"Nothing in sacrifice is put off until later—it has the power to contest everything at the instant that it takes place, to summon everything, to render everything present. The crucial instant is that of death, yet as soon as the action begins, everything is challenged, everything is present." - George Bataille, 'Inner Experience'
"WILL IT GET EASIER?"
The wind whistling at his back, Papyrus frowned. That's strange.
Back in Snowdin. Back in the middle of a snow flurry, boots shuffling in the snow— Wait, snow? But it can't be—! This isn't the shortcut! Then Papyrus chanced a look at their surroundings.
All three of them—Sans, Papyrus and Frisk between Grillby's and the local shop—stood apart in the middle of town.
This is it, Frisk . . . At last. At long last . . .
Frisk twitched, right hand trembling as they firmly grasped the knife, palms growing sweaty.
What are you waiting for, Frisk?
Do it . . .
Step forward.
Frisk stood by defiantly with a feeble shake of their head.
I'm waiting . . .
Step . . . forward . . .
Squinting from the strain of the strong voice of their head, Frisk's knees shook as they continued standing.
I'm waiting . . . Step forward.
Frozen in place, Frisk stayed as still as the pillars of that beautiful corridor.
Have I not made myself clear, partner? We are equals in this, are we not? Step. Forward.
Frisk shook their head again, furiously as tears gathered at the corners of their eyes.
Step— Frisk flinched, shaking all over —FORWARD!
Frisk heard themselves walking one step forward, the footfall muffled by the blanket of snow beneath them. They felt cold to the core, sickened
Very good, cooed Chara. Keep going.
No, Chara! That's enough—!
I will say when it's enough, Frisk! You are at my mercy, at my beck and call—you're nothing without me; an empty vessel only waiting to be filled by a higher power. You are a pathetic mount of flesh. We are only equals in that we have the same goal in mind—wishing for an end that we can both be satisfied with.
Since you still doubt me . . . Prostrate yourself before me.
"What — ?" whispered Frisk, the cold wind biting at their cheeks, before the voice loudly interrupted, uttering smoothly, like the devil's caress: Bow down to your master.
Well, Frisk? What are you waiting for?
Bow to me! On the ground . . .
NOW!
Gulping and breathless, Frisk gave a frightened yelp, involuntarily throwing themselves forward onto the snow-covered ground. Is it the snow or the voice making them chilled to the bone? Frisk could no longer tell the difference. But god, they wanted out so badly.
God help me. Somebody, anybody, please—
There is no help for you in our special hell, Frisk. This beautiful hellscape is ours for the taking. Come, my vessel—stand!
Frisk stood up on shaky legs, control denied yet again.
Excellent. Great as always, partner.
Now. Knife up, Frisk.
The knife held aloft, Frisk shivered, mouth quivering from the fear shaking them to the core.
Kill yourself.
With a scream, Frisk slashed at their own throat, losing consciousness slowly as the blood let out upon the snow — a grotesque painting of carmine tainting the beautiful white expanse surrounding them.
"WILL IT GET — "
"papyrus, look out!" yelled out Sans.
With a blink, Sans pushed the human before they could make it to Papyrus. As the human lay on the ground, gnashing their teeth in frustration, Papyrus responded, "GOT IT, BROTHER!"
With a war cry, the human, tears and snot running down their face, raised their knife to counter, only to be promptly decapitated with a swing of Papyrus's conjured bone scythe, the brown-haired head landing with a soft thud onto the achromatic ground, sullying it red as it sprayed squirts of blood from exposed arteries.
"SO BROTHER, WHAT NUMBER IS THAT? ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN?"
Sans looked contemplative, the top of his eye sockets furrowing and giving away any semblance of a frown on his grinning face, saying: "i'm not sure it is. we already faced the human here . . . but it doesn't feel right. know what i mean?"
"YES. SOMETHING IS WRONG. IT'S NOT ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN, IS IT?"
"no," confirmed Sans in a low voice, expressive pupils studying the headless human. "no, it is not."
Papyrus nodded solemnly. "RIGHT THEN. ONE HUNDRED AND TEN IT IS!"
"WILL IT GET EASIER—?
"I highly doubt it, the not-so-great Papyrus!" he heard the human utter in a sneer, then suddenly made their approach in a rush, every little footfall landing with a faint splosh! of snow beneath their shoes.
In a blink, Papyrus conjured his bone-turned-scythe, blocking the knife with a swift clang!
"Ooo," cooed the human mockingly, "fast one, are you?"
"FASTER THAN YOU, HUMAN!" he said brazenly, countering the next strikes with a ringing cling! and clang! in the wind, wielding and swinging his scythe with rapid precision; they moved blindingly fast. "THE GREAT PAPYRUS NEVER GIVES UP!"
