Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: The Fall

Long ago, two races ruled over Earth: Humans and Monsters.
One day, war broke out between the two races.

After a long battle, the humans were victorious. 

The Monsters, having much weaker souls than Humans, eventually had no choice but to surrender.

They were sealed beneath the earth by seven powerful human mages, a prison deep within the ground — a place the light of the sun would never reach.

At first, there was hope.
The monsters believed they might one day find a way to break the barrier that kept them locked away.
Ancient tomes spoke of a simple but near-impossible truth: the barrier could only be broken with magic equivalent to the strength of the seven mages who sealed them.
Seven human souls.
Seven, for freedom.

But that was a very, very long time ago.

In the years that followed, the stories of the monsters faded into legend.
Their names were forgotten. Their struggles lost to time.
Only whispers remained, and even those grew faint.

Legends say that those who climb Mount Ebott never return.
It is a place of mystery, of caution — and, some say, a place of sorrow.

No one knows why a girl so young was alone that day.
No one knows what she was running from, or toward.
All that is known is that she slipped, tumbled into the darkness, and fell into the world beneath the mountain.

The world of monsters.

The kind child was not met with open arms.
She was met with fear, anger, and violence — the memories of the war still fresh in the hearts of many.
Yet she did not falter.
She did not lift a hand in return.
Only compassion filled her heart.

With patience beyond her years, the young girl’s determination began to sway the hearts of the monsters she encountered.
One by one, their hands dropped from their weapons.
One by one, suspicion gave way to curiosity, and curiosity to hope.

Without a seventh human soul, the monsters could not break the barrier.
Yet even knowing this — even knowing she was the last key to their freedom — they could not bring themselves to harm her.
And without a monster soul to claim, the young human could not pass through the barrier and return to the surface.

Unwilling to hurt one another, there was no choice left.
The child would remain underground.
A bridge between two worlds — and a hope that someday, somehow, things might change.

News of the girl spread swiftly.
From the Ruins to the snowy woods of Snowdin, from the quiet waterfalls to the burning halls of Hotland, whispers of the "kind human" traveled. When word finally reached the queen, she returned to the castle at once, joy swelling in her heart.
For so long she had mourned the loss of her own child; for so long the halls of New Home had been filled with silence.
But now, there was laughter again.
There was life.

Together with the king, she vowed that they would protect the child, for as long as their souls endured. And so it was that the young human was adopted into the royal family of monsters. 

A coronation was held deep in the Underground.
There were no trumpets, no grand fanfare — only the gathered hope of an entire people.
Under the soft glow of magical lights, the king and queen crowned the human girl as their princess.

Princess of monsters.
Princess of kindness.
Princess of a hope reborn.

The monsters had found their light again.
And, in turn, the girl had found a family.

But peace is never so simple.
Even in a world built on kindness, old wounds leave deep scars.

And in the quiet shadows of the Underground, something ancient and sorrowful still stirred.

Chapter Text

Frisk didn’t really understand how she became a princess.

It wasn’t like the stories she used to read at the library with pages full of dragons and ball gowns and knights with shiny swords. Nobody slayed a beast to save her. There wasn’t a magical crown waiting on a pillow. And there was definitely no royal banquet, not unless you counted the awkward tea party in the garden with muffins that tasted like flowers.

One day, she was just a girl. A lost girl with dirt on her knees and a backpack full of nothing important. The next, she was wearing a little gold circlet that kept slipping off her head no matter how many times Toriel adjusted it.

Monsters called her Princess now.

They bowed when she walked past. They smiled like they already loved her, even the ones who used to look at her with nervous eyes. Frisk had never had a family before — not really — but now she had hundreds of fuzzy, scaly, glowing-eyed monsters who said she belonged with them.

It was… nice. Kind of weird. But nice.

Still, she didn’t think being a princess would be so... boring.

She had her own room now. A big one. Bigger than anything she’d ever had before.

The walls were pale gold, and the ceiling was painted with stars that glowed gently at night. Her bed was so big it could probably sleep five of her, with velvet blankets and pillows stuffed with something soft and squishy. There were shelves full of books, and a desk she wasn’t sure she was supposed to write at yet, and a whole basket of toys she never asked for.

Toriel made sure she brushed her teeth every morning and tucked her in every night. Sometimes, she’d read Frisk stories about monster legends or bake her butterscotch-cinnamon pie and let her lick the spoon. Her fur was warm, and her voice was even warmer.

She was “Mom,” even if she didn’t say it out loud yet.

Asgore, though...

Frisk liked him. He was kind, in a sad sort of way. His crown never sat straight on his head, and he always had to duck under doorways because he was so tall. He brought her flowers from his garden every morning — golden ones, like the ones she’d first woken up on. He smiled big, but his eyes didn’t always match.

He was “Dad,” maybe. Probably. But not like Toriel.

Because Toriel and Asgore were definitely not like the king and queen in those fairy tale books.

They didn’t hold hands.

They didn’t sit together at dinner.

They didn’t even talk that much unless Frisk was in the room.

Sometimes, Toriel would sigh and whisper things to herself when Asgore left. Sometimes, Asgore would look at her with the kind of face people made when they missed something they didn’t think they could ever have again.

Frisk didn’t understand all of it. Not really.

But she could tell they were trying.

For her.

Being a princess was supposed to mean she got whatever she wanted, right?

That’s what she thought. But what she really got was a lot of rules.

Don’t go into the lower levels of the castle.
Don’t wander outside without someone with you.
Don’t climb the pillars again, Frisk, you’ll fall and break your nose.
No, you may not keep the little fire elemental as a pet.

And worst of all: don’t go to Snowdin by yourself.

Which was silly, because Snowdin was her favorite.

She loved how the snow crunched under her shoes, and how the shops were all cozy and smelled like cinnamon. The monsters there didn’t act fancy like the castle ones — they made snowmen, and told jokes, and waved even when she was in a cloak and no one could tell who she was.

In Snowdin, she felt normal again.

Not a key to freedom. Not a miracle child. Not a princess.

Just Frisk.

Sometimes, the monsters in the palace tried to talk to her — the guards, the maids, even the funny yellow blob that cleaned the floor and told her riddles. But they always stopped when she didn’t know how to answer.

She didn’t know how to say the right things yet. Or maybe she just didn’t want to.

So mostly, she wandered the halls quietly. She counted the stone tiles as she walked. She watched the magic chandeliers sway with no wind. She pressed her fingers against glowing walls and tried to feel the heartbeat of the Underground through her palms.

It was pretty. And soft. And safe.

But it was also very, very big.

And sometimes, when Toriel was busy meeting with royal council monsters and Asgore was in the garden talking to flowers, and no one was there to ask her how she was doing — it was lonely, too.

Frisk liked having a family.

But sometimes, she still felt like the only human underground.

Because... well… she was.

And sometimes, even with the crown on her head and pie in her belly, that made her want to disappear.

Just for a little while.

Just long enough to remember what it felt like to be a girl who wasn’t anyone important at all.

It was a lot harder to sneak out of a castle than Frisk expected. She had snuck out of the orphanage many times before, not that the adults paid her enough attention to notice. The castle, however, offered a new challenge.

She’d tried four times already.

The first time, she was caught before she even reached the main stairs — a tall knight-like monster with horns and a clipboard had gently turned her around and walked her back to her room, saying something about “protocol” and “very important small humans.”

The second time, she got as far as the kitchen before one of the royal chefs spotted her behind the pie counter. He’d bribed her back upstairs with a warm slice of cinnamon-butterscotch and a napkin folded into the shape of a duck.

The third attempt, she had tried to plead with Undyne to let her go, which just left her to be put through a training session by the scary fish lady.

