Waterfall has always been one of the most peaceful places you've ever known. It's hard for some people to understand, especially those who know how much you dislike the dark. But really, it's only the complete absence of anything that scares you. Waterfall is dark, but it's so full despite that. From the soft glow of the echo flowers to the shimmering gems overhead, there's always light in the dark somewhere. As you move through the shadows, the waters whisper to you like the secrets of old friends, and a fond smile of remembrance spreads across your face as you splash your way through puddles.
You made a lot of good friends here. It may be empty of them now, but the memories fill the friend-shaped voids, like echoes of whispers. This place remembers.
Although… perhaps it's not so empty after all. You can hear soft music drifting from an island in the midst of the labyrinth of glowing streams. Worn planks creak beneath your feet, adding their own deep counterpoint to the melody. Your steps slow, your approach growing more tentative as you draw nearer to the singer. You've grown a lot closer over the last year, but she still startles easily.
Her song wavers only a little, a faint blush rising to her cheeks as she catches sight of you. Smiling, you sink to the grass, wrapping your arms around one knee as you listen to Shyren's song. She drifts a little closer to you, and you accept the silent invitation. Softly, you begin to hum along. Quietly at first, your melody gains strength as you fit your song in with hers. She drifts closer, a shy smile on her face as she switches to a descant, and your voices twine together like the stems of the luminous flowers around you.
"Ambassador!"
The shout reverberates through the cavern around you, a sour note spreading discord through the melody, and the song shatters into a thousand glittering fragments. Gasping, you whirl, and a flash of light sears the serene darkness. It leaves your skin raw and red where it touches, and you recoil in shock and pain.
Shyren's terrible cry sounds behind you, and you whirl as another flash cuts through the dark. You reach for Shyren, trying to shield her from the light, but your fingers barely brush against her before she crumbles to dust beneath your touch.
Sick horror threads its icy tendrils through your gut as you stare at the pile of dust at your feet. There's another shout, further cries of "Ambassador! Princess! Your Highness! Over here! Sing it again for the cameras!" The flashes pop like lightning and thunder, raising blisters now as they grow closer.
"Stop it!" you scream at the shadows moving through the dark. "Leave me alone!"
"Just one more shot! Can't we see that pretty smile? The world is watching you!"
You need to run. But you can't just… You reach out, pulling the blossom off the nearest echo flower with a whispered apology, and gather the dust into the centre. You fold the petals over the dust to keep it safe and rise to your feet, clutching the flower against your chest. The flashes are relentless, branding you with their touch, and you flee from them.
The streams don't seem to slow them down, and you can't slow long enough to reach the bridges. You have to jump, floundering gracelessly through the glowing landscape as you stumble and trip on the shores, barely making it across the water. The flashes pursue relentlessly, breaking everything they illuminate.
Your technique is terrible! You call that a jeté? Madame would be ashamed.
"I'm a little busy to worry about technique right now!" You're being short with her, but you think you're justified. You cry out as another flash blisters your hand badly enough that you almost drop the flower.
She just clucks her tongue at you as she leaps the next stream. The way her tutu catches the air, she floats like a dandelion seed before her pointe shoe touches down on the grass. You are never too busy to worry about technique. Now extend that leg! It will help.
You find it hard to believe it could make that much of a difference, but to your great surprise, it does. You actually manage to put some distance between you and the pursuing shadows as you leap the next stream, and the next, and then you're bounding and twirling your way up a familiar rocky incline. With a final, desperate leap, you plunge through the waterfall and collapse, breathless, into the cave on the other side.
She sinks down next to you with considerably more grace, folding her hands in her lap as she watches you. Clever thinking, she says, one hand smoothing her hair. It's not necessary. Her shining black hair is never anything but immaculate as it sweeps up into her bun.
"Not enough." You double over, clutching the flower to your chest. "I wasn't… I couldn't…" You can't get out anything more as the tears pour down your face. At least you managed to gather the dust. You can give it to her sister. If you can find her.
The girl just sighs, and rests her hand on your back. Stop that. Who says it's too late?
