Asterlight

By Leemix

Summary: A series of unfortunate events lead to a dying star falling into the dark confines of the Underground. Every time it's light flickers out prematurely, death is marked in the form of a tiny, yellow flower. A multi-chapter story based on SivioSanei's Flowerfell AU and SociopathicArchangel's Overgrowth story. I do not claim ownership of this AU in any way, merely this personal rendition of it.

a/n: I want to start off by saying I do not, in any way, own the Flowerfell AU. The concept was created by SivoSanei over on tumblr. The fanfiction adaptation "Overgrowth" was written by Levi (SociopathicArchangel), and whilst that story has been taken down now due to constant reposts on websites they did not agree to, and generally not respecting the author's wishes (and if this story goes against that as well, I will not hesitate to take it down), this is indeed my own interpretation of the AU.

I suppose the reason I wanted to write this story was to try and challenge myself. Underfell is one of my favourite AU's to begin with-the idea that the Monsters are the ones who adopt the "Kill or be Killed" mantra because there's no hope left, and the one creature that is kind and forgiving is the one Monster WITHOUT a SOUL: Flowey. Loyal to the memory of who he once was. Flowerfell allowed more of an exploration with showing the most beaten down Monster, Sans, who is famed for being so unwilling to do things due to the atmosphere he's lived in for so long, actually TRY to be a good person and SAVE this kind human who dies, over and over, yet still refuses to hurt anyone. Such concepts are fascinating to me, really. I suppose, during this, I also wanted to explore Frisk. To allow THEM to have a story. To show... them being human, I suppose. These three are the core of this story, and I want to show you all the journey they are going through.

So... I really hope you enjoy. I can't tell you how much this story means to me, now. I just hope you enjoy it as much as I have loved writing it. :)

(Always look twice.

Maybe then, you'll find the answers you seek.

Death is marked on your body in the form of a small, yellow flower. But in this world that sings of the mantra that one must "kill-or-be-killed", the fallen are not knocking at death's door, and kindness is a virtue of humanity that monsters can only see as a veil for their final demise.

But please remember, my friend.

Your gentle hands do not bear weapons, just the words to comfort those who ache with pain.

All you can do is show them the kindness in a world long starved of it. It is up to the SOULs you reach with that kindness of yours to look twice and listen.)

'It's a beautiful day outside.

Birds are singing. Flowers are blooming.

On days like these, kids like me . . .

Well, I'm not really a kid anymore. I guess the only thing I can say about today is that, all in all? It's a good day to die.

I don't expect anyone to find this letter, or to read my final words. This mountain is the one where nobody comes back from, after all. Or at least, according to local rumours. But I don't really speak much anyway, so I guess this is a way of getting my thoughts out there.

I don't hate the people who factored in my choice to come here. They're just humans with their own problems. They shouldn't have hurt me so much for it, but they're hurting too much to see sense. I didn't help when I added to that pain. I wasn't able to be the normal kid they needed. Well, if you can call me that now. I'm sort of past childhood.

You know, we drove passed this mountain a lot when I was a really little kid. That was before we moved to the city where you could see it from the distance. One thing I found really interesting was that, if you look at it from the back of a rusty truck at just the right angle and ignore the glaring from the cracked bits of glass from the window, the point of the summit almost looks like a path toward the sun.

I always felt a calling to this place for some reason. I guess now I'll be able to find out why.

This should probably be the part where I tell you my name, where I come from, and my story. Why I feel like I need to end it all on a mountain where nobody will ever find me. But I think it's better that I leave it up to your imagination. Poetic, I guess. I'm going to seek the unknown before becoming a part of it.

Maybe that's why I'm writing this.

Or maybe I really don't know anything at all. For all I know, I'm about to jump straight into the pits of hell.

At least, it's a beautiful day to burn.

Goodbye. '

"… Death waits for nobody's approval, after all. Heh, I suppose it's time for me to go."

CHAPTER ONE

—

THE RUINS
(It begins)

You're sure your mind has broken when you feel the earth under your fingers.

At first, you're still. If hell feels like soft soil and flower petals, then it must be kinder to sinners than you first thought. But then the scent of flowers fills your brain, and you realise, surprise surprise, you're still feeling.

Slowly, you manage to stand yourself upright. It takes a few moments before you feel steady enough on your feet (your head still feels dizzy) before you crane your head up and look around at your surroundings. Traces of sunlight barely manage to filter in through the small cracks in the mouth of the cavern. The rays that do manage to pour through shine directly onto the yellow flowers (did they break your fall, you wonder? Or was it them calling you to trip up?). Otherwise, there's nothing but darkness encroaching around you.