Fourth try, she hid in a laundry cart. That one almost worked, until the cart hit a bump and she flew out into a hallway, wrapped in a bedsheet like a ghost. A very embarrassed, very giggly ghost.

After that, she started paying attention.

She learned when the guards switched shifts. She started counting how many seconds it took them to walk the full length of the corridor outside her door. She noted that the tall stone statue-looking one near the west wing nodded off every afternoon at exactly three o’clock, and that the one with the glowing eyes near the garden always stopped to chat with the kitchen monster around lunch.

Frisk turned it into a game.

She called it: Operation Get the Heck Out .

It had rules.
Rule 1: Don’t get caught.
Rule 2: Don’t trip on your cloak. Again.
Rule 3: No stealing snacks. That one was hard.

She even made herself a little paper crown out of folded napkins one day, writing “Stealth Queen” across the front in blue crayon. It didn’t survive long, but it made her laugh.

The fifth time — tonight — was the real one.

She’d memorized everything.

Waited until after dinner, when the castle got quiet and the chandeliers dimmed low. Toriel and Asgore were in the throne room again, voices muffled through the thick golden doors.

At first, she crept past without listening. But then she heard something sharp, something not quiet.

“You can’t just replace them!” Toriel’s voice cracked like fire.

“I’m not—!” Asgore’s voice was deep and tired. “Toriel, please, I never meant—”

“She is not a second chance. She’s a child!”

“I know. Don’t you think I know that?”

Frisk stood frozen outside the archway, heart hammering in her chest.

She didn’t know who they were talking about. But it felt like… her.

Were they fighting because of her?

She didn’t wait to hear more. The words buzzed in her ears like static as she darted down the hall, cloak swishing behind her.

The garden helped. The hedges were tall, the flowers glowed faintly in the dark, and the guards here were fewer and less focused. She tiptoed along the stone path, pausing only once to duck behind a column when she spotted a flicker of torchlight.

At the wall’s edge, she found the spot she’d been practicing.

The stone was rough and covered in moss — perfect for climbing. She grabbed a ledge, hooked her foot into the crack she’d spotted days ago, and pulled herself up. Her boot slipped once, and she scraped her knee, but she didn’t stop. She hauled herself over the top, clumsily rolled down the other side, and landed in a bush with a very dignified thud .

Frisk grinned into the leaves.

She was out.

She had won.

She stood, brushed the leaves off her cloak, and raced for the river with her heart soaring.

The riverboatman didn’t ask questions.

That was part of his magic, Frisk thought.

He didn’t blink when a cloaked little girl came rushing toward the dock out of breath, bits of shrubbery stuck in her hair. He simply tipped his hat, reached out a skeletal hand, and helped her into the boat.

“Tra-la-la,” he hummed. “The water is calm today.”

Frisk sat down, pulling her cloak around her tightly. The wooden boat rocked gently beneath her.

“Where to today, young princess?” the boatman asked, his voice foggy but kind.

She hesitated.

“…Snowdin, please.”

He only nodded.

The boat slid forward with barely a ripple. The cavern walls shimmered with soft purple light, reflecting off the water like tiny stars.

Frisk let her eyes drift half-shut, listening to the gentle lapping of the river.

She had done it, she smiled to herself, unable to suppress the growing giggle in her chest.

Frisk curled into her cloak, eyes watching the cave walls glide by. The lights on the river shimmered like magic.

The first breath of cold air that met her when she stepped off the boat made her smile wider than she had in the weeks since she got here, and probably before that as well.

It wasn’t just the chill that made her lungs tingle — it was the way the air smelled . Like cinnamon and pine and the faintest trace of fresh snow. A sharp, happy kind of cold that filled her nose and made her eyes sting in a good way.

Snowdin always smelled like cinnamon and snow. Like peace.

The town welcomed her like an old friend. Cobblestone streets curved gently between warm, crooked houses, their roofs blanketed in fluffy white. Gentle flakes drifted from the glowing ceiling far above, catching the light like little falling stars. The lampposts flickered to life one by one, casting soft golden halos into the snowfall.

Monsters strolled through the square in coats and scarves, chatting over hot cocoa, dragging sleds, waving to neighbors. No one bowed. No one stared. No one whispered about her soul.

Here, she wasn’t a miracle. She wasn’t a princess.

She was just a kid in a grey cloak with snow in her boots.

And that was perfect.

Frisk wandered past the inn and saw the bakery stand still open, its lanterns glowing warm and orange. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a gold coin, and exchanged it for a warm, sticky cinnamon bun.

The first bite was gooey and sweet and way too hot — it burned her tongue, but she didn’t care.

She licked her fingers clean as she walked, her boots crunching softly with each step.

Behind the library, the snow was untouched. It sparkled in the light like crushed gemstones.

She dropped to the ground and swept her arms out wide, laughing as she made a snow angel. The snow clung to her dress and slipped into her sleeves, cold and wet, but it only made her laugh harder.

A little white dog padded over curiously, tail wagging. It barked once, then started shoving snow together with its face.

Frisk sat up and helped. Together, they tried to make a snowdog.

It flopped over sideways as soon as they gave it ears.

Frisk blinked, then giggled.

“Let’s try again,” she told the dog.

The second one had a better body but collapsed under its head.

They made a third one with a big lumpy nose and uneven eyes. Frisk declared it perfect.

The dog agreed by sitting on it.

Frisk collapsed onto her back, arms spread wide, watching the snow drift above her.

The castle felt a million miles away.

Here, no one was fighting. No one was watching her every move. She didn’t have to pretend to be brave or important.

Here, she could breathe.

Eventually, the chill began to nibble at her fingers, and her scarf started to feel damp from all the snow.

She stood and dusted herself off, ready to head back toward the main street.

But then she saw it.

A path.

Narrow. Curved. Half-hidden behind a row of pine trees heavy with snow.

A crooked wooden sign leaned beside it, but the writing was worn away by time and ice. It didn’t point anywhere in particular. It just… invited.

Frisk tilted her head.

She didn’t remember seeing this path before.

And the best paths were always the ones you didn’t remember.

It looked quiet. Snow-covered. Mysterious.

Which meant, obviously—

It needed exploring.

The forest was quiet.

Not scary quiet—more like storybook quiet. The kind that felt like it was holding its breath, just waiting for something to happen. The snow muffled everything, softening her steps, softening the trees, softening even the light filtering through the cavern ceiling. The silence wasn’t lonely—it was gentle.

Frisk’s boots crunched softly as she wandered deeper in, snowflakes clinging to her cloak and hair. The air smelled clean, sharp like fresh ice, with a hint of pine. The trees around her stood tall and crooked, their limbs heavy with snow. They looked like sleeping giants.

The farther she walked, the thicker the snow became, until the trail behind her disappeared beneath new flakes. The town lights were long gone now, swallowed by the trees. Her footprints were gone too.

Oops.

She stopped, turning in a slow circle.

“Not lost,” she mumbled to herself. “Just… exploring. Adventuring. Princesses go on quests all the time.”

The silence didn’t argue, but it didn’t agree either. It just watched.

She pushed her hood back and glanced around. Everything looked the same. Snow. Trees. More snow. A weird tree that kind of looked like a duck if you squinted—

“Lost, huh?” said a voice directly behind her.

Frisk screamed .

She spun around so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. Her heart leapt into her throat.

Standing just a few feet away, grinning like he’d just won the lottery of scaring little kids, was a tall skeleton boy.

Well— taller than her, anyway. She came up to about his ribs.

He had on a puffy blue jacket zipped halfway up, black sweatpants with a hole at the knee, and scuffed-up tennis shoes. His skull was tilted like he found her very, very amusing. One of his eyes squinted almost shut, while the other glowed faintly blue in the dim forest light.

