards those gilded gates and the light from Above that shimmered down through them. He sensed Cerberus’ rising awareness of Frisk’s presence and he too stepped forth onto the shore. He willed for the gate’s guardian to be at ease, but to show themself. He watched as the Guardian emerged from the shadows, a glittering display of the underground’s wealth, their very bones made of precious metals, their eyes enormous gemstones from the deepest crevices beneath the earth.

Frisk recoiled at the sight of Cerberus, freezing like a rabbit that caught sight of a hound, no doubt recalling their traumatic initial encounter. Sans ushered a soft command for Cerberus to lay down and the giant obeyed his master, gaze focused on the young queen.

“my gatekeeper will not hurt you,” Sans said, moving to rest a hand on one of the three, draconic skulls. “come. meet cerberus properly.”

“Forgive my hesitance, they are very…big.”

“and dutiful. they guard this entrance to the underworld well.”

Frisk fortified herself with a long breath and approached, slim hand shivering before she allowed it to fall upon metal, warm with life. Cerberus did not move. Neither did she. But after a time, she began to pet one skull near the nasal passage. It shifted, nudging her curiously with its snout, nearly bowling her over in the process. Frisk staggered but did not fall. Upon catching her bearings, his young wife began to titter with laughter.

“what amuses you?”

“I did not expect them to act so…docile and dog-like.”

“this pleases you?”

Frisk merely grinned and went back to petting Cerberus, no longer as fearful as before. Such a pretty laugh. And how lovely she looked in the glow of sunlight filtering in from the Surface. He could see the highlights in her hair, faint little streaks of auburn and gold that brought life brown locks, a few stray strands escaping the neatly oiled styling of the handmaidens. An unbidden urge to ruffle her locks struck him, to render them wild and rebellious as a nymph. But Sans refrained from even reaching out. Watch. Listen. He was not in good enough graces to do more than brush her hair from her face, much less entangle his phalanges in it as if he were her lover.

A short time passed like this, Frisk petting Cerberus and acclimating to his strangeness and scale, before he saw her eyes wandering more and more frequently to the gates.

“you wish to go above.”

“I am aware that I must stay here,” Frisk said quickly, her face veiled by those very locks he wanted to ruffle.

“this is your home, yes, but a visit is far from impossible, frisk. you stayed above for nearly a year after spending a few days down here. i would discourage you from staying out that long again, as you likely felt the effects of being away, but…a visit would not hurt. though you have not mentioned wanting to return to your mother…”

“I don’t! I mean to say, I do not want to return to my mothers garden at this time. Yet. But I would like to go to the Surface for a brief spell if that is possible?”

“like a walk?”

“That sounds…wonderful.”

How could he deny the sparkle in her eyes? She was not denying their marriage or demanding that she return her to her mother, but asking to go Above to walk with him. He offered a hand. She slotted her palm in his again. Was that hope he saw in her expression and shining in her Soul?

“the journey to the surface is much too far by foot. we would not make it back for dinner. but as you well know—” He pulled her into and through a shadow. Frisk gasped, her mouth a little o of surprise as she fell against him, free hand curling in his robes, face pressed to his chest. Then, gravity reoriented itself and they stepped out from beneath the vast branches of a towering tree that overlooked the outskirts of a bustling little human village. “—i have other means of transporting us aboveground.”

Frisk broke away from him to scamper into the sunshine, face upturned, her eyes fluttering shut as she basked like a flower in its radiance. Wild grasses and vast fields of crops rustled in an errant breeze. Everything was green with budding life. The air was damp and smelled richly of loam and a recent rainfall. The scars of Lady Nature’s tantrum were healing, as mortals were persistent and adaptable. They rebuilt their lives in the wake of storms and famine, not the same, not whole, but holding together. Moving forward. Growing.

“Why?” Frisk asked as he moved to stand behind her.

“why did i bring you above?”

She whirled, “You know how it tempts me.”

“...because it is a part of you. a part of your nature that i must admit i would be foolish to ignore.” Sans watched as birds fluttered past. “you belong in the underworld. it will always call to you as its queen. that shall never change as you are bound not just to myself, but to it, by oath. but assuming your lady mother is not actively seeking my ichor in a goblet, then i have no qualms bringing you to the surface for a visit.”

“And if I wanted to stay?” Frisk turned. “If I asked to spend a day with my mother, would you deny me?”

“...no.”

“What of a fortnight? A season? Half a year?”

Sans fell quiet, “i would like for you to think of the underworld as your home, not a prison.” He swallowed and stared long at his bride. His Spring. His Queen. “if staying on the surface with your mother pleases you, then i will come when you call for me to retrieve you. be that after a day or a year. like before. and while you are away, our kingdom will be lesser for your absence.” The churning behind his ribs was nauseating. It was primordial and possessive and balked at the idea of her leaving him with frequency. “perhaps one day you will find the beauty of the underworld too great to leave.”

“Perhaps one day,” Frisk affirmed, taking both his hands into hers. She was bright with her mortal bred determination. “Today, however, I want to eat fresh baked bread while sitting under this rather lovely tree.”

“heh. as you wish, frisk.”