"The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math."

"She will have to be taken for reconditioning."

"Keep her there. She is no daughter of ours."

"Very well."

Chara was not sure how she was still standing. Her body was numb, disconnected. Her worst fears were coming true.

"But - what about the child?" she croaked desperately.

"The child is an abomination against humanity," the bishop said coldly, and tears began to pour from Chara's eyes, hot against her already warm cheeks. "However, they shall be given to a member of the clergy, in the hopes that your sin may be purged from them and they might be reclaimed in the name of the Lord and Lady."

"No!" Chara burst out,throwing her arms to the sides. "You can't!"

The bishop's eyes narrowed. "You still have to atone for your sins. Tell me, who was the other progenitor?"

Chara squeezed her eyes shut. If she told the truth, she would be publicly executed for blasphemy. If she lied, some other poor soul would be punished for what had been done to her.

"Chara," her mother barked, and her father's vice-grip on her shoulder tightened painfully.

"The Font of Integrity?" she heard him say, his tone hard.

"Not yet," the priest said. Chara frantically searched her mind for someone she could lay the blame on, someone from this side of the river. But there was no one.

"Nathan Prescott," she finally blurted out, her heart aching. He was her friend from the other side of the river; who knew what they would do to him?

"I see," the bishop said, bowing his head in acknowledgment. Chara's cheeks burned with guilt.

"Come, my child," he said, and the pressure on her shoulder suddenly released. She staggered forward, only to have the bishop's hand land steadily and heavily on her other shoulder, the one farther from him. He guided her firmly through a door.

Chara was taken in a cart to an abbey outside the city. Now, as before, there was no one to soothe her from her nightmares and relieve her fears in the dark of the night, but even in the daylight she was kept isolated, only seeing the abbess, who brought her food, water, and instructions, and who never spoke.

And the nightmares did come. How she struggled in the dark, crying out for mercy, his heavy, sweaty hand finding her mouth and stifling her screams and half her breath. Her broken sobs as he held her down and forced his way into her. Terror grasped her every night, clutching her chest so she couldn't even scream and she woke in silent tears. It was then she sat, gasping her growing belly desperately, and willed herself on for the sake of her child.

All day she studied the Word. She would have to interpret it, and yet somehow she began to see that the Word was not what the church had made it out to be, though she could never say so in her essays. In each one, she committed heresy against her mind and heart.

History and the Word seemed to contradict. She made a request for a tome of history, and upon receiving it, began to read.

"Long ago," it read, "Two races ruled over Earth: Humans, and Monsters. Humans were gentle and good servants of the Lord and Lady, but monsters were wicked, committing atrocities against innocent humans and sacrilege against the Divine.

"Finally, the humans had had enough. They took up their swords and their spears in holy retribution against the demons. The war raged long and bitter, and the rivers ran red with blood. Though monsters were weak, they were many, and the skies cried for humanity before the war was through.

"It was then that Chara, champion of the people, took up his divinity and channeled it into a miracle, drawing on the Brothers of Virtue. Together they drove the monsters back into hell, sealing them there for all eternity. The humans were victorious, and monsters were no more."

Chara frowned. Something about the narrative rang hollow. If Chara were so holy, where the words of mercy he had so painstakingly scribed in the Word?

The days blurred into months, the sky turning overhead as light flowed in through her prison window. It grew cold, bitterly so. Chara could not recall such a wicked winter in her memory. Always she shivered, bound in many blankets and furs.

Her contractions started the night of the winter solstice. On the longest, darkest night, the precipice before the world turned back towards sun and spring, she labored. Pain wracked her intensely, making it hard to breathe, her cries most often the only sound. Murmured instructions came from the midwife every so often, as she felt herself pulling apart to bring the new life into the world.

Finally, exhausted, her hair wet and stringy around her damp face, Chara heard a small cry.

"What is it?" she croaked.

The midwife looked to the door, where a soldier stood guard, waiting.

"A girl," she whispered. She laid her hand on Chara's gently, and tears sprang to Chara's eyes. It was the first kindness she had known in a long time. "I know they will not accept it, but I will remember her name, should you decide to give her one."

"F-" Chara almost swore as spots darkened her vision, like the sheets around her stained heavily with blood. "Risk," she breathed. To love her had been her biggest risk, though she could not help but do so.

"Frisk," the midwife nodded, smiling gently though her eyes were drawn. Chara sank back, too tired to correct her. A faint memory swam in the dark just beyond the edge of her conscious mind, of some deeper reason for the name, but as she reached for it, she started to fade. The midwife stood, and the last image she saw was the midwife bending over her with alarm in her eyes.