“Geez,” he said, hands in his pockets. “You scream like a banshee. You trying to summon a ghost or just scare off all the wildlife?”

Frisk’s heart was still thudding as she narrowed her eyes. “You scared me ! Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

“Hey, I thought I was about to get jumped by a rogue snowball bandit.” He looked around the clearing with exaggerated caution. “Can never be too careful. You wouldn’t believe what lurks out here… squirrels, for example.”

Frisk scowled. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither does a kid wandering the woods like she’s on a one-monster quest for snacks.”

“I wasn’t lost ,” she snapped.

He raised a brow ridge. “You just happen to be pacing in the middle of nowhere, mid-conversation with a pine tree?”

Frisk opened her mouth.

Then shut it.

Then crossed her arms with a huff. “I was exploring .”

He chuckled. “Well, as long as you weren’t consulting the duck tree over there. That one gives terrible directions.”

Frisk cracked a smile before she could stop it.

He noticed.

“Oh no,” he said, dramatically stumbling back. “Was that a smirk? Are you—are you laughing? Kid, I live for smirks.”

Frisk rolled her eyes. “You really think you’re funny, huh?”

“Think?” He clutched his chest like she’d offended him. “I know . I’ve got a skeleton’s sense of humor. Bone-deep.”

“Stars, that was awful ,” she groaned.

“I’ve got worse.”

“Please don’t.”

“I mean, I could try to tone it down , but these jokes are rib-tickling .”

She exhaled, long and suffering, staring at him for a moment.

“I’m Frisk.”

“Sans,” he replied easily. “Nice to meet ya. And I gotta say, you’ve got a scream that could shatter bones. I mean, not mine , but maybe like… baby bird bones.”

Frisk giggled, just a little.

She was trying not to like him. Really. But it was hard.

He was like a joke machine with legs, and his grin was impossible to ignore. Something about him made her feel... not watched. Not judged.

Just seen.

And seen as a kid , not a princess.

“So,” he said, jerking his head toward the trees. “You planning on camping out here forever, or you wanna not freeze to death?”

“I wasn’t going to freeze,” she insisted.

“You’re already about one snowball from hypothermia, your cloak’s got more holes than my sneakers, and your nose is redder than a tomato with seasonal allergies.”

Frisk snorted.

“C’mon,” he said, turning casually. “I’ll walk you back to town. Don’t worry—I won’t tell the pine trees where you went.”

She followed him, brushing snow off her sleeves.

“Thanks,” she said after a few steps.

“No problem. Gotta protect lost kids from the forest… You know, it’s in my bones .”

Frisk sighed. “That’s it. I’m leaving you to the squirrels. Tell them I say hi.”

“Oh! You wound me so!” He says, dramatically clenching his chest.

They walked through the trees, their breath misting in the cold air. Sans kicked at snowdrifts like he had nowhere better to be, and Frisk found herself walking just a little closer to him than she needed to.

“Just so you know,” he said after a bit, “you’re a terrible ninja.”

“I am not! ”

“You are. Your cloak flaps like a flag, you sneeze when you hit cold air, and you stepped on every twig back there.”

Frisk sniffed. “Says the skeleton in tennis shoes.”

“These babies are stealth certified . High performance. Perfect for both sneaking and running away from social situations.”

Frisk snorted.

Then, finally, laughed. Fully, brightly.

Sans looked over, smug.

“There it is,” he said. “Knew I’d getcha.”

They stepped out from the forest’s edge just as the lanterns flickered on in the square.

And then—

“HEY!”

A sharp, metallic voice cut through the air.

Frisk froze.

A figure in gleaming armor—shorter than expected but terrifying all the same—marched toward them, blue hair whipping behind her like a banner.

“THERE YOU ARE!” the girl shouted. “PRINCESS FRISK?! WHAT THE HECK—YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED! OR EATEN! OR FALLEN IN A PIT OF SPIKES!”

Frisk flinched. “H-Hi, Undyne…”

“Don’t ‘hi’ me! I’ve been looking everywhere! The king and queen have been worried sick!” Undyne stopped short, glaring at Sans. “And who’s this?! ”

“Uh.” Sans blinked. “Skeleton. Local comedian. Not a kidnapper, I swear.”

“I can smell guilt,” Undyne snapped.

“Pretty sure that’s cinnamon.”

Before she could shout more, another voice chimed in:

“IS THAT THE ROYAL GUARD?!”

A tall skeleton boy in a ridiculous red puffy jacket came bounding over, scarf flapping and pom-pom hat bouncing.

“WOWIE! I DIDN’T KNOW THE GUARD WAS COMING TO SNOWDIN TODAY! IS THIS A REAL MONSTER EMERGENCY?!”

“No,” Undyne growled. “It’s a real royal pain .”

She pointed a sharp claw at Frisk. “ Her .”

Papyrus gasped and turned to Frisk, then back to Sans, then Frisk again.

“WAIT… IS SHE… IS SHE THE HUMAN PRINCESS?!”

Frisk gave a small wave.

“WOWIE!! THIS IS AMAZING! I’VE NEVER MET ROYALTY BEFORE! YOU’RE MUCH SHORTER THAN I EXPECTED BUT VERY IMPRESSIVE!”

Sans turned slowly to stare at Frisk. “ Princess? ”

Frisk winced. “...Yeah.”

“Waitwaitwait. Hold up.” He stepped back. “I just spent twenty minutes roasting a royal?! ”

Papyrus gasped again. “BROTHER, YOU WALKED A PRINCESS HOME! YOUR BASICALLY A KNIGHT!” The skeleton says with stars in his eyes.

Sans looked horrified. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“You should’ve worn your nicer sweatpants,” Frisk said, smirking.

Sans blinked.

Then grinned.

“Okay, that’s a royal burn.”

Frisk smiled at Sans, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. The warmth in her chest from all the laughter was already starting to slip away, replaced by a tight, guilty knot.

“Guess this is the part where I get dragged home by the scary fish lady,” she muttered under her breath.

“Scary awesome ,” Undyne corrected, crossing her arms and tapping her armored foot.

Sans chuckled, but it was lighter now, like he could tell the fun part of the night was over. “Well... try not to get grounded for life, princess. And maybe wait till tomorrow to go sneakin' off into mysterious snow forests again, huh?”

“I make no promises,” Frisk said, grinning up at him—then looked at Papyrus and waved. “Bye, it was nice meeting you.”

“IT WAS AN HONOR TO MEET YOU, YOUR ROYAL SHORTNESS!” Papyrus beamed, with a salute.

Frisk giggled.

Sans gave her a two-fingered salute. “Later, kid. Stay frosty.”

As Undyne turned to march her back toward the riverboat dock, Frisk followed quietly, her smile fading.

She didn’t want to go back. Not really.

Snowdin was warm in the ways the castle wasn’t. Even with the snow up to her boots and wind nipping her cheeks, it had felt... light. Free.

She liked how no one stared. How no one tiptoed around her like she was going to shatter. How she could make dumb jokes with a skeleton boy in a hoodie and feel normal for five minutes.

But it was over now.

The walk to the dock was quiet. Undyne didn’t say much, just occasionally glanced at her with narrowed eyes and muttered things like, “Gonna lose my job for this,” or “We need better castle walls.”

Frisk sat silently during the boat ride, her hands folded in her lap, the purple lights on the river flickering in her tired eyes.

The moment they reached the castle gates, the heavy golden doors flew open with a slam.

“FRISK!”

Toriel came flying down the steps, her robes nearly tangling around her feet, hair frizzing out from under her hood. Her breath hitched as she dropped to her knees on the warm marble landing and flung her arms around Frisk, pulling her tight.

