Chapter 1

Grave of flowers

Soft golden rays shifting slightly as they fall from a ragged hole high up on the cave ceiling unto a thick patch of bright flowers. The small plants cover the ground mimicking the circular shape the light projects into the otherwise dark cavern. Standing over a sea of golden petals is a headstone. Worn by rain and time, the words 'Here lies our savior, The Angel' etched deeply into the stone. It looks as if it was meant to last forever.

That day, like many others before, the grave has a visitor. They speak softly to the grave while resting their back against it. Their bittersweet laughter echoes faintly off the walls, lost in the vastness of the cave that fades to nothing the farther it gets from the light. A scarce rain begins to fall and though unaffected by it, they take it as an excuse to end their visit, before staying past the point of nostalgia and into bitterness. They take their worn fur trim coat and swing it over their shoulder as they say yet another brief goodbye. The visitor takes a shortcut before climbing out through a long passage that once held an impassable barrier, yearning for it to imprison them again, if it meant they could talk to something other than a grave.

Hours pass slowly since the visitor left; moonlight, then daylight stream into the cave sporadically as the days countdown to their next visit. It is sometime near twilight, as the ashes of a fallen monster are swept away by the wind, when from the hole in the ceiling a red light tumbles into the flowers, blinking as it descends like a fallen star. There, beneath the dark earth, a flickering spark becomes a burning light pouring into a hollow shell, filling it with magic.

The first thing they notice is the dark. Heavy and oppressing, a weight that fills their lungs and gives no chance to breathe. They struggle in desperation, tearing into the dirt, squirming and clawing until they slowly begin to surface. After what feels like days their hand pushes up and meets no resistance; they have reached the surface.

Tearing through tendrils, of root and dried flesh that imprison them, a creature emerges from the ground to find themselves atop a pile of small flowers. It is dark now and they can barely see their pale digits in the dirt. They breathe heavily,feeling their chest lighten as it fills with relief. They look up gratefully, high above them a hole in the blackness shows a starry sky, its pattern displaced here and there by shreds of clouds. A shaky joyful cry leaves their mouth and rises wavering to the starlight.

Then it is mostly quiet again, they can discern the sound of the wind high above, of water dripping softly below; it all seems far from here. The sounds of their movements echo and die out before they go much farther. They are utterly alone here and the notion fills them with terrifying familiarity. Something in them recalls being this lost and afraid. Something in them begs to cower and disappear. They bring their hand to their mouth to muffle their uneven breaths so they can hide away from anything that might be lurking nearby.

Their hand feels numb, this is nothing new, but so does their mouth. In their panic they open their mouth and reach inside searching for a protrusion of small flowers. There is nothing but their tongue and a rotten taste, but they feel their hand clatter against their teeth and are startled by the sound. In a panic they wring their hands and feel the vibration as their fingers clatter against one another.

The inexplicable sensation and sound are confusing, so they hold their hands before them squinting in the dark. The wind blows the clouds away momentarily and in the muted moonlight two skeletal hands are spread across their eyes. When the hands turn this way and that, they know, even as the light fades away, that these are their own two hands. All fear of being found forgotten, they scream in horror. It seems as if they can go on screaming forever without having to pause for breath, because they probably can. They touch their chest, hearing that faint clatter as their hands run over their ribs and collarbone before reaching their face.

Frantically they palpate the smooth curves and dips of an exposed skull. They scream again, this time feeling how their face shifts when they open their mouth. Smooth bone, clattering limbs, no skin, no breath, no heartbeat. Wrapping these arms around themselves won't bring any comfort. They curl up then and there and dig into the dirt, trying desperately to feel as it passes through their fingers.

The soil gives away easily to the pointed ends of their fingers; giving them a faint sensation and nothing more, they can't feel the texture, can't tell if it is cold or warm. Feeling hopeless they lay still and stare into the dark until they can see the flowers around them appear out of the blackness one by one. When the first flower begins to appear gold, they stand, eyes avoiding their body. They look around and take in the mess of dirt and tatters they've left atop the flowers. Memories of the previous night send a shiver down their spine, which makes an audible clatter, barely noticeable over the birds that are greeting the day on the surface.

The tatters are shadowed by a gray headstone, that in their earlier panic didn't even register. They walk around it, unable to read what it says and see a heart carved near the top. Shakily they run their hands over it, numbed by the ludicrous fact that they are touching their own grave. At the bottom their fingers find another carving, a circle…wings…triangles.