"Oh but you will!" Frisk said, grinning maliciously. "You will prostrate yourself before your king!" The clashing of blades continued to chime irregularly, the reverberation of blades singing. "A king that will govern nothing and everything," said the human, eyes promising unending terror, "forever!"
"NOT IF" — RING! — "I CAN" — CLANG! — "HELP IT!"
The child cackled maniacally at him, swinging their knife adeptly—every slash promising death, uttering in a fierce chant: "Time is short," — CLING! — "hell is hot," — CLANG! — "the king is coming," — CHING! — "ready or not!"
"enough!" cried out Sans, and in a blink lasting less than half a second, the human's SOUL held up high up above the ground, knife-hand limp as they gasped for breath, was unceremoniously thrust onto Grillby's east wall, the wood of the cabin splintering apart at the force of the throw, a brief puff of sawdust and plaster appearing at the impact site.
Coughs and groans could be heard amidst the wreckage. Papyrus peered at Sans with a nod of thanks, then strode in sync with Sans towards the destroyed part of the bar.
There the human lay, splinters big and small marring the child's body as they bled at the crown of their head, looking woozy.
Papyrus went to the human, only to be stopped by Sans. "let me," he said softly.
His younger brother hmphed petulantly. "FINE! BE QUICK, BROTHER."
"oh i will," said Sans. A wave of his hand, and he was armed with a conjured blunt femur.
"hey. buddo," he spoke down at Frisk—deadpan. "no taking the easy way out this time, ok?"
And with a flourish, Sans clouted Frisk on the head, knocking them dead.
"One hundred and eleven!" the skeleton brothers cried out with audacious glee.
"undoubtedly," said Sans.
Goddamnit, it's happened again—and now what? Can't see a damn thing. A blizzard? Come ON!
"WORRY NOT, DEAR BROTHER, I GOT THEM!" CRASH!
"papyrus!" cried out Sans, trying to pinpoint where the sound came from.
"OVER HERE, SANS—BY THE LIBRARY! TURNED THEM BLUE AS SOON AS THE HUMAN LOADED!"
Traversing as fast as he could through the blinding blizzard, Sans made it to Papyrus. He could make out a Frisk-shaped gap in the window to the left of the door; the glass that remained was fractured, shards with blood at the edges.
"looks like you took care of the problem, pap!" he yelled through the loud wind of the snowstorm. Door to the library locked shut, Sans jumped through the broken window inside, Papyrus at the rear. The human lay bloody, mangled and splayed against the wooden counter, books that once stood on it scattered about. "well, that will be one hundred and—"
"E-enough . . ." a whimper came from the wounded child, never having sounded so innocent and worn in this life. "No more . . . enough. Please— Kill me . . ."
"HUMAN? I MEAN— FRISK? IS THAT REALLY YOU?"
The child nodded weakly at them from their uncomfortable position, trying to arch his head up to look at them, but unable to do so—they hissed at the pain in their neck; a thin splinter penetrated through flesh, missing a major artery by an inch. They sniffled as they sobbed pitifully. "I am—"
But just as soon as they saw Frisk, their visage changed dramatically: their pained grimace turned into a facsimile of a friendly smile, their eyes glinting like ice, hooded partially as if they were on the verge of napping after a read in bed, looking much too comfortable in their twisted body. Still a child, yet not remotely close to the same in expression—the new inhabitant was perverse, violating the body in spirit and mind as they lay motionless.
The human smiled grimly at the skeleton brothers, eyes gleaming with tears that did not belong to them. "Hello. Take a gander at who I am, Sans?"
"No."
Then. They saw it. The real human.
Their eyes and mouth were like gaping black holes, fathomless like the darkest of trenches. It has been many battles ago that they gathered their magic together to attack in tandem—that stunt scared the human good; but not enough to make them stop. No, the human was determined to end both their lives then, and determined now.
That terrific, otherworldly stare now froze the brothers in place, mesmerizing in its terrible monstrosity.
"I͘ am Ch̸͘͜͝ar̡͟a̴̴̛͡͝."
"W-WAIT," stuttered Papyrus, the name a malediction; his weary bones tingled in alarm in confirmation, the terror sown in him like seeds nourished by an abject fear, the waking tendrils growing like vines around his psyche—the strangulation constricting his thought process. His elder brother looked no better than Papyrus did at this nightmarish junction. "WHO?"
"I am them . . .
"C̴̶͙̟̠̕͟h̸͏a̺̯͖͎͙͚̰̭͖͇̩r̴̙̮̭͉̱͝a̼͇̙̭͓̼̬͖̦̣̳̮̟̩̠͖̳̥̘̺͈͜͠," the child with the empty stare uttered, a bizarre, blissful smile upon their face.