Frisk barely had time to brace before she was buried in soft fur and the scent of firewood, ink, and something sugary—like pie that had been left to cool but never eaten.

“You’re safe—you’re safe, thank the stars—don’t you ever do that again!” Toriel’s voice trembled, not quite a sob, not quite a shout.

Frisk stood frozen for a moment, then slowly leaned into the hug. For one second, she let herself feel how warm Toriel was. How soft. How scared.

But then the guilt hit her, hard and cold like a second snowfall.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, muffled against Toriel’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to make you worry…”

“You vanished,” Toriel said, gently pulling back just enough to cup Frisk’s face. Her hands were shaking. “Your bed hadn’t been slept in, your cloak was missing, and no one could find you. You left no sign . I—Asgore was—”

“I was what?” came a deep voice from the staircase.

Frisk flinched.

Asgore stood just beyond the archway to the throne hall, his golden mane disheveled, shoulders hunched like he’d spent hours pacing. His crown was missing, his gloves tucked into his belt. His eyes, normally so calm, were wide with worry—and something else Frisk couldn’t name.

He looked like a man who hadn’t slept.

And yet… he wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t stomping or slamming his staff or shaking the walls with rage. His voice was quiet. Careful.

“I was terrified ,” he said, slowly walking down the steps. His hooves barely made a sound against the marble. “Frisk, do you understand what could have happened to you? You’re just a child.”

“I didn’t go that far,” she said, voice small. “I just wanted to see Snowdin. I wasn’t gonna stay long.”

“You slipped past trained guards,” Asgore said, crouching beside them now. “You went alone . No notice. No protection. No note. You disappeared without a word.”

“I was careful—”

“You are nine ,” Toriel snapped, voice rising with her fear. “Even I could not find you. We had every guard searching, the entire River Network alerted—we thought—” Her voice cracked, and she looked away.

Frisk lowered her head. Her hair, damp with melted snow, clung to her cheeks. Her cloak, soaked through, had begun to drip steadily onto the floor, forming little puddles at her feet. All the warmth from Snowdin had long since melted into the thick air of New Home, and now everything clung to her heavy and cold.

She hadn’t meant for this.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, barely audible. “I just felt… lonely. Everyone treats me like I’m supposed to already know how to be this… this important thing. And I just wanted a break. Just for a little while. Just to be Frisk.”

There was a long pause.

Then Asgore exhaled through his nose and sat back on his heels. “If I weren’t so worried, I’d say I was almost impressed,” he muttered. “The way you slipped out, past everyone. Even through the garden gate…”

Toriel shot him a look that could’ve melted ice.

“ Asgore. She is a child. If she can sneak past our guards, they clearly need better training.”

Asgore held up his hands, sheepish. “I meant no disrespect. Only... the guards weren’t expecting to be outsmarted .”

Frisk blinked at both of them.

It was weird.

They weren’t snapping at each other.

No shouting. No angry storms of words or stomping hooves or bitter silences. Just… concern. For her. Together.

It was the most civil she’d ever seen them be.

And that somehow made her feel even worse .

“I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble,” she said again, wiping her sleeve across her damp face. “I won’t do it again.”

Toriel’s expression softened immediately. “Sweetheart… We only need to know you’re safe.”

Asgore nodded. “We love you, Frisk. You’re important to us. Not because of your soul, or because you are a human. Just you. That’s what matters.”

Frisk nods, tears stinging the edges of her eyes as she buries her face in the fabric of Toriel’s dress.

Toriel pulled her back into a gentler hug this time, brushing damp curls away from her face. “You are still grounded.”

“I figured,” Frisk laughs wetly, bringing a hand up to rub at her eyes.

“We’ll discuss how long tomorrow,” Asgore added, though there was a hint of warmth in his voice now.

Frisk gave a tiny nod and stayed there a little longer, wrapped between the two monsters who had somehow become her family.

The warmth of the castle had finally soaked into her skin, chasing away the chill.

And yet… in the very back of her mind, she still saw a grin full of terrible puns, a hoodie too thin for the weather, and a pair of eyes that had seen her not as royalty—but as a kid who needed a laugh.

Something about that made her smile. Just a little.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since Frisk’s little “adventure” to Snowdin, and she was still grounded.

Not in the fun way, like lying on the floor and pretending to be a pancake, but the boring, rules-are-laws, no-going-anywhere-without-an-escort kind of grounded. No leaving the castle unsupervised. No wandering too far in New Home. And definitely, absolutely, no taking the riverboat ever again without ten forms of royal approval.

Toriel had tried to ease the punishment by giving her something to focus on—a new “educational curriculum,” as she called it. That meant long mornings spent hunched over scrolls and parchment, learning monster history, soul theory, and proper dining etiquette (which Frisk failed spectacularly when she accidentally used the dessert spoon for soup).

And when Toriel wasn’t around to supervise?

Undyne.

Apparently, being the head of the Royal Guard came with the extra title of “Temporary Babysitter of the Princess,” though Undyne denied that last part as loudly as possible.

“It’s not babysitting!” she’d snapped, arms crossed and forehead vein twitching. “It’s combat training! For self-defense! And strength! And awesomeness!”

Frisk had stopped arguing after the third day.

The afternoons had all blurred together since then. Some were filled with reading and more pie than Frisk could eat. Others were just plain boring. But every day—without fail—Undyne would drag her outside to the garden behind the castle.

That’s where Frisk found herself now, sprawled on a patch of soft grass, squinting up at the artificial golden sky above while Undyne counted off pushups beside her.

“One-arm pushups,” Undyne clarified loudly, her voice echoing off the hedges. “Because two arms is for amateurs!”

Frisk giggled. “You said that last time, and then you face-planted.”

“That was a tactical face-plant!”

Frisk rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin up with both hands. “Uh-huh. Sure it was.”

At the moment, she was balanced across Undyne’s back like a sack of very tiny potatoes, bundled in a clean dress with purple stripes and a soft gray cloak. Her shoes had been kicked off long ago, and her toes wiggled happily in the warm grass.

“This counts as training for you too, y’know,” Undyne huffed, gritting her teeth. “Core strength. Team balance. Focus.”

“Pretty sure I’m just making you heavier.”

“Exactly. Like training with weights!”

Frisk snorted.

Undyne grunted as she pushed up again, sweat beading on her brow, but her grin never faltered. “Betcha none of those fancy kings up there could do this.”

“I dunno,” Frisk said thoughtfully, “Asgore has big arms. He might be able to do one.”

“He has gardening arms,” Undyne scoffed. “Big difference.”

Frisk giggled again, but it faded into a sigh. This was the best part of her day. When Undyne wasn’t yelling orders or challenging ghosts to duel, she could actually be kind of cool. Even fun.

Still, she couldn’t help but glance toward the tall golden archways leading back into the palace.

It felt like the castle was always watching her now.

Even out here, in the open air and flower-lined walkways, she could feel the invisible leash pulling tight. She had broken their trust—even if it had just been for one night—and now the grown-ups were walking on eggshells, treating her like a bubble that might burst at any moment.

She didn’t like it.

“Yo, Frisk. You zoning out?” Undyne’s voice snapped her back.

“Huh? Oh, sorry…”

“You better not be falling asleep up there,” Undyne grinned, hoisting her higher with a shrug of her shoulder. “If you start drooling, I swear I’m launching you into the hedge maze.”

“Nooo,” Frisk whined dramatically, flopping sideways across her back. “Don’t make me go back in there. I got lost for an hour last time.”

“That was like, half the fun!”

“Not when I got chased by that angry duck.”

“That duck had it out for you.”