You scratch your head. Hell certainly looks odd, does it not? You probably expected more fire and brimstone. Not in a tiny place filled with flowers that look too neat and orderly to be growing naturally.

You shrug it off. There's nothing much else for you to do other than to start walking on ahead. Your eyes are wide open, but it does little good in a world where your vision is swimming in an ink blackness. You feel along the walls to guide you, taking slow steps to avoid any protruding rocks that might trip you up or cut your hands in a moment of thoughtless carelessness.

It's during the venture that you wish you hadn't taken your shoes and coat off before you fell (although, to be fair, you didn't think you'd be needing more warmth in a place with apparent eternal fire and whatever that old book preaches, so you give yourself some leeway). The cold from the floor seeps through your loose woollen socks, and the sweater you're wearing is barely enough to keep the warmth in. Perhaps you don't have a lot of common sense.

But it's then, you see it.

A small, dim light, highlighting a lone flower in the midst of a barren space. There's a path that winds further down, and you should follow it, just to see if there's a way out of here.

But then, the flower turns around and looks at you.

… Wait.

Flowers aren't supposed to have a face.

You yelp and jump back.

"Ssh!" The flower looks panicked and glances around nervously. "Jeez, don't be so loud, you idiot!"

All you do is stare at it, wide-eyed. You rose one arm over your face in a vain attempt to protect yourself, but you lower it as your calm returns. You peer at the flower and tilt your head to the side.

Words taste bitter and you've always disliked talking, but you doubt a flower (with a face. Your mind is still reeling from that) could understand sign language, so you've probably got no choice. You force the words from your throat into the open air. "Who… or what, are you?"

"How many times have I heard that before?" The flower presses a curled, ripped leaf to its eyes, and sighs. "Right, I suppose we're going to have to go back to basics. Howdy, I'm Flowey the Flower."

"You're a talking flower."

"Yes. I'm glad your observational skills are intact. Anyway, as I was saying—"

"Wait, wait, I need a moment to comprehend this." You cut the flower off and scratch the back of your neck. "You're a flower with a face. You're a talking, sentient flower with a face. You have teeth and eyes and—fangs? Why do you have fangs? How does that even work? Why does a flower have teeth? Do you have a digestive track? Or a skeleton? What the hell would a flower's skeleton look like? ...And how the hell can you talk? And what about—?"

"Yes, yes. I get it. You're surprised at talking botany. Such shocking developments. Look, will you just be quiet for a second, please?"

Your jaw locks shut.

"Good." He breathes a sigh of relief. "So, going by your … uh, appearance, I'm guessing you're a human?" You nod stiffly. "That's sort of a problem for you, then. See, you've landed yourself in the Underground. A world of literal monsters. Not only are they, uh, not the most agreeable sort, but they don't like humans."

You arch a brow and unhinge your jaw. "M-Monsters?" Flowey nods. "You're seriously expecting me to believe that?"

"Says the human listening to a talking flower."

You consider his point for a moment. It's not the weirdest thing you could dream up before dying. At least you're creative? Yet, something in your soul resonates, and you feel inclined to believe him. Instead of arguing (you don't really do that anyway), you point upward, and reason with logic. "I could just climb back up."

Flowey pauses. "…Golly," he sighs. "I forgot how many years it's been since the last one fell down here… well, never mind that. I'm guessing all the rumours have died down from where you're from?"

You give Flowey a quizzical look. "Rumours?"

"Listen." He stretches out a leaf and gestures for you to come closer, and he whispers, "You're not going to get home by just climbing out here. There's a reason that we–that all of the monsters, I mean–are trapped down here." The leaf then prods your chin, and you glance upwards. "Can you see that near-invisible sheen that's blocking out most of the sunlight?" You nod. "That's a magical barrier sealing us all inside. People can fall in, but they can't get out."

You think you've heard it all, now.

"S-So, I'm…trapped down here?"

Flowey doesn't say anything.

You think it over in your head. So, according to this... sentient, speaking golden flower, you're going to be trapped forever in a place where every living thing wants to kill you. People will hate you just for being what you were born as.

Maybe this is hell for you, after all.

"Is there no way out at all?"

Something shifts in Flowey, and he turns his head away from you.

"Not from here."

"So if I keep going forward, I can get out?"

"…Maybe."

You're silent as you stand up again, and brush the crumbs of soil off of your knees. The path ahead isn't as dark as the one before, but you have to strain your narrow eyes to see the way forward. It'll be difficult to proceed.