The memories are hazy but come forth at the touch of the rune, a heavy coat, a gruff voice and eyes. Glowing red eyes inside pits of black, monstrous at first but slowly becoming an image of warmth and comfort. Their name is hard to find in the haze of their resurging memories but somewhere alongside the word sweetheart, there is Sans. Sans the monster, Sans the skeleton, Sans the enemy and friend. They shake their head, as they are assaulted by images of a skeleton with sharp teeth exposed in a smiling mask. They have no time to reminisce now, they must hide; a familiar urgency fills them and they welcome it, finding comfort in the fake sense of purpose it gives them. They replace their remains and the dirt back under the flowers and prepare to leave this place.

They find a niche amongst the cracks of the cave and wait. They hope no one can see them in this gloom but they know it's in vain; as monsters can see better than humans in the dark. It is still difficult to think of themselves as a monster too, and they catch the assumption as it passes through their mind. They wait for hours as the sun brightens to dig at their cover; once or twice they hear voices and try their best to meld into the dark. But though the voices seem to come close they never enter the cavern. There is a desolate air to the place, but not one of abandonment…there is almost a feeling of sacredness in its untouched beauty.

Only some crushed blooms and a slight trail of dirt mar the otherworldly effect. They wonder if it is enough to tell something has happened here. Many scenarios run through their anxious mind, all ending in death. They hide until the sky darkens with heavy clouds, perhaps now would be a good time as any to leave. They vaguely remember this place is deep and the way home will be a long and treacherous one. Accepting their fate, they decide to leave their hiding place keeping to the shadows around the grave.

But a sound breaks them out of their reverie: the thuds of feet against stone and dirt, coming closer. Someone is visiting their grave. In a moment of desperation, they contemplate hiding behind it, like a child playing badly at hide and seek. But they know that it's pointless and back away into the shadows, trying hard not to make a sound. Yet it is not a breath or footstep that gives them away, but the tell-tale rattle of their spine as a shiver scrapes a finger along its length. They stand still, but in the eerie silence they are aware that the monster has stopped. Pinpoints of red move from the grave and in their general direction, they feel pinned under the glowing eyes. An imposing shadow pours from the cavern entrance, black upon black, stretching like spilled ink.

"Who's there?" A gruff voice asks curtly.

They can't bring themselves to even lie, they can't speak. All they know is that they recognize that voice. A mixture of fear and joy fills them and they are made more acutely aware of the fact breathing is not necessary anymore. They want to be out of breath, but their body doesn't demand it as their memory does. So they stumble back, trying to be swallowed by the shadows, to run away and not towards the source of these feelings, but they stumble and fall; only to see the red lights flaring to life before them.

A fizzle of electricity in the air and streaming red projectiles fly overhead with a warped sound. They dodge by reflex, moving faster than they recall ever moving and rolling to the side. They scurry past the flickering light upon the flowers and back into shadow. Ironically the nearest cover was the grave, and so, like the fallen child they once were, they wait behind the stone, for either their own voice or this living memory to find them.

"What the hell are ya doing here...Whadda you want?!"

The voice is furious and frightening, a deep gravelly bass made loud by rage and the echoes of the cave. Even in their panic the indelible joy flutters somewhere in their ribcage and they call out in a hoarse shout.

"Sans?...SANS!? I'm...p-please remember me!" They stumble on that last part feeling absurd.

Silence. Not a word as the crackle of magic dissipates leaving only the wind passing overhead, whistling strangely. The steps move closer and they hold their hands to their chest that heaves in a reflex of fear. They close their eyes as the steps stop right before the grave. They hear knees hitting the dirt, a sharp rap against stone made weak by a rattle of bone; once, twice…it is underlined by an inappropriately toneless voice.

"Knock, knock"

I know this game….

"W-Who's there?"

"Ahab"

I remember this …

"Ahab who?"

"Ahab missed you…sweetheart."

I remember you…

It is then that Frisk opens their eyes.

Author notes:

Thank you very much for reading I hope you enjoyed it! (Series will update on Sundays)

Please support the official release and creators (aka:Credits/Disclaimers)

The game Undertale was created by Toby Fox

The idea of Underfell is a collective.

The artwork and concept of Flowerfell was created by:
Siviosanei and Snas

The fanfiction Overgrowth in which this is loosely based was written by:

Leviticus A. Winchester