“It had teeth, Undyne.”

Undyne burst out laughing.

Before Frisk could retaliate with another dramatic retelling of her traumatic duck encounter, two armored figures emerged from the hall leading back inside. They were tall, clad in matching gold and silver plated armor, and walked in perfect unison—like a single mind split into two overly serious bodies.

The Royal Guards.

Frisk had never learned their names. They never gave them. So she’d just decided to call them Guard 1 and Guard 2.

Guard 1 stepped forward with a stiff salute. “Captain Undyne. Your presence is requested in the throne hall.”

Guard 2 nodded, visor gleaming. “It’s urgent.”

Undyne groaned and dropped onto her back with a grunt, letting Frisk roll off with a thump into the grass.

“Ugh, c’mon. Again?”

“Orders from the king and queen,” Guard 2 clarified.

“Yeah, yeah…” Undyne pushed herself to her feet, brushing dirt from her armor. She looked over at Frisk, narrowing her eyes. “You.”

Frisk blinked innocently. “Me?”

“Don’t move. Don’t wander. Don’t even think about trying anything sneaky, got it?”

“I won’t!” Frisk sat up straight, trying her best not to look mischievous. “Promise.”

Undyne leaned in close. “I’m counting on you. No missions. No escaping. No smuggling dogs into the throne room again.”

“That was one time.”

“One time too many.”

With a final pointy glare, Undyne turned and marched off with the guards.

Frisk waited until they were fully out of sight.

Then she flopped back into the grass with a sigh.

Frisk really did try.

She tried to sit still. Tried to reread her soul studies book. Tried to braid a dandelion chain from the flowers in the garden. But by the time the sunlamps dimmed to simulate evening and Undyne still hadn’t come back, the silence started to get heavy. The castle halls always got too quiet when she was alone, and the longer she sat on the bench in the garden, the more her legs itched to move.

So, after about twenty minutes of “being good,” she stood up and wandered toward the corridor.

She wasn’t going to leave. That would be breaking the rules. Again. And she wasn’t about to test her “grounded” time limit and risk getting Undyne benched as her babysitter—because, honestly, having Undyne around was kind of fun.

But… maybe just a little stroll. Around the halls. No harm in that.

As she padded quietly across the golden-tiled floor, her boots clicking softly, she let herself listen. There was a faint sound coming from one of the high windows—birdsong. Artificial, sure, but sweet and delicate all the same. Installed enchantments designed to keep the castle from feeling too much like a cave. Frisk liked that. She liked pretending they were real birds, perched on branches instead of glowing runes.

She was just about to head toward the library when something flickered out of the corner of her eye.

A movement. A flash of blue.

She turned—and froze.

Down the far corridor, just where the hall curved near the old council room, someone was walking. A slouched figure in a hoodie, hands jammed into his pockets, bones pale against the shadowy wall sconces.

Frisk blinked hard.

No way.

Was that—?

She rubbed her eyes, just to be sure.

But when she looked again, the skeleton was still there, still ambling toward the end of the hallway. And then—before she could call out—he turned and slipped into an elevator she didn’t recognize. The doors closed with a ding.

Frisk gasped and bolted.

She ran, boots slapping lightly on the floor, arms pumping as she tried to catch up. By the time she skidded to the elevator, her heart was thudding from more than just the sprint.

The button pad blinked at her.

One floor. Marked “L4.”

“…I didn’t even know we had an L4,” she whispered to herself.

She glanced left, then right. No one in sight.

Maybe she should go back.

Maybe.

Or maybe… just take a peek.

She was still in the castle, after all.

Not breaking the rules, technically.

Frisk tapped the button, foot tapping with nervous energy. The hallway suddenly felt longer, the shadows stretching strangely on the walls. The birdsong had stopped. Or maybe she just wasn’t listening anymore.

Ding.

The elevator slid open, and Frisk stepped inside, her cloak swishing around her legs.

It rumbled softly as it descended. Slow. Steady. Down past levels she’d never heard of.

When it finally stopped, the doors opened to a cold, dim hallway of polished black stone.

Frisk stepped out.

It was colder here. Much colder.

The air smelled sterile—like cleaning solution and something faintly metallic. The walls were smooth, lit by dim magitech strips that buzzed gently. There were no guards. No tapestries. No plants.

No warmth.

“Hello?” she whispered, voice small.

No answer.

She crept forward, boots making soft echoes. Doors lined the hall—some closed, others open just enough to see tangled wires, beeping machines, or strange glowing tanks. It felt like a science lab. A secret science lab.

She turned a corner and stopped.

There was a massive machine ahead. A skull-shaped metal contraption, nearly the size of the palace throne. It loomed in the center of the room, its surface dust-covered, half-lit, as though someone had tried to forget it existed.

Letters were barely visible across the front.

Frisk reached out and wiped the dust away with her sleeve.

DTRN Extractor.

“…‘Determination’?” she murmured aloud, trying to piece the letters together.

A shiver ran down her spine. Something about it felt wrong.

Too wrong.

She took a step back—

Click.

The floor lit up beneath her.

A red circle. Glowing.

The machine whirred to life with a sudden burst of light. Arms unfolded from hidden compartments, whirring and clicking like angry insects. A flat panel slid out and clamped around her ankles.

“Hey—!”

Mechanical limbs snaked out and latched onto her wrists.

She screamed.

“STOP! LET ME GO—!”

The panel above her flickered on.

DETERMINATION DETECTED.

INITIATING EXTRACTION.

“No—NO!”

She squirmed, trying to kick, to slip free—but the straps only tightened.

A low hum filled the room. The lights buzzed brighter. Her heart raced. The chill in the air dug into her skin like needles.

          Nobody came.

          Nobody is ever going to come.

          You are going to die, and nobody will even care.

Frisk gasped.

Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred.

“No… no, no—someone—someone help!”

Her voice echoed, empty. Her struggles slowed.

The air buzzed louder, thick and sharp in her lungs.

Tears burned in her eyes.

She didn’t want to die.

She didn’t want to be alone.

Then—CRACK.

A burst of blue light shattered the panel above her. Something slammed into the machine’s side, and the whole contraption groaned as one of its limbs was ripped clean off.

Frisk gasped as the straps holding her snapped.

She collapsed to the floor, the breath knocked from her chest.

Arms caught her.

Blue light flickered across her vision. A hoodie. Scuffed sneakers.

“Kid—!” Sans’s voice was strained, panicked. “What the HELL are you doing down here?!”

She tried to answer—but her throat closed up.

Instead, she clung to him.

Her arms wrapped around his middle, her face burying into the fabric of his hoodie.

And she sobbed.

All the fear, all the cold, all the loneliness spilled out in a single, shaking breath. She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t hold it in.

Sans froze.

For a long second, he didn’t say anything.

Then—softly, with none of the sarcasm he’d always worn like armor—he said, “…Aw, kid.”

He knelt down beside her, pulling her closer, bones awkward but warm.

“I gotcha. It’s okay. You’re okay now.”

The broken machine behind them sparked faintly.

But the worst of the noise was already gone.

Sans kept one arm firmly around Frisk’s shoulders as they made their way back up the long hallway from the lab.

She hadn’t let go of his jacket since he pulled her free, fingers still clenched in the fabric like she was afraid if she blinked, he might disappear.

He didn’t say anything at first. Not while they crossed the elevator platform or during the ride up to the castle’s main level. Frisk stayed pressed against his side, her cloak damp with tears and lab dust, and Sans… didn’t push her away.

The elevator dinged quietly.

Warm light greeted them as the doors opened—soft and golden, like the Underground had finally remembered to breathe again. The palace walls gleamed with magic sconces. Familiar, safe, full of life. Everything the lab below was not.