Disjointed images flickered like distorted candlelight. A doctor firmly pushing on her body. A priest praying at her bedside, asking first to give her life so that she might continue to serve and repent, and at last to forgive her for her sins. And through it, him, looming over her, sending pain through her body with his rough hands. Then the midwife - the midwife?

"Chara," she said in a throaty whisper, and Chara raised her head, feeling sore and tired, but with a measure of strength returned to her. She was convalescent, her life force no longer draining away.

"Chara," the voice insisted. Chara turned to look at her, pushing herself up.

"You must leave, Chara," the midwife said, and now Chara recognized her as Bridget, from across the river. "I have heard you let slip the truth of your condition in your fevered dreams. You must leave, for now that you are well enough, they will not stay your execution."

Bridget helped her to her feet, where she stood, legs trembling. The midwife foisted furs upon her, quickly guiding her shaking limbs through them. Then, lightly grabbing her arm, she pulled her out the door. They slipped through the sleeping abbey, out to the gates, where snow as white as a doctor's coat, as cold as bone, glimmered softly even in the darkness. Snow fell thick, and even as Bridget unlocked the gate, the wind picked up and the snow started to turn half to ice, wet and stinging against her bare face.

"Go," the midwife insisted.

"Where?" Chara asked desperately, struggling to hold herself upright.

"Mt. Ebott," Bridget said.

"But legend tells those who seek the mountain never return!" Chara gasped.

Bridget looked her in the eyes then, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Folk tales hold differently," she said kindly. "They say those of corrupted heart will find judgment, but those who are pure will find sanctuary. I would stake my chances that, as the church stifles these rumors, perhaps this mountain will judge you differently than they. Now go." She pushed Chara out of the gate, following like a shadow and locking it behind her. "That way."

Chara stumbled in the direction of her outstretched hand, tripping and slogging through the heavy snow. The wind picked up as she entered the forest, whipping the trees into a frenzy and howling a wild and desperate song. Though the mountain was a ways away, she knew she could not succumb. The winter would strive to execute her as surely as the church.

In the distance, she heard muffled shouting. She continued to struggle almost blindly through the sleet, her extremities numb. She was glad of the weather, however; it would set her and her pursuers on even ground, and hide her flight through the trees.

Her strength failing, she arrived at the base of the mountain. The sounds of pursuit were nearer now, and she broke into a faltering run, scrambling and slipping over the now-somewhat hardened snow.

The shouts grew closer. She could hear individual voices now, and the clang and scrape of metal on metal. They had to be right behind her, invisible in the snow that limited her visibility to a mere five feet around. Her heart hammered, dread for once making her feet lighter.

Finally, she stepped down only to find the darkness had grown, and yet there was no ice underfoot. Perhaps she was in a cave? She stepped forward recklessly, her feet leaden, barely lifting. Her foot caught on a root, and she tumbled forward into space.

Her limbs flew up as she landed with a crack. She lay stunned. As she tried to move, pain surged through her broken body, white and hard like ice. It was as though she could feel each of her veins pulsing with blood, spilling out into the caverns of her body. Fear overtook her.

She managed to get one arm underneath herself, but as she tried to push herself to her feet, her back and side split in agonized response. She let out a scream, her cry wavering as her voice broke. How could she still be alive?

Darkness settled in, stealing sensation slowly away as it swept like poison through her veins. At last, a feeling of ready resignation crept into her heart. If she was to die, she would die. At least her child was safe. Frisk was safe.

A voice drifted towards her like a cloud. She was annoyed. It disturbed the peaceful floating sensation she was feeling, reminding her of a truth that she wanted to remain unknown.

"Hey, are you alright?" the voice came again, not so static-ridden this time.

She groaned as some of the feeling came rushing back into her, and the cold and pain along with it.

"Oh my gosh," the voice said. Chara felt herself being raised up by small, strong arms, one of her own arms draped across a pair of slim shoulders.

The stranger helped her walk, one of her legs dragging uselessly behind her. They did most of the work, supporting and carrying her. Finally they reached a small, tidy house with an open rectangle carved out of the stone for a door.

A white blur stepped from the house.

"My child?" it asked, and Chara's eyes focused at the familiar words. The white blur emerging from the doorway took the form of a ten-foot-tall goat demon, with red-glinting eyes.

Monsters. Looking down, Chara saw furry white hands. She shoved herself away in fear, falling on her side. Everything went black.