"I a̕m̧ ţh͏e ̧curio͢s͘ity th͏at̕ ̵d̴ri̶v̧e̴s ̷all ̸huma͏ns to҉ ̷d̛o t̡he ho҉rri̷ble҉. Th҉e ͏dem̡o̕n th̸at comes̵ w͟he̕n͝ ҉peo͜ple c͘a̕ll its̨ nam̷e. It d͠oesn̕'t̢ ͠m̛at̸t͘er w͘he͞n.̢ ̸I͞t͜ ͟doesn'͞t ͢matt̛e͠r̛ ̨wh͜er̷e. ͟Ti̵me aftȩr͡ ̨ti͘me, I͘ will appe̷ar. A҉nd ̷wi͜t͡h F̧͎͝͞r̠ì̡̛̦̖̟͚̘̲̭͉͈̳ͬͤͬ͋̇̊͛ͦ̚̕s̥͉̉̊͜͡k̂́ͦ̎͛̾҉͎͈͙̰̞̗s͢ ͘h̶elp, ͡we͟ will̨ er̢a̴dicat̨e t̡he enemy͞ a͟nd̶ beco͏m̛e ̴s҉trong.
"H҉̨P̢," the human continued in a quiet, discordant voice, "AT̡͞K.̴͘̕ Ḑ̧EF. GO̕LD.҉ EX̵̢͜P͡. LV҉. ҉̨E̵ve̡̛r̛y̵̨͢ t͏i͠m͝e a̧͞ nu҉͏̴m̵͘͡ber incŗ͟eases̵̨ w͘͡it̴͠h͜in̨ ̛͝t̶̸hi҉s ̷v͟e̕ss̴̢͝el̡, t̡͟͠h̛at f̡͟͜eeli̡n̵͠͠g̷͟͝ ̨̢͡.̶͟ ̡͠͝.̵͝ ̕.҉ ̵͟Th͢a͟͏͜t's̢͟ ̸me͡͝͡—̶̸̸̠̘̘͓̱͎͔͈͓̗͔͔͎͡F̧͎͝͞r̠ì̡̛̦̖̟͚̘̲̭͉͈̳ͬͤͬ͋̇̊͛ͦ̚̕s̥͉̉̊͜͡k̂́ͦ̎͛̾҉͎͈͙̰̞̗,̕ ̡or a͟͢͝n̵̴y͢ o͡the͡r ̢̧̨hu̴̶͢m͘͢an̸ wh̴o ͞po͢ss҉̴es͞s̴̛e͝s this͠ m̕͢͢oun͢d ͠of fle̶̢sh͡ ͞҉͞an̷͟͟d̢̨ ̕b̢̨o̷n͝͝͝e.
"T͘h̴̵i͏s̴ ͏S̵͡O̵͠UL ̴͢͜r̸̶es̶o҉nates ̷wit҉͘h͝ a̷͟͢ st̷̕͢r̴a͜ng҉͢͜e̕ ͞͡f̶̨ee͏l̷i̢n͞g. ̸̕Th͝e̴̷̷re̵ ̡͜͠i̛͝s ̸͜͜ą̸͞ ͝re̶͡as͘͜on̡ ̸̸̠̘̘͓̱͎͔͈͓̗͔͔͎F̧͎͝͞r̠ì̡̛̦̖̟͚̘̲̭͉͈̳ͬͤͬ͋̇̊͛ͦ̚̕s̥͉̉̊͜͡k̂́ͦ̎͛̾҉͎͈͙̰̞̗co͟nt̶͜͡i̧nu̴͞҉es̶ to͟͏̶ r͜͝͠ȩ͞͡crea͘͏te ͝this ͡wo̵̡͠rld̵̛.̡͟͜ There i̸̕҉s̸͏ ͏̨a͝ ͏r̷̢͘ea͏͜so͢͏n t͝he̕͏̴y ̵̨̕c̛o͡nti͜҉nu͜͏e̷̡ ͢to d͞e҉҉s̨͜troy̵̵͞ ͞i͏t. O̶͜͡u̕r̸͞ ͜͜͟belov͠҉e͢d F͠risķ i͠͞͞s̨ ͡w͞ŗ̶ac͢͞k̛̛͘e̢͘d ҉̵̕w̸̛͜ith a pe̵͏rv̷̶͢ert̡e҉͝d̴͘ ̨s̸͝e͠͝nt͜͡i̷͞me̷̸n̛ţ̛ali̵̛͝ty̷͡ ̷̧͏f̛or͡ ҉̴҉t̨h̵̕͜at̸͟ ͜҉̡that͘͢ t̶͠͝hey ̕͡ca̧nn̢͜o̸̢͜t̴ ̶̨͘have̵. But ͏even͘ ͠st͏͡i̴̷ll . . ." They hummed. "I̕ ca͢nnot͞ u͡n̨d͞erstan͢d̕ su͟ch ̕feeļin̶gs ͜an̕y mo̵re̶.̷ D͞es͡pi͜te̕ ͟th̡is̸.