living skyward

There is a silence, strained, like a knife trapped between ribs. Judgement withdraws into itself, writhing in a fit of something like indecision, but more vicious. The fragment's pulse wavers, sometimes more frantic, sometimes less.

Eventually, new words wrench out of the fog of consciousness and present themselves clumsily to Frisk's mind.

Frisk—i'm an infection of you
everything scared and eaten inside you
hide from me "nothing" for "nothing" will kill me
nothing—
nothing—

And the words shatter like breaking glass, revealing for a moment the flurry of images behind them. The Drifter, red-caped, rushing, a sword of light, agony. The Guardian, rose-helmed, on guard, terrified. Emotion like a mouthful of pain, hot, prickly, and acidic.

The impressions are swept up and crushed back into shape. And with that fear again, building in Frisk's chest:

Frisk—
you should not have