She lowers her head, her own eyes fixed on the ground, not looking at them; but still the great golden plume pulls her by the arm towards Frisk, like a child with a doll. Gold streams steadily from her arm: droplets of sweet blood splatter on the soil, and there in seconds spring up tall grasses and thick tangled shrubs instantly in flower, wrapping around her bare feet, yielding giant insects and molluscs that creep out from between heavy leaves.

"But you—are—you're a little better, you must be, aren't you?" she insists. "If it heals, if it helps, it's worth it—isn't it?"

Finally, steps away from them, she flings out an arm and catches herself on an old tree that slowly begins to sprout new branches. Wrapping around its trunk, the eyespot still strains and stares and weeps at Frisk. Her legs wobble; it is only the force pulling at her that keeps her upright.

"Frisk, talk to me, please—tell me what you want—as you always do." Her voice strains, her voice is painful in her throat. "I don't know what has happened to me—maybe, I think, this is my only chance."