It hurts to move.
It hurts to breath.
After accepting the corruption into your body, into your SOUL, the changes were immediate, and violent as a hurricane. You screamed as the bones in your feet and hands cracked and bent and shifted, then burst past your skin, hitting the frigid air, long and slender and flawlessly white. There are nerves in the tatters of your ruined skin, nerves in the exposed skeleton that was never meant to leave the protection of your flesh, and now every inch of your body, every muscle and organ and vein, screams with your voice, screams long after your throat becomes clogged with the black fluid flooding your lungs, and every lumbering step you take, with your heels high and your weight centered on your toes, leaves a viscous, tar-like substance in your wake.
Your ribcage pushes against the thin, translucent layer of skin holding your chest together, forever stretching it to the point of near tearing. Blunt teeth protrude grotesquely from a gumless maw, and at your back, a short, stubby tail – the result of an extended spine, sways uselessly.
It's a strange sensation, more odd than unpleasant, and once the initial wave of agony ebbs enough for thoughts to form, however disjointed, you cast the unnecessary appendage an irritated glare.
No one is going to recognize you like this. And that's if they even remember you at all.
Even though you reversed the horrors Chara inflicted on your friends, even though they're all happy and safe and whole ( but you need to see them, need to be sure ), you've still lost them.
It feels as though a new timeline has begun, but that's only because the change in the atmosphere is so radical. There are no moans, no shrieks in the dark, which means the only pitiful creature wandering the well-worn paths of the Underground… is you.
And so you drag yourself past the bordering pine trees, past the ice blocks in the river, past the shed with its cheerful internal glow, and listen - fear a clawing, stabbing beast in your gut - for any sign of the two skeleton brothers.
You don't want to meet them.
No one should ever have to see what you've become.
But you need to know that they're safe, that they're finally themselves again.
Thinking about it, you're not sure which would be worse: Finding out you, and with you, everything else related to the horrifying transformations they'd undergone, has all been forgotten? Or finding out that they remember?
Either way, your SOUL has been altered, with most of its Determination now oozing down your limbs, and seeing their reactions might truly break you. You've had your arms torn off, your head chewed on, your body burned beyond recognition by a creature who, despite everything she'd become, still wanted to protect you, yet couldn't muster enough control over her own magic to spare you. You've been crushed, skewered on spears and horns, poisoned by spider venom, and electrocuted by faulty machinery.
Yet, you kept coming back. You didn't give up. Because there was a happy ending – there had to be – and all you had to do was find it. It didn't matter how many times they killed you or tore you apart, because the monsters were suffering, they were always suffering, and you couldn't leave them like that. Not even if you had to spend a thousand years worth of Reloads to do it. Somehow, there was a way to get your family back.
Shifting to find refuge in the shadows, you regard the locked door with the Gyftmas wreath on it with what would have been a bitter smile had your lips cooperated, and realized how wrong you'd been.
"HELLO?" You start at the greeting, spinning sharply on your newly digitigrade limbs. Unaccustomed to the new shape of your legs, you stagger, wobbling like a newborn fawn. You try to speak, only to cringe at the gurgle and rasp that slips from between your distended jaw.
Just as you'd feared, a scarlet scarf, worn and torn at the edges from near-constant use, brushes against your cheek as red-gloves grab hold of your arms to steady you. "WOAH! STEADY THERE, YOUNG MONSTER. WOULDN'T WANT YOU GETTING HURT, NOW WOULD WE?" Normally, his sincere smiles could make the sun shine on a rainy day, but now they make you want to curl up and cry out some of the guilt and burning regret writhing in your chest.
It's been so long since you last saw his smile. You're only realizing now the true extent of how much you missed it… but there's no recognition in his kindness.
Papyrus doesn't know you. He doesn't remember.
It's better this way.
Something warm trickles down your cheek. You wipe at it, surprised to find a clear tear at the pointed tip of your skeletal finger. Papyrus, noticing the tear, flails his arms with distress. "OH NO! DID I UPSET YOU? I DID NOT INTEND TO!" For his sake, you attempt a short laugh. It sounds like you're drowning. He looks at you with increased concern, and with no way to smile or tell him you're okay, the best you can do is stand still and weather his good intentions. "I HAVE NOT SEEN YOUR LIKES HERE BEFORE. ARE YOU FROM THE CAPITAL?" You shake your head, concealing the despair settling in your eyes with an impenetrable wall of bangs. "ARE YOU LOST?" The broken noise you utter is as miserable as it is completely outside your control. Papyrus goes mushy with sympathy. "YOU ARE NOT FEELING WELL, ARE YOU?"
Finally accepting that Papyrus was not going to let you leave and would likely adopt you unless you allowed him to help in some other way, you nod. It's technically true, anyway. You feel awful. Sick.
Tainted.
There's a light crunching in the snow behind the skeleton, followed by, "hey, pap, what are you up to?" and there's no time to make a run for it, no place to hide.
When so many of the monsters had lost their reason, their sanity, Sans had clung to his – he'd remembered what you could do – and he blamed you. He hated you.
Some of the monsters would kill you accidentally, unaware of their own strength and the limits of your fragile human body, but not Sans. He always aimed to kill.
And when he shuffles around the corner of the stoop, glancing past his brother to see exposed bone and broken flesh and ruined Determination, the shock and dismay carving up his features, sinking into his marrow, is like nothing you've ever seen before.