"But…" You look up at her through your tears. "All the books say… when a monster turns to… to…"
Ai yah. Then write your own story. Change the rules. You're good at pretending, so imagine something new. Nobody expected you to hide behind a waterfall. What else won't they expect?"
Sniffling, you straighten, and look down at the blossom cradled in your lap. Carefully, you peel back the petals to reveal the pearlescent dust within. As you stare down upon it, one of your tears splashes into the little pile, and the dust beneath the tear glistens with a faint green sheen.
The just watches you, waiting, no help in answer to your questioning glance. Your hands tremble as you hold out the flower, the terror at the thought of the consequences if you're wrong nearly make you drop it. But you keep hold long enough for the glowing water to swirl into the cup of the blossom, stirring the shining dust within until it looks like you hold the moon in your hands. When the glow fades, Shyren is staring up at you.
Your voice breaks on your cry of joy, and you wrap your arms around the little monster, kissing her until she is bright pink. With an embarrassed little hum, Shyren wiggles out of your arms and hovers before you. Then, she darts forward to kiss your cheek before she plunges into the pool and vanishes beneath the waterfall.
Relief quickly gives way to exhaustion, and you flop down on your side, curling into a ball. "Ow," you whimper, your hands shaking in pain rather than fear now as you examine your raw, blistered skin.
Come here, she says, scooting closer to you until you can rest your head in her lap. You've worn a tutu before, but they've always been stiff and scratchy. Hers is like candy floss, pillowing your head like a cloud. Slowly, she strokes your hair, humming a variation of Shyren's song, and the pain and the redness begin to fade from your ruined hands.
It's not so bad, you know, she says. Being in the spotlight.
"I know," you sigh. "I don't mind when I'm at work. It's fun. But I like it when I get to choose. I don't like it when they just show up like that. I don't know who I'm supposed to be when they do it." Your hands look almost normal now, and you flex your sore fingers, listening to her hum for a while. "You really loved it, didn't you?" you ask softly.
She smiles, her gaze distant as she remembers. Oh, yes. It hurt so much sometimes. You could never stop pushing, even when you cracked and bled. But when it's just you, and the music, and the stage. When there's no steps but what you improvise, and you find that place in the melody, it's just… just magic. Until… She shudders, falling quickly silent. You sit up then, and the two of you wrap your arms around each other. Her humming resumes, though voice quavers a little, and your lend your voice to hers, strengthening it until it steadies.
"You're sad," you say, holding tighter.
Her laugh is a soft, wistful sound, a gentle fall of music in the dark behind the glowing waters. She draws you closer, kissing the top of your head. Now, now. I'm the oldest. That's for me to worry about, not you.
"But-"
I mean it, Frisk. Don't worry about me. Just keep dreaming places for me to dance, and I'll be fine.
She rises to her feet with shining grace and steps through the curtain of the waterfall as though she is stepping onto a stage. Your eyes widening, you attempt to follow her, afraid that the shadowy figures with their burning flashes are still out there, but your limbs are like lead, holding you down. You can only watch, helpless and heartsore, as her silhouette dances across the falling water, twirling ever smaller until she disappears. You stretch out your hand, but only your fingertips graze the waterfall, dusting your healing face with fine spray as you take a shuddering breath.
"I'll miss you…"
Keep dreaming, Frisk. Keep improvising. It's all there in your heart. Just listen… Listen…
"Listen…"
A hushed whisper hisses from the shadows outside your tent. You blink through your tears, sniffling, trying to remember where you are. It's hard sometimes, when the dreams drag you this deep. Nothing smells or sounds familiar, and fear threads a tiny shiver up your spine.
"...is she crying?"
"Give me camera two. No, two, idiot. The one with the night vision."
Oh. Right. Season two of the world tour. :Camping out in the desert had sounded like fun, and for the most part, it has been. Except when a camera crew is trying to catch you crying on film while you sleep. Fortunately, you know exactly how to deal with this situation. You draw a deep breath and shout as loud as you can.