͟ I͡ fe̕lt o͟b̨li̴gated to su̡gge҉st͟ t͢hat s͟hould̢ ̸̸̠̘̘͓̱͎͔͈͓̗͔͔͎F̧͎͝͞r̠ì̡̛̦̖̟͚̘̲̭͉͈̳ͬͤͬ͋̇̊͛ͦ̚̕s̥͉̉̊͜͡k̂́ͦ̎͛̾҉͎͈͙̰̞̗ ͞choose ͜tǫ ͟r҉ecrea̵t͢e t͢he w͟orld onc̴e͞ mo̡re̶, ̴a͢n̴ot͘her pa̛t̢h wo̢uld be ͞b͡et͢t̵er͟ suited͞. ̡'N͟ow͜͏,̶̵ ͘͟͠p҉̴̧ar҉͞t̸̡͡ne̸̕̕r,̵̡̛͜'̸̧̕͢ ̴I s͟ai̡d̶ un̷to ͡t̨hem, '͜͡Ļ̵ȩ͠t̴͜͢ ̛͝us ̶̕̕͝send̛͘͞͠ t̵̕͢his̡͡ ̸̧̕w̛͘͢͡o͢҉rl͞d̷͟ ̸̸̷b͜͢͏a͏҉ck̶̨͟͝ in̡̡҉t̵͞o͏̵̧ ̶͞the̷̕ ̶̷̧a̧͟by̴̛şs̵.̛͏̷̴̢'͢ A͠nd diḑ ̸̸̠̘̘͓̱͎͔͈͓̗͔͔͎F̧͎͝͞r̠ì̡̛̦̖̟͚̘̲̭͉͈̳ͬͤͬ͋̇̊͛ͦ̚̕s̥͉̉̊͜͡k̂́ͦ̎͛̾҉͎͈͙̰̞̗ ͟listen?͟ Yes—time a͠nd ̵time͞ agai͠n. Bu͠t ̢ho̴w about ̷th̵i̧s͢ ̛ti̢me? C͞an͝ th̵e͠y͘ do i̸t? ͠D̷o they con͘t̛in͞u҉e to des̛i̶r̡e ͘t͟o͘ d̢o w͝hat must ̵b̨e d҉o͏ne? ͟To͏ ex͜ha̡u҉st ̢all͜ possibilit̶ies a̛nd͘ se͜nd o͟ur u̡niv̢erse in͝to͡ ̡a b͠la͝c̡k pit,̵ ţo be̴ ͞fo̧rgo̴tten̨ a͏n̷d͘ s̨t̕i̕ll? No—but. ̸̸̠̘̘͓̱͎͔͈͓̗͔͔͎F̧͎͝͞r̠ì̡̛̦̖̟͚̘̲̭͉͈̳ͬͤͬ͋̇̊͛ͦ̚̕s̥͉̉̊͜͡k̂́ͦ̎͛̾҉͎͈͙̰̞̗ ̷ha̧s҉ both f̧a͟iled ̴and ͟succe̡ede̡d be̷a̴ut̡i̡f̧ul̵ly.̛ ͏Yo̡u ̸bot̶h ar̶e my̡ gr̷ęat̶est ͝re͜war͠d. I̸ ̕co͢uld̡ ͡n͡o͜t have asked͜ for a b͘e̶tt̛e̡r ou҉tcome.
"N͜o͜w. My ͝v̧ess҉el ̧d̸ies. If th̢ey c̕are about ͢you so, ̧I̧ shall͠ ͞neve͏r come ҉b̷ąc͜k͜ a͢gain. But.̕ ̵A̵s a ̷co͜n̛se͘q̕ue҉n̢ce: ͏neit̶h͏er ̨will͟ ţh͢e̷y̷. ͏Y͝ou sha͝ll con̛t͝in͡ue ̧to̕ r͢esi̶d͘e͝ in th͢i̶s bro͟k̢e̡n ̢wor͜l͡d. Ąn҉d ҉I s̡ḩall h̵a҉unt̕ ͡other ̶un͠iver̛s̸es ͢f̨o̷rev͏e͝rm̡ore. ̨There͠ is ̨n͝o end ̕t͡o m̵e.͢ G̶oo҉d͠by̨e," they said, and with a swift slide of the knife, the human slit their throat, their last expression fixed in ecstasy.
"The thunderbolt blazing in the sky is the brightness of death itself. My mind raves in the sky. Never does the mind rave so well as in its dying." - George Bataille, 'My Mother'
Author's Note: It can be the end.