But you will do so, anyway. Because for now, it's all you can do.

"Thank you for telling me all that, Flowey. Really. I appreciate it." You turn around to wave at the small flower, trying your best to smile at him. "Well, I…guess I'll be going now, then."

He refuses to look at you still, as you run off into a labyrinth of the unknown.

You barely last fifteen minutes.

Flowey never warned you about the traps.

You fall head-first into the spikes, and the last thing you hear is a sickening crunch.

You wake up with a quick start, gasping for air. You sit up, and frantically pat your forehead until your fingers grow clammy from second-hand sweat. The only thing you feel is a small, stray flower bud caught in your matted hair.

Your laboured breathing slows. You look around.

You're back on the bed of flowers.

"What…?"

You get up (carefully, you reason, because your legs are shaky from the fall and not because you just felt your skull split into a million different pieces. That wasn't real. It can't be real.), and walk in the same direction as before. You're not as slow this time.

That flower is still there, stuck in the small, scarce ray of sunshine. He turns and looks at you, and surprise flits across his face.

"You're…you're back?"

Your blood runs cold, and all you can do is gasp out a stuttered series of, "not a dream, not a dream, not a dream, why is this not a dream—!"

Flowey pops underneath the soil and elevates himself out of the loose earth and stands up to your height via his vines seconds later. He keeps your body steady with the stems and holds you until your beating heart calms itself. Even in the moments after, he refuses to let you go until he knows you're strong enough to stand on your own.

(Something about the hug is familiar.

… Don't comment on it.

Don't even think about it.

Keep moving forward.

It's all that can be done, for now. )

You're taken in by the caretaker of the Ruins a few moments later.

Toriel found you whilst doing her daily rounds. Leading you by the hand, she claims that she often partakes in daily ventures through the depths of the Ruins, just to check if anyone has fallen through the numerous cracks on the mountain top. She's made it a necessary daily habit in all the long years that she's lived here for, she tells you with tired gusto. You can't help but feel the wear and ruin in her voice as she says that, but there's a spring in her step as she leads you through the various nooks and crannies of the Ruins, all the while showing you how to successfully navigate through the traps.

You ignore a cold shiver that runs up your spine as you look at the spikes, and clutch the soil-filled boot closer to your chest. It's where Flowey now sits, acting the part of the non-sentient flower.

Flowey promised he'll go with you, this time. Wherever you decide to go, he'll be there for you. The thing is, Flowey is still not telling you everything–about how you dreamt of a future where you died, and where he was present in your subconscious to meet you. But it's not because he's being intentionally cruel (he insists. You believe him.). He just wants to make sure of something before jumping to conclusions.

Toriel stares at the flower with a mixture of hatred and longing. You want to press, but you instead push it to the back of your mind when Toriel suddenly comes to a gentle stop.

"Here you are, my child."

Toriel stands outside a room and gestures for you to go into it.

You peer inside.

Dusty shoes lined up against the wall. Dusty toys shoved into a box. A small, dusty bed with a knitted throw propped up in the corner. It's like a fairy-tale home behind iron bars.

"I know it is most likely not what you are used to on the Surface, but I have done my best to suit your tastes." You look up at her. Toriel's large furred paw sits comfortably on your shoulder, and she's staring at you with hints of long-forgotten hope. It's bobbing on the surface of her tired, yellow-tinted sclera, and you can't bring yourself to look away despite the nervousness in your gut. "Do you like it, my child?"

You mutter, "it's great."

You don't have the heart or courage to refuse her, even if the words taste like acid burning a hole through your tongue.

The first night you're there, you sneak out to explore.

Despite the beginnings that lead you to this place, you've always had a taste for discovery that has never quite been sated, no matter how numb your mind became. No matter long you used to travel on foot to look at different places. It didn't matter how breathless you became whilst you ran; your feet wouldn't listen, and your eyes would become filled with wanderlust.

But those days are gone. Time isn't kind to memory, especially yours.

That's why you can't forget.

Toriel is asleep when you begin your walk around the Ruins. They haven't changed since you last set foot there. Bleached, purple stone that has faded to a gentle violet with time; the Monsters that grow accustomed to your presence throughout the quiet hours only scatter when you come close, no longer attacking you. You steer clear of the traps after brushing your fingers on one of the spikes leads to blood droplets staining the cold metal.

Walking past them still makes you shudder.

About an hour into your walk, in a corner of the Ruins, you stumble across spider webs that make the foundations for a bake sale. You browse around the odd confections before you pocket one doughnut and place a few golden coins in their dew-freckled webs. Anything that helps your family out, you told the spiders with a smile. On the Surface, people were always so afraid of their gangling limbs and unusual appearance; their eyes are kaleidoscopes, their little hands the needles that sew beautiful patterns in the dreary corner they call home.

