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castle_perraultThe castle is what it is. A hub. A living hub, Frisk is sure. It probably doesn’t even matter where they are, if they want to talk to it. In the gardens, in a study, in a kitchen, at the edge of the underground lake. Maybe even that last one would be better, as far inside this hub as they could go…but that feels wrong, somehow
.
Instead, they go to the throne room, stand in front of the middle one, and ask. Quietly, pleadingly, for S-4 and Tauriel back.
And then the ones on the left and the right. It’s…it’s good to be thorough with something this important.
For a couple days, they come back and do this--and then they sit in the thrones, because that might be how it works, or used to work. That the castle itself controlled the monarchs that once sat there, and maybe it would be better to communicate with it.
What’s happening to S-4 now? Is he being trained to hurt again? Does he remember being here at all? Does he remember his home? And does Tauriel remember her sons? Is she happier to be back now? Did she ever think of the castle as home--?
Frisk digs their fingers into their knees and speaks their thoughts aloud. Maybe there were too many people at once in the castle. Maybe ithad to send people back, to keep things...working. If that’s why, then…they ask the castle to send them back, instead. At least to return S-4. (That’s not too fair to Tauriel, but…the lab is worse than her forest, Frisk is sure.) He deserves it, his brothers deserve it.
It hurts to say. Every word drags out of their throat raw, but they have a better place to go back to--a home--
--No, it’s not home.
It’s not home.
They come to that conclusion curled up about a week in after S-4 and his mother were gone, after Serif lost his thoughts to the rest of the timelines. Back there, even after everything they’d done, that not home, they didn’t really have a family there. Maybe they will if they go back, maybe they’ll get one again, a new one, but that’s not what they want.
Family was just a word. Even Mom was just a word. One that meant so much more to other people than to Frisk…
The castle is home. Serif and S-4 and Sans and Ryoji and Grune and the winding halls and the glimpses of Asriel and even Chara, those, those feel like home.
It’s worse than a knife to the throat, the complete realization. Frisk doesn’t want to go back.
But even then, even then, their lost family isn’t put back and they’re not thrown to a home that isn’t theirs, and that hurts even more.
…
The throne room is so dirty, they notice. The sun streaming through the glass lights the dust in the air and on the floor golden-yellow.
They wonder--they wonder--they wonder--if this was enough to make them snap, too, to see too far, too much. To see what other Frisks are seeing, the yellow flowers forcing their way through the purple tile of Asgore’s throne room, worlds and lives and RESETS away.
They get up--they should go--except their legs drag, their hands shake. They’re dizzy, breathing in this air. It tastes stale, but they don’t want to go, because then they might see other people, and they don’t want to--
They throw themselves back into the nearest throne, and it scrapes over the floor.
Frisk leaps up and looks back at it.
Somehow, they’d thought it was attached to the floor. But that’s not how it is at all.
They do it again. Sideways, this time, shoulder checking where they should rest against instead of their back.
It moves another inch or so. Tiny scrapes, tiny steps, tiny movements, too small, not enough.
Again. Again. Again. AGAIN.
A distant part of them notices their arm hurts. They’re tiny, too, it takes a lot of work to do what they’re doing, but eventually, it topples to the floor with a resounding crash. It brings Frisk with it, spilling them onto the floor with more distant spikes of pain.
And then they get up, and they do it again to the next throne.
And then they tear the ancient tapestries on the walls down, the ones they can reach, leaving them in ragged piles all over the floor.
And then they grab some old dusty wooden things that were stored in the corner and fling them with all their aching muscles’ might, at those stupid filthy windows, spraying glass everywhere, and they don’t care, they don’t care, they just do it again and again and again until all the furniture or carvings or whatever they were are gone, shattered somewhere in the gardens or on the outside by the edge, they don’t care, they don’t care.
The throne left standing catches their attention again--they grab a piece of glass instead and go after it and its threadbare royal cushion, shredding it to bits even as they grip the shard a little too tight. They don’t feel it bite into their skin any more than they hear their own animal screams and sobs.