Sans gave a little exhale.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice lower and more serious than usual. “You gotta promise me something, alright?”

Frisk looked up at him, wiping her sleeve across her damp face. Her eyes were still red around the edges, but she was trying to pull herself together. Her fingers were curled tightly in the fabric of his hoodie, like she didn’t trust her legs to work unless she was holding onto something.

Sans met her gaze—really met it—and something in his grin faded.

No jokes. No lazy shrug.

Just concern.

“You can’t go back down there,” he said. “Like— ever. No more secret elevators, no more mystery halls, no more ghost-hunting in the basement.”

Frisk frowned. “I wasn’t ghost-hunting…”

He arched a brow ridge.

“I wasn’t!” she insisted, her voice cracking a little. “I just saw you go in and—and I don’t know. I guess I wanted to say hi.”

Sans blinked.

For a second, he didn’t say anything. He reached up and rubbed the back of his skull, fingers dragging slowly through the space where his hood met bone. His shoulders slumped.

“Kid…”

There was no real anger in his voice. Just tired fear.

He sighed and scrubbed his face with both hands. “Stars above. You’re lucky I got there when I did.”

Frisk looked away, guilt clenching in her chest like a fist.

“That machine…” Sans shook his head. “You don’t mess with stuff like that. Especially if you don’t know what it’s for. That kind of tech— Gaster’s tech—ain’t just gears and wires. It’s—”

He paused, eyes flicking toward her again. His voice dropped.

“It’s dangerous. Even when it looks quiet. Maybe especially then.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Frisk whispered, her voice tight. “I was just curious…”

“Yeah, well, curiosity’s how people end up half-fried or worse.” He gave a soft huff. “Look, I know it looks fun down there, but there’s a reason half the doors are locked, and half the lights don’t work.”

Frisk bit her lip and nodded, her grip on his sleeve loosening slightly.

Sans glanced down at her, then reached out and gently ruffled her hair. “Hey. Don’t beat yourself up too hard. Just… next time you wanna say hi, maybe knock on my door like a normal not-so-normal kid, yeah?”

Frisk looked up at him with a weak smile. “You have a door?”

“I could have a door. I might build one just for that now.”

She snorted softly.

“C’mon, kid. Turn that frown upside down.” He leaned in with a grin. “Because clearly, gravity’s slacking off again.”

That earned a baffled blink. Then—finally—a small snort slipped out of her nose.

“You suck,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes again.

“Thanks. I’m going for vacuum cleaner chic.”

Frisk stared at him. “What does that even mean? ”

Sans held up his hands. “I don’t know, kid. I’m operating on two hours of sleep and blind panic.”

Frisk laughed—really laughed this time. Her shoulders relaxed a little. The ache in her chest didn’t vanish, but it eased.

She still held onto his sleeve, but her grip was more casual now. Just enough to say I’m still here. You’re still here too, right?

They walked like that down the hall, footsteps soft against the polished floors. The towering corridor ahead bathed them in warm gold, the filtered light from the windows painting their shadows long and strange. Through the open archways ahead, Frisk could hear voices—Toriel’s, clipped and worried, Asgore’s deeper and calmer, and Undyne’s sharp like the clatter of armor.

The throne room.

Frisk slowed.

Her hand slipped from Sans’s sleeve. Her steps faltered.

Sans noticed and stopped beside her.

“You sure you’re, okay?” he asked, softer again.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then she nodded, just once.

“Alright.” He nudged her shoulder gently with his elbow. “Let’s go explain to your new parents why their kid just knocked ten years off my life expectancy.”

Frisk groaned softly. “They’re gonna freak out. ”

“Probably,” Sans said, already walking again. “Brace for impact.”

“…Can you stay close?”

Sans blinked at her.

Then his expression softened.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

They stepped into the throne room together.

Toriel was pacing.

Asgore stood with his arms crossed, listening as Undyne waved her hands in frustration near the base of the throne steps.

“I’m the head of the Royal Guard, not a glorified babysitter!” Undyne barked. “I’ve got training drills, reports, recruits! I can’t be watching the kid every second!”

“You were the one assigned to her protection this morning,” Toriel snapped, spinning to face her. “Where were you when she vanished again?”

“Two guards came and pulled me away!” Undyne protested. “They said it was important council business—”

“You should have said no!”

“Oh sure, let me just ignore official orders and say, ‘Sorry, can’t help, gotta keep an eye on the princess in case she goes ninja again!’” She threw her hands up. “I can’t be everywhere at once!”

“You could have told us where you left her!” Asgore added, trying to mediate.

“I did! She was in the garden, and—oh, for stars’ sake, this is ridiculous!”

Off to the side stood a taller, thinner skeleton robed in black and silver, partially turned toward the wall. His single glowing eye flickered, the other side of his face shadowed in static that buzzed faintly at the edge of perception. He was watching, but silent.

Doctor W.D. Gaster.

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t even move.

Then the doors creaked open.

Four heads turned at once.

Frisk stood in the archway, her cloak hanging awkwardly off one shoulder, cheeks still blotchy from crying. Beside her, Sans hovered like a shadow, one hand gently resting on her arm—more shield than escort, like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to be defending her or getting scolded alongside her.

“Frisk!” Toriel rushed forward, nearly flipping a table in her path. She dropped to one knee, arms already outstretched. “Oh, thank the stars—are you hurt? What happened? What were you thinking?!”

Asgore was just behind her, his face drawn tight with worry, golden mane slightly frazzled.

Sans gave Frisk a nudge forward, careful. “She’s alright,” he said. “Bit shaken, but still in one piece.”

“Wait—how’d you get involved?” Undyne asked, brow raised. “Weren’t you supposed to be in the lab?”

“I was,” Sans muttered. “Found her there. Or, well… found her in something.”

Toriel’s eyes sharpened. “Something?”

“She tripped on an old machine,” he said, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. “D.T.R.N. Extractor. Thing’s ancient. Kinda... grabbed her.”

Frisk flinched.

Asgore stiffened. “She was in the Lab? ”

“I didn’t mean to!” Frisk cut in quickly. “I just—I saw Sans go in and I wanted to say hi! I didn’t know what the machine was or that it would—”

“You followed him?” Toriel turned slowly toward Sans, the look in her eyes enough to make him take a half-step back.

“I didn’t realize she was behind me,” Sans mumbled. “She must’ve followed me to the elevator”

“An amateur mistake,” Gaster said, his voice echoing yet strangely calm. He stepped forward, arms folded behind his back. “The residual signal from the machine is still all over her, the princess could have gotten seriously hurt due to your carelessness”

Sans winced again. “I should have paid more attention going down to the lab.”

Undyne snorted. “Yeah, you think?”

Toriel knelt beside Frisk again, this time softer. “You’re not hurt?”

“No,” Frisk whispered. “Just shaken up.”

“That’s it” Toriel pulled her into a tight embrace. “I’m gonna lock every door in this castle,” she muttered against Frisk’s hair. “I swear it.”

Asgore sighed, folding his arms. “You found her, protected her, and brought her back safely. Thank you.” The king says addressing the young skeleton.

Sans rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t exactly sign up to be the kid’s knight in shining hoodies, but yeah… wasn’t gonna leave her strapped to some nightmare machine.”

Gaster’s eyes gleamed faintly behind his glasses. “And yet, despite your poor spatial awareness, your reaction time and control under pressure is… notable.”

“Don’t start flattering me, old man,” Sans grumbled. “I know where this is going.”

“We need a better system,” Asgore said. “Undyne cannot realistically serve as Frisk’s full-time guard, not with her current responsibilities.”

“Hey!” Undyne snapped. “I’m not a babysitter, sure—but don’t pin this all on me!”