"Mettaton!"
And three...two...one…
"Darling! Whatever is the-" Mettaton pokes his immaculately-styled head into your tent, and though it was pitch black moments ago, he brings his own luminescence with him. He takes one look at your face, and his eyes narrow. With a huff and a toss of his head, he ducks back out of the tent.
"All right, beauties, listen up! There is a lovely rock formation a mile down the dunes that would make the perfect backdrop at sunrise. Why don't you take your little cameras down there and catch that exquisite footage for the B-roll?"
"But MTT, it's not even dawn yet!"
"Yes. That is rather key for the whole "filming the sunrise" thing, isn't it? Off you go now. All of you. Shoo. Out. Now."
"But-"
"I said shoo!" His voice drops, an ominous metallic ringing creeping into it. "Are you trying to annoy me?"
"No! No boss, absolutely not! Come on, guys, if we run, we can make it!"
The sound of scuffling heralds the headlong flight of your three-person camera crew out into the desert. A moment later, a gentle tap sounds on the tent pole above your head. "Knock, knock."
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "Who's there?"
"Oh, please, darling, no. Save it for that precious skeleton's brother, please." He slips into the tent, still managing to look like he's posing even though he isn't, as he props his chin in his hand and looks down at you. "Now that I've sent our little friends away, will you tell me what's wrong?"
"It's nothing," you say, blushing. The more awake you get, the more foolish you feel.
"Ah," he says, and sighs dramatically. "Pesky stuff, that nothing. Our dear Alphys warned me that we might run into some nothing on this trip."
Mortified, you draw your sleeping bag up to your chin. "She did?"
"Of course, darling, she worries about you. We all do. It's not exactly a secret that you have bad dreams, Frisk." He clearly has more to say, but as he registers your reaction, his eyes widen in horror. "Oh, sweetie, no! It's not a bad thing! Oh, please don't- Come here, you precious thing."
He opens his arms, and you wriggle out of your sleeping bag so that you can crawl into them. As he folds his arms around you, he heaves a soft, metallic sigh, and you feel bad for him. Almost everybody thinks he invited you on this leg of Mettaton's World Tour (Season 2) because having the Ambassador guest starring on the show would be good for his ratings. But you know better. He invited you because he thought you'd enjoy yourself. And you are. Mostly.
"I'm sorry," you tell him
"Piffle. You have no reason to be. What can I do, darling?"
"Nothing. Really, I'm fine."
His rueful laugh is far more subdued than his usual bombastic mirth. "Oh, you precious child. Funny thing about ghosts, darling. We're very good at seeing right through you." He loosens his hold on you and sets you down on your sleeping bag, giving you a firm tap on the nose. "Now don't be startled, darling. This is something I don't let anyone see, so you must keep this between us."
You tilt your head at the strange command. "Keep what?" you ask, uncertain.
He winks at you, and the light dies in his eyes. The luminous glow of his body fades an instant later, plunging the inside of your tent into shadow. His expressive face slackens and he lists to the side, falling to the ground in a tangled pile of metal limbs.
Crying out, you lunge toward him and grab his shoulders, shaking him as much as you are able. But you can barely budge him, and you wonder at how strong Alphys actually is that she was able to haul this body around the lab. You end up beating feebly against his chest, but the metal, usually warm from the spirit residing within, is cooling rapidly beneath your touch.
"Mettaton…Oh please… please, no..." You sniffle miserably.
"Oogh. Sorry, darling, I've been in there so long, I forgot how disorienting that is."
You gasp at the wispy, hollow voice that drifts over your shoulder, turning with a start. A strange ghost hovers before you, its shimmering, amorphous form tinted slightly pink in the pre-dawn light that filters through the opening of the tent. It seems to be thinking about something. Sudden remembrance flickers across the ghost's face, and it tosses its head, sending a wisp of itself drifting across one ghostly eye.
And you wonder how you could, even for a moment, have doubted who this ghost was. You fold your arms and glare at him. "You scared me."