You wonder what kind of stories they could tell you.

More traps. Running water. Dead seeds clinging to air vents. Lily pads that crisp red around the edges. Maybe it is Autumn underground? There was a large tree in front of Toriel's cottage with red leaves suspended on the ground, falling wherever they please.

You consider going back to that one flowerbed where you fell down, something in your heart is tugging you to look at the golden flowers gasping for sunlight-but you don't, because there's nothing left there. Involuntary shivers chip away at your spine until your mind forces itself to stop thinking about it.

Instead, you notice a small doorway. The taste of curiosity returns to your tongue. And you are not a cat, so perhaps it will not kill you if you were to follow your childish impulses.

It's dark, at first. The scent of golden flowers carries down the corridor as your vision is eaten up. But you keep moving forward, because it's all you can do. Your hand feels along the cold, smooth stone, until...

A balcony.

The light floods in on the small perch, barely boxed in by flimsy wooden railings, but the floor is made from stone. You put your hand on the railing-wood from a silver birch, you think-and ignore the ominous creak as you look out to the vast horizon.

It's a city.

But.. it's dead.

Every building is grey. The streets are empty, save for the lone straggler squatting in one of the barren buildings. The only lights in the windows that you can see constantly flicker. The scent of burned wood wafts under your nose, tickles your senses until you have to blink repeatedly to get rid of the smoke. Whatever was killed here, this city was the pyre. Or perhaps the pyre burned the city.

"What... happened?"

But nobody answers you. Flowey was still napping on his perch on the sill when you left that room. The cold air is your answer, making the gooseflesh on your arm all the more noticeable.

Something catches your eye, fluttering in the wind. You crane your head to the left.

A small, teal ribbon, caught between burned wood and stone. Beside it is a toy knife, splattered with red ink.

You kneel down, lifting the rock and placing it to the side, letting the ribbon free. It's slightly torn at the edges, fraying the thread. The toy knife doesn't interest you, but you pick it up as well. You trace over the familiar brand logo with your thumb, before you rest against the railing, holding it up to the spider webs in the corners.

"A kid's ribbon... and a toy knife meant for a child..." The words show your mastery of observation. "They look old."

One of the spiders scuttle out, and you know that it is looking at you. You hold up the items.

"Do you know who owns these?"

They weave their answer in the webs. Yes.

Your curiosity heightens. "Did they leave them here on purpose?"

The spider climbs to another web, sews their answer with smaller, intricate letters. No.

You sit up. "Is there somewhere I can go to give them back to them?"

They point to the answer already weaved. Yes.

"Are they waiting for them?"

Again, the needle points. Yes.

"They must be very patient if they've been waiting for someone to find them instead of coming to get it themselves..." The spider blinks at you, twirling the golden coin you gave them earlier in one of their legs, but they don't say anything else. The sight of the ribbon takes you back to when you were a child, but looking at the knife sends forlorn shivers down your spine. "Do... they want both of the items?"

The spider says nothing.

The echoes of a voice bounce around the dead city until it reaches your ears, your broken mind tuning itself in to listen to it's fragile pleads.

(Keep the ties strong. Keep away from that which would sever it.)

The teal ribbon still flutters in the droughts of the ruins, whistling through the cracks in the lilac stones until they almost sound like whispers. They pluck the strings on the spider's webs until it almost sounds like a caress on a lute, fingers poking through spectral imitations of flesh. The toy knife remains stagnant, like the water in the Ruins.

You stand up with both items in each hand, before holding up the toy knife to the spider. "...Can you look after this for me, please?"

Spindly limbs take the knife from you, and it disappears back into the darkness.

You stay with Toriel for three days before you ask to leave.

On the first day , she lavishes you with the loving attention that you've barely ever seen in books and movies, let alone real life. It's a bit overbearing, honestly, but it is really nice, too. It always has been.

She bakes you pies–you prefer cinnamon to butterscotch, but Toriel remarks that, obviously, they taste better together (and you're inclined to agree with her, obviously), and she makes sure you always have the bigger slice. She braids your hair, reads you books about snails and history, and she always laughs at your terrible sense of humour. You both have an affinity for terrible puns about plants and baking.

The second day, you shyly ask her if you can call her "mother". You see a small, red flush pepper her cheeks (pepper, you think, as you cheer inside your head, because you've made another cooking pun), and she sweeps you into a big hug that is just a little too tight for you to escape from without gently pounding at her strong, furry arms.