Unless they're dragged away or outright collapse, Frisk isn't going to stop.
.
Instead, they go to the throne room, stand in front of the middle one, and ask. Quietly, pleadingly, for S-4 and Tauriel back.
And then the ones on the left and the right. It’s…it’s good to be thorough with something this important.
For a couple days, they come back and do this--and then they sit in the thrones, because that might be how it works, or used to work. That the castle itself controlled the monarchs that once sat there, and maybe it would be better to communicate with it.
What’s happening to S-4 now? Is he being trained to hurt again? Does he remember being here at all? Does he remember his home? And does Tauriel remember her sons? Is she happier to be back now? Did she ever think of the castle as home--?
Frisk digs their fingers into their knees and speaks their thoughts aloud. Maybe there were too many people at once in the castle. Maybe ithad to send people back, to keep things...working. If that’s why, then…they ask the castle to send them back, instead. At least to return S-4. (That’s not too fair to Tauriel, but…the lab is worse than her forest, Frisk is sure.) He deserves it, his brothers deserve it.
It hurts to say. Every word drags out of their throat raw, but they have a better place to go back to--a home--
--No, it’s not home.
It’s not home.
They come to that conclusion curled up about a week in after S-4 and his mother were gone, after Serif lost his thoughts to the rest of the timelines. Back there, even after everything they’d done, that not home, they didn’t really have a family there. Maybe they will if they go back, maybe they’ll get one again, a new one, but that’s not what they want.
Family was just a word. Even Mom was just a word. One that meant so much more to other people than to Frisk…
The castle is home. Serif and S-4 and Sans and Ryoji and Grune and the winding halls and the glimpses of Asriel and even Chara, those, those feel like home.
It’s worse than a knife to the throat, the complete realization. Frisk doesn’t want to go back.
But even then, even then, their lost family isn’t put back and they’re not thrown to a home that isn’t theirs, and that hurts even more.
…
The throne room is so dirty, they notice. The sun streaming through the glass lights the dust in the air and on the floor golden-yellow.
They wonder--they wonder--they wonder--if this was enough to make them snap, too, to see too far, too much. To see what other Frisks are seeing, the yellow flowers forcing their way through the purple tile of Asgore’s throne room, worlds and lives and RESETS away.
They get up--they should go--except their legs drag, their hands shake. They’re dizzy, breathing in this air. It tastes stale, but they don’t want to go, because then they might see other people, and they don’t want to--
They throw themselves back into the nearest throne, and it scrapes over the floor.
Frisk leaps up and looks back at it.
Somehow, they’d thought it was attached to the floor. But that’s not how it is at all.
They do it again. Sideways, this time, shoulder checking where they should rest against instead of their back.
It moves another inch or so. Tiny scrapes, tiny steps, tiny movements, too small, not enough.
Again. Again. Again. AGAIN.
A distant part of them notices their arm hurts. They’re tiny, too, it takes a lot of work to do what they’re doing, but eventually, it topples to the floor with a resounding crash. It brings Frisk with it, spilling them onto the floor with more distant spikes of pain.
And then they get up, and they do it again to the next throne.
And then they tear the ancient tapestries on the walls down, the ones they can reach, leaving them in ragged piles all over the floor.
And then they grab some old dusty wooden things that were stored in the corner and fling them with all their aching muscles’ might, at those stupid filthy windows, spraying glass everywhere, and they don’t care, they don’t care, they just do it again and again and again until all the furniture or carvings or whatever they were are gone, shattered somewhere in the gardens or on the outside by the edge, they don’t care, they don’t care.
The throne left standing catches their attention again--they grab a piece of glass instead and go after it and its threadbare royal cushion, shredding it to bits even as they grip the shard a little too tight. They don’t feel it bite into their skin any more than they hear their own animal screams and sobs.
Unless they're dragged away or outright collapse, Frisk isn't going to stop.