He ducks his head, scratches his skull, then angles his sockets up at you, "it never was you, was it?"
No. It was Chara. But you don't hate them for it. You're tired of fighting, of hate, of always being afraid.
They'd taken everything, but they'd lost everything, too.
Wearing a perplexed frown, Papyrus asks Sans how he knows you, but Sans either doesn't hear the question or pretends not to. He sighs, then reaches out for your hand. "i know things have been rough for ya lately, but if you think you're up for it, i'll take ya to go see your mom."
Though the last time you placed your hand in his flashes through your mind in a red burst of remembered terror and pain, you give it to him without hesitation.
Sans raps on the stone wall with his bony knuckles, calling out for the kind lady, the Queen who'd willingly entered exile, and the mother who still mourned her lost children. "heya, it's me again. i know i don't usually come out here until a little later, but there's someone with me today that i'd like ya to meet."
There's a rustling of robes and shuffling of feet as Toriel approaches their meeting place. There's a smile in her voice when she greets them through the door with, "Well, hello! It is always a pleasure to hear your voice. And as for your friend," she cleared her throat, adopting a tone with a more pronounced regality to it, "I have lived in these Ruins for quite some time. Any friends of yours are always welcome at this place." Sans side-eyes you, but your attention is zeroed to a needlepoint on the sound of her voice, recalling the warmth of her hugs as you drag your unwieldy feet forward one step, then another, until you're standing directly in front of the sealed entrance. The grit grinds against your highly sensitive bones as you drag a heavy palm over the obstacle standing between you. A low keening wail, mournful and heartbroken, flows like fog from your throat, until a rush of fluid fills your mouth, tasting of rot, then spills over into the snow.
You grip your stomach and squeeze, but the force of the rejection strips you of your strength, and your legs crumble, bending in awkward ways until you're limbs are sprawled in an awkward heap. You lay there, wheezing, wondering what she must think of you, begging her to, through some miracle, know you. From your jaw the ugly black puddle continues to spread. "Oh my. You sound quite ill, dear one."
There's a coolness on your skin as a skeletal hand lifts your hair. He lays a gentle hand on your back. "keep talking."
"But what should I say? It sounds as though they need help."
"say anything. talk about your day. tell them a story." Even knowing she can't see you, you nod. Sans helps you gather your wayward limbs, then sits with you, keeping you upright. It's been lifetimes since there's been a friend around to keep you from falling, and for an instant, you're still. After tumbling headlong into the void for so long, you'd forgotten how that felt.
As you sat there, Toriel began to talk about the flowers, how she cared for them and watered them everyday. She talked about a little girl who loved to dance, about a young boy who was brave and boisterous, about quick-witted and quietly observant children who loved to read and learn, and about an older child who loved to cook, who was going to be a chef when she grew up, just like her mother. And Toriel loved them, remembering each of their faces, their names, their quirks, whether they preferred cinnamon or butterscotch. She'd watched, astounded and delighted, as some of the children had devoured her book collection, showed the older child, with her love of cooking, the recipe to her butterscotch-cinnamon pie and guided them through the steps. She'd traded facts and trivia and jokes with the boy who fell down into the Underground while dressed in a ridiculous cowboy costume, a remnant from past Halloween glory.
Despite her love for them, none of the children came to a happy end, and though that didn't come as a surprise to her two listeners, Toriel did her best to soften the bitterness by simply assuring them that they had all moved on, eventually.
There was never any mention of a child who'd fallen with dirt smudges on their cheeks and an old bandage on their chin, with scrapes on their knees and bruises on their arms.
After a time, Toriel trailed off, suddenly overwhelmed by the memories of voices she would never hear again. With a quick apology to her quiet audience, so quiet she wasn't quite certain they were even still there, she retreated back into the Ruins.
"come on," Sans says after a brief, terrible silence, "we'll go see alphys." He stands, brushing himself off, though the corrupted Determination staining his shoulder and hands goes untouched. You don't move. "there's a way to change you back, kid, and," something inscrutable flickers over his expression, "and i promise you, we'll find it."
He's trying to help you find the strength to stand, to move, but every inch of you feels heavy, like gravity is pushing you against the ground, and your legs don't move right and your heart is a slow, plodding thing in your chest. Under your bangs, your eyelids droop as a yawn is painfully extracted and released into the frigid air. Realizing you're not going anywhere anytime soon, Sans sighs, then settles back into the depression he'd left in the snow. "or we could stay here a little longer…" You turn to face him, every blink an eternity. He sweeps your bangs to the side, pinning them to your temple as you lay your head against his shoulder and close your eyes.
He shifts, and your fingers curl around his sleeve. A small, pitiful whimper escapes, so weak it could have been the dying breath of a child. His arm comes around to pull you close, the touch light so it doesn't hurt, and despite taking ages to form, to become a part of you, the fear starts to melt, vanishing like the remnants of winter's last frost. "rest easy, kiddo." It's hard to breath, but you focus on his voice, on the black behind your eyes, even as it starts to swallow you whole, and soon the pain begins to dull, to slip.
It's okay.
You're not afraid, anymore.
Sans lets your bangs fall, then tucks your head under his chin, gaze focused on the Ruins you've walked out of a hundred times before. "sleep well. i'll be here when you wake up."