“No one is blaming you,” Toriel said gently. “But the reality remains.”

Gaster took a step forward, his posture graceful, almost regal in its precision.

“It is clear,” he said smoothly, “that what the Princess requires is not merely a protector—but someone she trusts. Someone capable of anticipating danger and already familiar with the deeper systems of the castle.”

He turned his gaze toward Sans, who visibly tensed.

“I propose a formal solution. Effective immediately: Sans shall be appointed as the Princess’s personal guard.”

Frisk’s eyes widened. “Wait—really?!”

Sans recoiled like he’d just been hit with a blast of cold air. “Uh, no thanks . Hard pass. I’ve got work. Lab stuff. Big important… science… things.”

“I have Alphys now,” Gaster said smoothly. “You have flexibility.”

“You traitor, ” Sans muttered.

“I don’t need a guard,” Frisk added quickly, straightening her shoulders. “I’ve handled myself before! I’m not some little glass doll.”

“And I don’t want to be a babysitter,” Sans said flatly, pulling his sleeve away. “I’m not exactly knight material, okay? No armor. No noble cause. I make puns and microwave hot dogs at two in the morning.”

“You wouldn’t be a babysitter,” Toriel said quietly. “You would be a friend she’s already chosen. And having you around… it might mean we wouldn’t have to watch her so closely. She could explore outside the castle, with proper notice to us first of course.”

Frisk paused.

That stung, in the way things do when they’re true.

She looked up at Toriel, surprised. “I… I could go out again?”

Toriel gave a small nod. “With proper supervision—yes.”

Sans’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but Gaster’s gaze slid toward him with just the barest tilt of his head.

That was all it took.

Sans slouched. “You’re all really ganging up on me here.”
Frisk tugged at his sleeve, eyes wide. “But—Sans! You’d get to hang out with me every day! It wouldn’t be that bad! Please?” She whined giving the skeleton her best pair of puppy eyes.

He glanced down at her—at the way her hand shook a little, at how she still hadn’t fully let go of the fear that machine had put in her.

“…Fine,” he muttered at last.

Toriel claps her hands together, a wide grin on her face. “Oh excellent. Of course Undyne will have to give you proper training.”

“What?!”

“But once that is all in order, this seems like a fine solution to our dilemma.”

Undyne perked up. “Oh heck yes , I can’t wait to kick his scrawny ass into shape.”

“Oh stars,” Sans whispered, instantly regretting his own mouth.

“You will begin training tomorrow,” Asgore said cheerfully. “Undyne, clear your schedule for the morning sessions. Nothing too elaborate. Just enough to ensure he won’t trip over his own phalanges.”

“I make no promises,” Undyne grinned.

Toriel placed a hand on Frisk’s shoulder, visibly more at ease. “Thank you, Sans. This means more than you know.”

Asgore gave a soft grunt of agreement. “It brings us great peace of mind.”

Frisk leaned into Sans, smiling at him now. “Thanks, Sans. Really.”

He sighed. “You better not start calling me ‘Sir Bone’ or something. I will quit.”

“I’ll just call you Knight Light,” she teased.

He stared.

“…That’s awful,” he said.

“I learned from the best.”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

They left the throne room together, the tension in the air finally easing as Toriel and Asgore exchanged a quiet, relieved look—one that, for the first time in days, didn’t end with a sigh.

Behind them, Gaster murmured something unintelligible and Undyne was already scheming training montages in her head.

Tomorrow, everything would change. Again.
But for now, things were a little more… steady.
The next morning, Frisk was already awake before the castle bells chimed the hour.

She sat on the edge of her oversized bed, already dressed in her usual striped dress and grey cloak, boots neatly laced. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sleeves, but her face was bright with quiet excitement.

Today was the first real day with Sans as her personal guard.

Her first real friend.

Well… sort of.

He’d held her when she cried. Saved her from a terrifying machine. Stood between her and the scolding of royalty like it was no big deal. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

She slipped out just as Toriel knocked.

“Oh! You’re already up,” Toriel said, pleasantly surprised. “Someone’s eager.”

Frisk just smiled sheepishly and followed her through the sunlit halls toward the gardens, where her lessons took place each morning. Toriel quizzed her on a few simple math problems as they walked, and Frisk dutifully recited the answers, eyes occasionally drifting toward the hedge wall bordering the garden. She wondered if Sans would be waiting there already.

He was.

Slouched lazily against a stone pillar, Sans looked… tired. Not his usual tired, either—not the lazy, half-lidded kind of tired that usually came with a smirk or a pun. He looked worn out. His hoodie was wrinkled. His glowing eyes were dimmer than usual. One hand was stuffed in his pocket, the other clutching a paper coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

He lifted a half-hearted hand in greeting.

“Morning,” he muttered.

“Hi, Sans!” Frisk beamed. “You showed up!”

“I’m your guard now,” he said flatly. “Kinda gotta.”

Toriel gave Sans a pointed but not unkind look, then turned to Frisk. “I’ll see you after your lessons, sweetheart. Try not to start any revolutions.”

Frisk giggled.

Then Toriel was gone, and Frisk turned expectantly to Sans.

“So!” she said brightly, jogging up beside him. “What’s the plan? You gonna show me secret tunnels? Teach me blue magic? Sneak pie from the kitchen?”

Sans didn’t respond right away. He pushed off the pillar with a long, slow breath and started walking toward the garden path.

Frisk blinked. “Hey—wait!”

She scrambled to catch up, falling into step beside him.

“You, okay?” she asked.

“Peachy,” he replied without looking at her.

Frisk frowned.

They walked in silence for a while, his steps dragging like he was sleepwalking, hers light and uncertain.

After a minute, she tried again. “What’s in the cup?”

“Disappointment.”

“…Really?”

Sans gave her a sideways glance. “Nah. Just coffee. Same thing, basically.”

Frisk giggled—but it sounded more uncertain this time. She peered up at him as he walked, noticing the heavy slump of his shoulders, the way his eye barely glowed.

“Did you not sleep?”

Sans shrugged.

“Was it training with Undyne?” she asked gently.

He grunted. “Let’s just say... fish lady doesn’t go easy. Especially when she thinks you’re ‘resisting your destiny.’”

“Oh.” Frisk bit her lip. “Is it because of me?”

“No, kid,” he muttered. “It’s because I suck at being a guard and she knows it.”

Sans gave a half-shrug and sipped his coffee. “Training with Undyne was… a thing. I’m pretty sure I can still hear her yelling in my skull.”

“Oh,” Frisk said. “Did she… yell a lot?”

“Ever hear a trombone made of rage? Multiply that by five.”

Frisk giggled — but Sans didn’t laugh with her.

She watched him for a few seconds longer, then tried, “Wanna play hide and seek in the hedge maze later? I bet I could win.”

“No need,” he muttered. “I’ve got magic eyes, remember?”

“You could pretend you don’t.”

“Not really in the mood to pretend anything today.”

That quieted her.

The air between them got still — not peaceful, but heavy. Awkward.

Frisk started to trail after him as he walked the perimeter of the garden, dragging his steps. She tried a few more times to get a laugh out of him. Jokes. Teasing. A pun about “boneheaded training.”

Nothing.

He didn’t even crack a smile.

So when they neared the edge of the garden, Frisk broke into a jog and dashed into the hedge maze with a grin.

“You can’t catch me!” she called over her shoulder, laughter rising in her voice.

She wasn’t trying to run away. Not really. She just wanted to get something out of him — anything. A smirk. A sigh. A chase.

Maybe if she turned it into a game, things would feel normal again.

She darted through a tight corner, ducked behind a hedge wall, and pressed her back to it, muffling her giggles behind her hands.