"I really didn't mean to." Mettaton grins, looking about as coy as a ghost can manage. "It was funny though."
You can't help but smile a little as you settle back onto your sleeping bag. "A bit." You glance at his crumpled body behind you, and shudder. "That's a little creepy, though."
"I can go back if you'd like," he says.
You consider that, tilting your head to watch him. He's drifting a little, busy looking anywhere but at you, and if he had thumbs, he'd be twiddling him. You've never seen him this self-conscious. Then, you realize that this is the first time in a very long time that he's let anyone see him out of his corporeal body. You hadn't even been certain he could leave it. Aside from Alphys and Napstablook, you're probably the only person who's seen him like this since before you Fell. Something tightens deep within your chest as that realization dawns on you, and you shake your head. You know what trust looks like when you see it. You're not about to ruin it now.
"Well then," he says, a faint note of relief in his voice. It still sounds like him, but with far less sass and panache4 . "Will you tell me what's wrong now?"
He's showing you his soul. The deepest core of himself. There is no more hiding behind a mask for him now, no matter how true a reflection of the true Mettaton that mask is. The least you can do is the same.
You wrap your arms around your knees, resting your chin against them. Slowly, he drifts down to recline against your legs, his face very close to yours. It's not nearly as unnerving as it would be from anyone corporeal. It's a little chilly, and your legs feel a bit fuzzy and numb, but other than that, it's like a drift of candy floss has come to rest against you. He even smells a little like spun sugar.
"I'm...not good at this like you are," you admit.
He blinks in surprise, lifting away from you just a little. "Not good at what, sweetie?"
You gesture with your arm. "This. The… The being on. Performing. I don't know how to be...entertaining for people."
You're not explaining it well. He's seen you performing on stage at the school, emoting your heart out in the school play or hamming it up next to Sans on open mic night. He's usually in the front row with a video camera, cheering you on. It's not the same thing, but you don't have the words to make him understand. To his credit, he doesn't dismiss you. He thinks about it for a moment, sliding down your legs as he ponders. "You don't need to be, you know," he says at last. "I do this because I couldn't fathom the idea of doing anything else. But that doesn't mean you have to."
Groaning, you shift, stretching out until you're lying half in, half out of your tent. The sand is cold, but soft beneath you, and the stars are slowly winking out overhead as the first hints of colour touch the sky to the east. "It's not that I don't like being on your shows. I do, I really do. I just… I just wish I could be on them as me, and not the Ambassador."
He floats down to lie next to you, following your gaze skyward. "All right, far be it for me to admit to any failings, but I'm not quite at Alphys level when it comes to cleverness. Perhaps that's why I'm not following you, darling. Correct me if I'm wrong, but are you not the Ambassador?"
You sigh. "Yes. And no. Sometimes I feel like she's some big, colourful mascot version of me, and sometimes, especially when the cameras start going off, I have no idea how to make her move. I'd rather just be… Frisk."
"And why don't you just be yourself?"
You worry your lip for a moment or two, anxiety throttling the words in your throat before you can finally get them out, in a voice barely above a whisper. "Because I want people to like me."
"Oh. Oh darling. I would hug you so hard if I were corporeal right now." Mettaton twitches to flop over you, and you can't stifle the gasp of surprise as you're plunged into the midst of his cool, tingling ghostliness. "Frisk-darling, people love you. Not just the Ambassador."
"F-family d-doesn't count," you protest. It's not the chill that's making you shiver, but the strange buzzing sensation over your skin as he envelops you in what you suspect is the ghostly version of a cuddle.
"One, I'm offended. I always count, darling. And two, I'm not just talking about the family."
Despite the cool air surrounding you, you feel warmth rising to your cheeks. "But… I'm not that interesting."
He snorts, tossing his incorporeal hair as he lifts up to hover above you. "Of course you are, you precious thing. But if it's really worrying you, let's give you a today just to show off something you love. There are so many things you're good at, darling. Surely you wouldn't mind sharing just one?"