When the third day comes, you begin to notice the patterns that worry you. Little cracks in the surface of the matronly exterior.

Toriel tries to hide the simmering anger you sense whenever you stray too far from her sight. Her hand grips yours a little too tightly when your gaze lingers at the entrance to the basement for too long. She changes the subject when you ask her questions about the outside world.

Flowey is quiet throughout it all.

You turn your head to face Flowey, scratching absentmindedly at a small, soft bump in your hair. You're still wearing a pair of dusty shoes that were previously lined up with the others. They're only a pair of brown boots with white laces, but they're the most comfortable shoes you've ever worn. You think you should have taken them off when you slept. Instead, you keep them on. They're one of the few things that are grounding you in this strange, new world.

"Why aren't you talking to me?"

Flowey's torn petals tremble. "There's nothing to say."

"You appeared in one of my dreams." Your reason stands and Flowey still won't look at you. "You recognised who I was straight away. And you don't seem to like Mom at all. You always pretend to be a normal flower around her."

"So?" He shrugs.

You don't back down. "I think I need some answers here, Flowey."

"How do you know I'm not just a figment of your imagination?"

"I'm not that creative. You've heard my puns."

Flowey groans and flexes his leafs. "They're awful."

"Heh. That just proves you're real." You cover your eyes with the back of your arm, and whisper, "hey. Flowey. Why don't you just show Toriel you're alive?"

His voice is barely above a whisper. "… It's better this way."

"…Huh?" You look over at him, confused. Have Flowey and Toriel met before, somewhere? He's speaking with a hint of sentimentality. "Why do you think that? Is it because you don't trust her?"

Flowey is still. You don't think you'll get another answer out of him.

Until, he does.

"…Trusting her is like walking through a hall of mirrors. I'm still searching for something other than a broken reflection."

You want to ask him more questions (you actually want to speak for once, which surprises you), but Flowey is no longer bothering to pay attention to you. Or he's ignoring you to bypass answering any more questions you may have. Either way, he's a stubborn little flower that you've started to grow (grow. Budding friendship. Heh.) fond of, so you put up with it.

You lock your gaping mouth shut, pull the covers up over your body, and close your eyes.

.

.

.

(Your hand traces over the teal ribbon wrapped around your wrist.
Fingers brushing over the fraying edges like feathers as it hides underneath your sweater's sleeve.)

( You dream of that hall of mirrors Flowey mentioned that night. The only thing that isn't a reflection of yourself is the canopy of stars that stretches across overhead, and the yellow flower petals that hang suspended in front of you. When you reach up to try and touch the stars, something makes your hand bounce back. A glass ceiling is stopping you from escaping.

You're completely alone as you find yourself rooted to the spot. When you touch the flower petals, they shrivel up and wilt at your touch, before dropping to the ground and turning to ash.

Next, you look around at the mirrors. You see yourself reflected back in your eyes in a thousand different ways.

"It's me. My name is—" )

The fourth day is when you first ask to leave the Ruins. You leave Flowey in your room, roll out of your bed (it's still dusty, but you've gotten used to it), and walk over to where your mother is sitting. She's reading a book about snails again. It's the same book she's been reading for the past three days.

The book snaps shut when you let the question slip, and her warmth turns to ice.

"What did you just say?"

You feel your confidence shrink into your shoulders. You.. don't remember her voice being so cutthroat.

You ask again. "I want to go out."

Your mother scoffs at you. "Do not be ridiculous. There is nothing out there for you but death, my child. Now, will you please stop talking such absurdities and get washed up for dinner? We're having a lovely–"

"...No."

"No?"

You feel your breathing hitch. "P-Please. I want to go out."

A shroud of quiet cloaks the room, the tension tugging at the seams and making the atmosphere feel unstable for a few moments.

Then, Toriel rises.

You've never noticed how large and tall she is until she's looming over you, her incredible seven feet over your stout five feet. You've never felt so small before. Not until Toriel looks down at you like you're a bug in her favourite pie, and her fists uncurl into a flat paw as if ready to squash you until you are nothing more than a bloody pulp on her carpet.

Her eyes are dead in yellow as she looks right through you. "That is always the problem with you human children." Her tone is biting your self-esteem. "You are always so unsatisfied with what you've been given." She breathes. She's composing herself. "Get washed up for dinner, my child, and I will forget you ever asked such nonsense."

You gulp loudly and shrink into your borrowed shoes.

The words "I'm not much of a child anymore" die at the back of your throat.

