Blood.
Frisk had seen blood before. It was not a colour of passion - not the type that they were acquaintanced with, anyway. Passion was a nice thing, the catalyst that brought you to create and give, to finish, and Frisk had simultaneously done all three in their worst manner. Their hands were stained with red, a bright reminder of what had faded away. Though the child could not bare to look at them, it was also very difficult to get your eyes off the last thing that reminded you of life in a spiritless place. The ruins were cold now - or maybe it was then that Frisk had started paying attention to the chills running down their spine.
Frisk did not weep often. They were a quiet child, characterized precisely by their way of expression with minimal words. It hadn't been an appreciated trait back on the surface, where people were loud, looking down on you if you didn't copy or gain that trait on your own account. It felt so good to have someone talk without trying to coax you into active participation, though, now, there was only regret that they didn't try harder with their own words. Yet Frisk did not cry. They just laid down on the spot just by the door, trying to find a specific warmth.
They did not remember falling asleep.
It was a dreamless nap - Frisk awoke, shivering, wrapping their arms around their body. They contemplated hauling themselves up and coming back to the house, eating pie and sleeping warmly, but a certain aura discouraged them greatly, and they stayed in its weak protection, motionless, tired. There were surely other creatures roaming upstairs, but one thing Frisk did not look forward to is being shunned and perceived as even lower than them. The child stared up at the door and its doorknob, tempted to reach out to it and embrace the unknown - yet, now, a distant voice reminded them, over and over, of why this exact desire to leave the comforts of the ruins would only be their demise.
They would have to move, sooner or later. There were no gentle, large figures to encourage or frown upon it, not anymore.
Frisk stood up, now in a sudden rush for temporary alleviation of the guilt that lingered in the air.
They pressed their hands on the doorknob, pushing the door just enough for them to squeeze through, and stumbled in, startled by the loud slam. It was a long, uncomfortably wide corridor, dark and consistent in its colours. It was also inexplicably a little warmer - or maybe it just felt like it, as it no longer held the atmosphere of death that Frisk had inadvertently caused. Behind that door that had made them jump was a whole different world, and Frisk knew it was risky to approach it again. They startled ambling forward, uncertain, with a difficult knot in their stomach. Simultaneously, it felt a strange relief. The memories of the individual whose kindness they'd repaid with unintentional malice were already a little hazy, though they were sure they'd get a clear view in a dream at some point as a sharp reminder.
It was a long corridor - far too long, but almost comfortingly narrow enough for them to know there was nothing lurking in the shadows, waiting to cleanse them out of their sins in the most atrocious manner possible. They shook off those thoughts immediately, gaining a little spring to their step in their subconscious desire to get the walk over with as soon as possible. Their eye spotted a door in the far distance, almost identical to the one that had brought them in.
This time, they did not stumble in the next room, nor did it slam heavily. Frisk almost preferred the uncertainty of the corridor to the obviousness of this.
A painfully familiar sentient plant, smiling eerily, though wise enough to know that they were paying very little attention to them on purpose. It waited until the child warily eyed its petals, its menacing facial features, and it waited until Frisk bit their lip, expecting a spiel of something they could already predict.
"Well, howdy! I just knew that a clueless kid like you wouldn't survive off being kind for long." Its voice was odd. Light, bubbly, but otherwise unpleasant. "You made it. You killed the old hag, didn'tcha? She couldn't even protect herself, that wimp, and she speaks of preventing a similar fate for humans!" If its voice was unpleasant before, now it was nothing short of disturbing. And Flowey did seem to bask in the glory of causing the younger child to flinch, despite their stubborn attempts to keep their composure.
"Go away."
Frisk's tone was low, raised slightly with each time they repeated it. And they said it again, and again, and again, until that dreadful creature had gotten frustrated with trying to get to their head. They didn't remember whether it said anything else that they actually heard, but when they lifted their head up again, the little patch of grass was empty.
For a split second, the child nearly called out for it to come back. They curled up, staring at yet another door in the proximity, only left to guess what could await behind it. They did not want to guess.
Frisk wept for once, increasingly unsure of the occasion for their bitter tears.