"Well…" You reach out, the tip of your finger brushing against the floof of his hair and confirming your observations; the floof really does tingle more than any other part of him. "There is one thing."
You push yourself to your knees and crawl across the sleeping bag to your pack. He hovers above you, watching as you rummage through the suitcase you brought for this leg of the tour. It's not that big - you're only joining him for a couple of days - but there are certain things you don't travel without any more. Ever. Finding the objects of your search, you silently pull them out and turn to face him.
They're not hers. Those ones never leave the Sanctuary. But the worn dance shoes you hold in your hand have seen a lot of wear and tear over the past year, and only the fact that these ones are monster-made prevented them from falling apart on your feet ages ago. Wordlessly, you wait for some sign of his approval.
You suppose the high-pitched shriek he gives as he dives back into his metal body counts. It lurches as his spirit flows back through it, his glow illuminating the tent as he rises to his knees. "Darling, yes! It's totally inappropriate for the setting - I love it!"
"There's one more thing," you say, and tell him.
One of his first upgrades after leaving the underground was to have Alphys install functional tear ducts so that he could properly pull off dramatic scenes in his movies. But there's no acting now as he clasps his hands beneath his chin, tears welling in his eyes. "Oh, darling," he breathes. "Oh… OH! WAIT RIGHT HERE!"
He leaps to his feet and keeps going through the wall of the tent, leaving tattered edges around a faintly Mettaton-shaped hole. You stare at it in bemusement, wrapping yourself in your sleeping bag against the faint chill that still hangs in the pre-dawn air. It will be gone by the time the sun hits the desert sands, but for now, it sends a gentle tingle down your back.
In short order, Mettaton returns, thankfully through the same hole, with a hasty promise to patch it later. He sits in front of you and dumps a large box in your lap. "I just finished it in Helsinki. I was going to wait for your birthday to give it to you, but I think now is a much better time."
You lift the lid from the box just as the first rays of dawn creep their way into the tent, and as they fall upon the contents of the box, they set your tent ablaze with light. You raise your astonished gaze to meet his, rainbows dancing on the canvas walls around you, and this time, the tears are your own. His expression plainly states that your reaction was everything he'd hoped.
"This is too much," you whisper.
"No," he says gently, resting a hand against your hair. "It really isn't. Besides, I have more money than sense right now, and no real need to sleep. It gave me something to do."
You run your fingers over the gift, and something deep within you surges forward in unbridled joy. "You made this…for me?"
"Yes, darling. It's not enough to thank you for everything you've done. But it's a start."
Clutching the box to you in wordless delight, you run off to get changed.
When you return, he's standing on the edge of the campsite, one hand on his hip as he watches the sunrise over the desert. You slow as you near him, self-consciousness stealing over you and dragging at your feet. Unwilling to disturb him now, you move to duck into the shadow of a scraggly tree, and squeak as you walk through a patch of icy air in the midst of the rising desert heat.
"Ohhhh. Sorry. I'll just go….." a mournful voice whispers over your shoulder.
"Napstablook, no!" you insist, peering around for the ghost in the shadows. "I didn't see you there, that's all."
"Oh. Well, if you're sure…."
"Of course we're sure, dearest Blooky," Mettaton clucks from behind you.
You turn to face him, still hiding in the shadow. "You called your cousin in for this?"
"Well, naturally. If you want music done right, you call Napstablook. Now come out here so I can see you."
You take a deep breath, and step into the sunlight.
The hundreds of glittering stones stitched to your bodice and tutu catch the rising sunlight, and your ballet costume glitters with a thousand points of light. Your ballet shoes sink into the sand a little as you move forward, and you shine like a nebula against the vanishing darkness. His eyes suspiciously shiny again, Mettaton holds out a hand. You hesitate for only a moment before you take it shyly.
"Frisk. Darling. You are absolutely perfect. Are you ready?"
"I think so," you tell him.
"Blooky, the sound system is all yours," Mettaton calls, but Napstablook has already taken over the sound editor's equipment. The little ghost got a luminous pair of headphones sporting cat ears for the Annual Celebration of Putting Presents Under a Tree last year, and they glow in the depths of the editing van.