But you don't let it go.

Instead, you beg Toriel to let you out of the Ruins. Being there is beginning to suffocate you. You poke and prod at every last inch of her patience until she nearly backhands you across the face, before she promptly decides to take it upon herself to destroy the entrance of the Ruins so you'll have no choice but to remain there with her.

Forever.

You meet Toriel in front of the large stone door that blockades your freedom.

"You wish to leave here so badly? Such an ungrateful child." Flames rise up and cloak your mother's hands. "You are all the same in the end. Do you not understand this yet, my child? They will destroy you out there. They will kill you, and they will be without mercy for you. They do not understand mercy. Can you not see I am trying to keep you safe from them?"

She doesn't give you time for a second chance.

Flames lick at your heels as you try to dodge her ruthless onslaught (she won't stop laughing as she cries out for you to go upstairs and be a good child, and her expression is judgemental and loving and angry all at the same time. But you can't hurt her. You won't.) until your vision is destroyed when they melt your eyes and scar your hands.

"Oh, no—no—no! This isn't . . . oh, my sweet starling … I am so—so sorry. Please, rest easy, now. You will be in pain no longer. There is no need for you to be frightened any longer, my child."

She speaks of your death as if she has granted you a mercy.

But then your dear mother cradles you against her soft fur, the scent of fire and ash clinging to her, before every thought in your head grows dark.

That's when you notice the second flower.

You return to the world of the living past with a gasp and sit up quickly. Beads of cold sweat from your body have soiled the clean death bed, and you pat your forehead to make sure your eyes are still there.

You frantically feel all over your body. No scorch marks. No burns. No taut skin. Everything on you is smooth and undamaged, save the small flower that has blossomed in the middle of your forehead.

Your mind is fuzzy and confused.

Nothing is coherent.

Everything is blurry.

"Huh?" Flowey looks at you oddly. "When did you get back? I thought you had gone to ask her to let you go out of here." He narrows his eyes. "…When did you put a flower in your hair?"

That's when all the memories suddenly clock in your head. Slowly, you bring your hand to feel around your forehead again. It's still there. A tiny, budding flower, rooted in the centre of the skin.

You rush out of bed to look in the small, broken mirror hung in the corner of the room. You fail to notice the small tints of red around the shards, instead focusing on the small, golden petals.

White-hot pain shoots through your head when you tug at the bud, and you yelp in distress.

You slump back over to your bed and sigh shakily.

"Don't know. Confused. Living in a dream again."

(Can you call it a dream if you remember the image of your mother burning you alive? Right down to the burning sensations on your back?

...Either way, you know it is not a case of hazy deja vu.

Not when it is so clear.)

Everything you say is fragmented. Flowey tries to understand, and he's piecing it all together with a lackluster explanation on your part. You always disliked speaking. You tell him (in stutters and more sweat making your hands clammy) about your mother's crazed desperation, and about her fire and brimstone that melted your eyes, and about the large door and …

You're still quivering when Flowey shushes you, unfurling a slightly ripped leaf and using it to dry your tears.

"I … I think you died." Flowey begins to explain to you as if it's supposed to make any sense. You can barely see the emotion in his face through your watery gaze. "And returned to your last SAVE point."

"I-I d-don't…" You begin to stammer, and your lip trembles from the lack of understanding. Looking over at Flowey, you decide to chance it. You raise your hands. 'Do you understand me?'

Flowey tries to smile. "Yeah, I do. Why, did you think I wouldn't understand sign language because I don't have hands?"

'It's more because you're a flower with a face. I didn't know what to believe.'

"Well, you better … be-leaf it now."

You manage a tiny laugh. 'I thought you hated puns. You told me that they were a cheap form of comedy.'

"I can let it slide if your horrid taste in humour makes you feel better. But now? I'm thinking an explanation would be better for you." One of his leaves covers your hand. "I owe you that much."

'… Thank-you.'

You decide against going out of your room again, today. Or maybe it's yesterday. You're not quite sure anymore. Time never makes much sense after you die. All you know is that in the quiet space of the room, Flowey weaves together a story so crazy, you give reality the credit that it's the truth. There's no way you would have thought it up, after all.

You're not that creative. Or maybe this endless cycle death has given you enough doses of lucidity to see the patchwork colours of insanity before you're doomed to repeat another untimely demise.

The best minds are the most damaged, right?

Maybe it's time you started picking up the pieces of yours.

The little yellow flowers are a marker for death.

Specifically, it's each time you die and come back to life when a new flower blossoms up on your body, taking root in your skin. Tiny, harmless pieces of green and yellow, show the number of times you mess up in every timeline and go back to the start.