He’d come. She just knew he would.

But when he did, it wasn’t playful footsteps or a sarcastic one-liner that found her.

It was the familiar tug of blue magic latching around her middle.

“No fair!” she yelped as her feet left the ground, dangling like a kid caught in a claw machine.

Sans stepped into view with a scowl. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

Frisk’s giggles died in her throat.

The look on his face wasn’t amused. It was tense. Exhausted.

She pouted as he set her down again. “I was just playing.”

“This isn’t a game,” he snapped.

That made her freeze.

He rubbed his face like he was scrubbing away frustration. “Kid, I get it — you wanna have fun. But I’m not here to play hide and seek or trade knock-knock jokes. I’m your guard. That means I need to know where you are at all times . I just spent all morning getting tossed around by Undyne like a training dummy, and now I’m supposed to keep tabs on a kid who bolts the second I blink?”

Frisk’s hands clenched at her sides.

And suddenly, the garden didn’t feel so bright anymore.

That’s when it hit her — hard and cold in the middle of her chest.

This wasn’t what she thought it would be.

This wasn’t sneaking through hallways with a friend. This wasn’t laughter under chandeliers or puns about sneezing squirrels. This wasn’t being seen.

This was being watched.

Babysat.

Like she was just another responsibility nobody wanted.
And wasn’t that a sickeningly familiar feeling. She had almost forgot how obnoxious she could be, surrounded by such nice people who seemed to actually want her around.

She narrowed her eyes and stepped back.

“I wasn’t trying to run from you,” she said sharply. “I was trying to cheer you up.”

Sans flinched.

“I thought this would be fun. I thought you would be fun.” Her voice cracked, raw and quiet. “But you’re not even trying. You’re just… tired and mad all the time. You didn’t even want to be here, did you?”

“Frisk—”

“You could’ve said no.” Her fists trembled. “You should’ve said no.”

“Kid, it’s not about you—”

“Yes it is!” she snapped. “Because I didn’t ask for this either! I didn’t want some guard following me around like I’m gonna shatter. I thought if it was you, maybe it wouldn’t feel like that. I thought we were friends! ”

She turned.

And stormed out of the hedge maze, head down, cheeks burning. “I’ll be in the great hall,” she muttered over her shoulder. “Do Not Follow Me . ”

She didn’t run.

And then she was gone.

Frisk’s boots echoed down the long halls like a heartbeat, quick and uneven, until they finally slowed.

The tension in her chest hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had only grown sharper—pressing against her ribs, making her throat ache.

She stepped into the entrance hall her feet having led her there automatically, the way you find a favorite blanket when you’re cold.

It was a vast corridor, high-ceilinged and still, like a church made of gold. Tall stained-glass windows lined the walls, each casting soft yellow light across the polished floor in long, gentle stripes. The golden glow danced and shifted with the wind from unseen vents. Somewhere above, birds sang in soft, distant trills — high and far enough that it felt like the ceiling itself was breathing.

Frisk crossed the marble floor in silence and stopped at the base of the largest window.

She didn’t sit down right away. Not at first.

Instead, she closed her eyes.

She let the warm light pour across her face — as close to sunlight as magic and glass could mimic. It wasn’t real, not exactly. But it was close. It tingled on her cheeks, brushed the curve of her nose, wrapped her shoulders in something golden and soft.

This was her favorite place in the entire castle.

Because here, in this single shaft of glowing gold, she could almost pretend she was back on the surface.

Back in the woods, on a warm day.

Back when sunlight filtered through branches, not crystal.

Back when she was still no one.

She finally lowered herself to the floor, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Her cloak pooled around her like a wilted shadow.

And for a while, she just sat there.

Letting the warmth do what it could.

It still wasn’t enough.

Her throat tightened. She rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve — but the tears kept prickling at the edges anyway. Not loud. Not sobbing. Just… leaking.

Why had he said yes if he didn’t want to be here?

Why pretend to be her friend, only to act like she was a chore?

She curled tighter, the marble cool beneath her legs even as the sunlight warmed her face.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps.

She didn’t look up.

“Listen, kid,” Sans said, his voice softer than earlier but still tired. “It’s not you.”

Frisk didn’t answer. She kept her face turned to the window.

“I just don’t want to be a glorified babysitter,” he continued. “That’s not my thing. I didn’t ask for this gig, and it’s weird being told to watch someone like I’m some kind of... leash.”

She gave a small sniff. “I didn’t ask for it either.”

He paused. Then she heard the faintest shift of cloth as he came closer and sat down beside her — not touching, but close enough that she could feel the shape of his presence, like a buffer against the chill.

“I was happy when it was you,” she said after a long silence. Her voice was quiet. “I don’t want to be watched. I don’t want a guard. But when it was you... it didn’t feel like that. I thought it might actually be... good.”

Sans didn’t respond right away.

So Frisk kept going. Slowly. Like peeling off a bandage she’d worn for years.

“I thought you were funny,” she said. “And smart. And maybe a little weird.”

She rubbed her face on her sleeve again. Her voice thickened.

“Back on the surface, I lived at an orphanage. The kind with too many kids and not enough beds. I don’t even remember it having a name — just a sign with peeling paint and locks on every door.”

Her hands clenched into her sleeves.

“They didn’t care. Not really. The grown-ups weren’t mean, just... tired. Busy. The other kids didn’t like me. I was quiet. Weird. I read too much. I got in trouble for sneaking outside all the time. I had to figure out how to braid my own hair. How to cook toast without burning it. How to stay out of the way.”

She looked down at her boots, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Mostly, I learned how to not be noticed.”

The light from the stained glass spilled across her shoes like liquid gold.

“I never had friends,” she said. “Not real ones. I used to imagine them. Pretend they were there in the woods or hiding behind library shelves. I talked to them in my head. Because talking to real people always made things worse.”

Her voice trembled.

“But you made me laugh. And you didn’t treat me like I was weird. You just... treated me like a kid. Like someone you’d hang out with. And I thought... maybe I’d finally made a friend.”

Silence.

A long one.

Then:

“…Stars, kid,” Sans said softly. “That’s... heavy.”

Frisk shrugged one shoulder again. “I’m used to it.”

Sans looked down at his hands. His fingers were still. No puns. No smirk. Just quiet.

“…Guess I’ve been kind of a jerk,” he admitted. “Didn’t mean to be. I just... I’m not great at this kind of stuff.”

Frisk blinked.

He let out a long sigh and leaned back against the wall, head tilted toward the window.

“But I’m trying too. Okay?” he said. “I didn’t want to be anyone’s leash. But if I get to be your friend... maybe that makes it worth it.”

Frisk looked at him.

He met her eyes.

“And if anyone else tries to strap you to a death machine again,” he added, voice low and serious, “I will punt them across the Core. No joke.”

A tiny smile broke through her tears.

Sans reached up and adjusted his hood. “So yeah... I’ll be your guard. Not because anyone told me to. But ‘cause I want to.”

Frisk wiped her face again. “You mean it?”

“Yeah. But if you call me your ‘knight in bone-ing armor,’ I will revoke that statement and run screaming.”

She giggled. “Ew. No.”

“I’m watching you.”

“Good. It’s your job now.”

Sans snorted.

They sat in silence again, but it wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was warm. Like the light through the window.

Frisk leaned her shoulder slightly into his arm.

“Hey, Sans?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we’ll ever get to see the sun again?”

He looked up at the stained glass. The golden light spilled over his skull in soft, flickering waves.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think we will. You and me.”

Frisk smiled.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.

They stayed like that a little longer — two small figures in a hall made of gold and quiet — and the world, for once, felt like it could be kind.