Napstablook glances at the two of you. "Soooo… was there something you wanted me to play? I could pick something…. you probably won't like it though….."
Mettaton looks to you for the answer. You run a hand over the sparkling skirt, trying to hear what your heart is telling you. It's hard to figure out; since you opened the box, your inner monologue has been a single, continuous, high-pitched squeal. But an idea comes to you.
"Do you remember my recital a couple months ago?"
"The Dying Swan incident?" He looks at you with more than a little concern. "Vividly, to my dismay."
"Well… Napstablook, can you come up with something for…for after?"
The ghosts stare at you with remarkably similar expressions on faces so radically different. "How do you mean, darling?" Mettaton prompts you.
"Music for finding the hope after the swan dies."
Napstablook says nothing, but the sound board flares to life, and a single, wistful note drifts across the desert sands. The need for words falls away as it catches hold of you, and you and Mettaton step toward the pristine, unbroken expanse of sand at the edge of the camp. Your hand slips from his as you part, each of you tracing the edge of a circle as you move to opposite sides of your impromptu stage. Then the melody waltzes into the music, and you begin to dance.
The music is all you need to guide you, tracing the edges of a circle that only you and Mettaton can feel. Twirling and spinning, you move together across the sand, coming together and breaking apart, over and over, as your feet leave trails in the dust. The music dips and swells with you, mournful at first, but gaining momentum as threads of joy, and hope, and love weave their way through the melody, swelling to a crescendo as the beat quickens. Your steps become leaps as you move around the circle you have carved out of the landscape, and you're not entirely sure that you're even in control any more, but you don't care. Nothing matters right now but you, and Mettaton, and the tapestry of steps you weave out of the music that binds you together. You've given yourself to the music, and the adrenaline pouring through you is euphoric as the song reaches its grand finale. And when it falls away, the last strains echoing over the dunes, you hang in Mettaton's arms, and both of you are beaming through your tears.
"Ohhhh. You're crying. I'm sorry. That wasn't very good, was it?"
Laughter bursts the fragile, crystal bubble of emotion holding you immobile, and Mettaton laughs as he scoops you into his arms. "Napstablook, that was absolutely perfect, and don't you dare doubt it for a second." He looks down, and his hold tightens. "Hmmm. Hold on a moment, Frisk-darling. You need to see this."
He gathers himself and leaps, landing next to Napstablook before bounding up the rock wall that borders one edge of your camp. And as you look down at the place where you danced, you gasp in delight. Over the shouts of the returning camera crew, you throw your arms around Mettaton's neck and hug him tightly as you stare at the paths your dance etched into the desert, an intricate design of knotwork left in the sand.
"Thank you," you whisper. He just smiles, no clever jibe or flippant remark for once. Napstablook drifts up next to you, and under the watchful eye of the cameras, you lean over and kiss his ghostly cheek. "And you."
"Ohhhh….. " two spots of red flare on Napstablook's face.
"Ha!" Mettaton hugs you tighter. "You would kiss a ghost!"
When Mettaton descends the rocks to deliver instructions to the crew and to introduce Napstablook, you linger on the wall, your feet falling instinctively into fourth position as you gaze at your creation. One of the crew pulls out his camera, and the photo of you in your glittering costume against the sunrise becomes the cover of Napstablook's next album.
It goes platinum.
The pattern you and Mettaton danced into the sand becomes known as "The Harmony Mandala" shortly after Mettaton's World Tour (Season 2) airs. It is the second-most popular design in the MTT merchandise catalog (surpassed only by Mettaton's face), and the biggest seller in the Embassy gift shop.
You only own one piece of Harmony Mandala merchandise: a shirt you and Mettaton designed on that manages to be universally flattering to anyone who wears it. The lines of the mandala are subdued as they weave across it, more a hint than a reproduction of the design but you don't really need the visual reminder of the dance. It resides in your heart, always, and if ever you need to revisit it, Mettaton is always ready when you call.