You think they're buttercups.

Flowey says you've got the powers that he once had. The power to RESET. To return to your last SAVE point. He tells you that every time you die, you return to the place where you SAVED. It's an unconscious thing when you save, he says. It's a place that's linked by an invisible chord of memory. Somehow, your SOUL returns there each time, dragging the remainder of your physical body through time and space until it can further whatever quest fate wants you to complete.

He's got no explanation for the flowers, however.

You've lost count of how many times you've begged Toriel to let you go outside. She refuses to listen every single time, too mad and raw from a history of dead children running off and perishing in a world she's exiled herself from. You can barely recall the specifics over the calling of her flames engulfing your SOUL.

You never blame her for the times she's killed you. You won't. No matter what.

She's just hurting, after all. Lashing out and killing you, but she never means it. You reason you would be mad with grief too if it was your child who wanted to leave, to go to a place where nobody would spare them. All for the simple justification of what they were born as.

Each time she kills you, you wake up with a new flower. Each burn on your back, each claw into your heart, makes your skin the soil of another blossom. You soon notice that every time you ask her to leave, Toriel is looking at your image with more and more confusion.

("This is not the child I saw mere seconds ago," you once imitated in your head, in a brief interlude of faux resting. "The child I rescued was blank-faced and clean, not a living greenhouse." You frown for a moment. Toriel's voice doesn't sound like it belongs in your mind.)

You peer closer at your reflection the mirror. Yellow and green have never been colours that have suited you, but you can get used to it. It sort of looks like you've put a bunch of flowers in your hair, at the right angle. You've always squinted your eyes anyway, so you can, at least, pretend there are fewer flowers than there actually are.

You poke one of the petals. It curls in on itself.

Flowey doesn't stop looking at you, keeping his eyes trained on the flowers.

'It'll be alright, F-L-O-W-E-Y.' You sign. You haven't had time to come up with a unique sign for his name yet. Between you playing knock-knock ginger on death's door and trying to keep yourself sane, you've not had the time to let your brain wonder about it. And at the moment, you're too focused on trying to make him feel a little better.

'We'll be okay.' You sign confidently. 'I'll get through to her eventually.'

Flowey's entire presence is nothing but silence. You're not sure if it's working. Making people smile has never been your strong suit.

You sit down on your bed again and all but give up on him speaking to you before you hear him mutter something.

"…I hope so, too."

( The stage of your death and it's various encores have allowed you to learn so much about the ghosts of children who stood before you.

The threads unravel;

They came, falling down onto the same patch of golden flowers. Each one with a heart so different.

They stayed just long enough for Toriel to fall in love with them, and left so quickly she didn't have enough time to patch up her broken heart.

She's a mother denied the chance to see her children grow up. )

You bring Flowey with you the next time you ask to go out, but you don't wait for a response from Toriel. You turn on your heel as soon as you see the anger, and feel the adrenaline fuelling your blood as she begins to growl at you.

She's hot on your trail as you scamper as fast as you can down the stairs. Each footstep begins to burn the soles of your shoes as her flames catch on the tail end of your fear.

"Look out—!"

Flowey's shrill warning comes too late. Her flames eat away at the skin on your back until you're face-first on the ground. Flowey tumbles out of his shoe, somewhere in front of you.

It takes longer for you to burn this time. Your skin is aching and blistering, and the petals have caught alight on your cheek and look like small pitchforks in the dark. However, Toriel is crying when she holds you, this time. When your weakened head manages to lift itself to peer up at her face, you notice that her sclera is changing from yellow to purple. As you press a hand to her cheek, she flinches.

Maybe she remembers echoes of past guilts where she murdered you in a frenzy.

"Oh, dear, my darling star… I am so sorry… I-I never meant for it to end up like this… "

There's only just enough energy to smile a little at her, and a voice that is begging whatever hope still exists in this world that she's getting the message. That message that is the last coherent thought remaining in this timeline before the entire world folds in on itself.

"No matter what, I will always forgive you, Mother."

Finally, finally, you make it.

You've lost count of how many times you've lived in this moment. Maybe it's been the equivalent of a thousand years inside a single time loop. Can circles measure time? You don't know. You're not much of a scientist.

Something in this particular scenario shows change. The flowers have taken up much of your right ear and left shoulder, and they're beginning to eat up the vision in your right eye, and you're not as fast as you've usually been. But this time, Toriel sees you refusing to hurt her more and more, and something in her SOUL lessens her onslaught until, finally, she breaks down crying at your feet.

You feel your SOUL stutter as you breathe a sigh of relief, and it's not long before your kneeling down in front of her.

"My child … they will not give you mercy out there. If you are so insistent on leaving, then please... please, beware of ASGORE. Do not allow him to pluck your SOUL from your chest." You cup her furred jaw and press your forehead to your mother's. She strokes over your flower-covered wrists with the tenderness of the mother you always knew her as, and will never forget. She's all warmth again, and it's not coming from the flames. "But, even in spite of all the danger, I was wrong to keep you trapped down here. This is no place for such a young one such as yourself to grow up-you deserve the stars."

She's all warmth again, and it's not coming from the flames. "But, even in spite of all the danger, I was wrong to keep you trapped down here. This is no place for such a young one such as yourself to grow up-you deserve the stars."

She looks up at you, directly into your wide eyes. The ones that belong to her aren't the crazed eyes of someone who killed you out of a sense of crazed grief. It's the tender, yet broken gaze of a mother who has finally learned that she needs to let go. "Can you ever forgive this foolish old woman?"

So, the answer is easy for you.

'I do.' Your mouth spells out, because really, you do.

If every timeline is different like Flowey says, then this is the Toriel you want to remember.

Her gaze doesn't leave your eyes, and she smiles. She really is beautiful.

"Oh, my word…" Toriel gasps as she takes another look at you. Her furred paw graces your cheek with its lingering, warm presence. "You have the same eyes as a child I once loved, with all my heart. They were all hopes and good intentions, with the brightness of a thousand stars." She brushes your hair behind your ears. "I hope you do not lose your kind spirit, my dear. It will serve you well when you get back home."

Then your beautiful mother embraces you for the last time, and you breathe in the scent of baking ingredients and warm ash and comfort. It's then time for you to be letting you go, to walk away from this place and not to look back.

You're never sure if Toriel does the same. If you're honest, you're not quite sure if you want to find out.

Flowey picks himself up from the corner (the poor thing had been flung to the wayside after he elevated you away from an onslaught of flames and claws; you can't help but notice that one of his large, proud petals is torn right down the middle), and you help him get settled back into his boot. You could try and die again so that doesn't happen, but one muted glare from those beady eyes tells you not to. Instead, whilst the door to the outside world slowly scrapes against the stone flooring of the Ruins, you turn and ask him a question.

'Do you know who she was talking about?'

Flowey looks away from you and doesn't answer your question. You sigh. You've long since learned that he's never willing to give those up to you easily.

So, you move forward.

It's all you can do for now.

Notes:

1) - "Always look twice" - The first thing I thought of when initially drafting up "Asterlight", and one of the few things never to change throughout the story and its numerous rewrites. I would keep these words in mind when reading the story. It might lead to a few unexpected surprises.
2) - "This should probably be the part where I tell you my name, where I come from, and my story. Why I feel like I need to end it all on a mountain where nobody will ever find me. But I think it's better that I leave it up to your imagination. Poetic, I guess. I'm going to seek the unknown before becoming a part of it." - This note is one of the few, lengthy introspective pieces we get directly from Frisk's head in the story. They don't like to talk much about themselves, even when we get the chance to look inside their head later on.
3) - "You're sure your mind has broken when you feel the earth." - The way Frisk's story is being told-through the use of "you" instead of "I"-is reflective of this.
4) - "…Trusting her is like walking through a hall of mirrors. I'm still searching for the face that is closest to her true nature." - Flowey's theory on the RESETs is that each "version" of the people they meet is difference, like looking in a hall of mirrors. Some images are distorted beyond recognition, others are near-perfect replicas with only a few cracks. Toriel's mirror has been stepped on by the numerous tragedies in her life, so much that Flowey can barely recognise her anymore. He's been waiting for that near-perfect replica of Toriel to come back for a long, long time. She's the only one he had hope for in the world of the Underground to change how thngs worked. What else do you think he was doing in the Ruins?
5) - "You're still wearing a pair of dusty shoes that were previously lined up with the others...grounding you in this strange, new world." - The shoes that Frisk wore to bed? They belonged to Chara. Toriel keeps all the old shoes of the children she looked after, and makes the children that fall new ones.
6) - "They were all hopes and good intentions, with the brightness of a thousand stars." - Chara was once the hope of the Underground along with Asriel. Stars are often used by people who navigate in the dark as a way of finding their way home. When the stars are covered by cloud or ash, you lose the ability to navigate safely.

EDIT - 16/10/2016 - I have recently added in a new segment where Frisk finds the teal ribbon and the toy knife near the empty city.