They dream of spears shoved through their body a hundred times over, able to feel every excruciating inch, but they don't die. They just bleed, and hurt, forever.
They dream of eight children, holding hands. They--they're one of them at the same time, and they all spin in a circle, collapsing one-by-one-by-one until they're dragging a train of corpses all on their own.
They dream of an empty apartment, a human woman's body drifting down a river that cuts through the mailroom. They can't catch her no matter how hard they try.
They dream of dying, thorns and fingers and muzzle-flash of guns and hurtling bombs and being ripped back. Die, wake, repeat. Over and over and over.
They dream of someone who looks like Toriel, a little goat boy, holding their hands and crying and smiling and withering like a plant without water. "Thank you, Frisk," he says, over and over, until there's only silence, and handfuls of dust.
They dream of Toriel herself, apologizing, pressing her white-hot hands into their chest, tearing out their beating hart to weep with it clutched against her chest. Their discarded body falls into red leaves, and they fall, and fall, and fall...
Before dawn, Toriel peers in and feels herself go cold.
"Pitch--Frisk--!"
Of course she rushes to her child first--they're weeping. They've been weeping for a while, silent, and she can see so many tear tracks down their face.
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They dream of spears shoved through their body a hundred times over, able to feel every excruciating inch, but they don't die. They just bleed, and hurt, forever.
They dream of eight children, holding hands. They--they're one of them at the same time, and they all spin in a circle, collapsing one-by-one-by-one until they're dragging a train of corpses all on their own.
They dream of an empty apartment, a human woman's body drifting down a river that cuts through the mailroom. They can't catch her no matter how hard they try.
They dream of dying, thorns and fingers and muzzle-flash of guns and hurtling bombs and being ripped back. Die, wake, repeat. Over and over and over.
They dream of someone who looks like Toriel, a little goat boy, holding their hands and crying and smiling and withering like a plant without water. "Thank you, Frisk," he says, over and over, until there's only silence, and handfuls of dust.
They dream of Toriel herself, apologizing, pressing her white-hot hands into their chest, tearing out their beating hart to weep with it clutched against her chest. Their discarded body falls into red leaves, and they fall, and fall, and fall...
Before dawn, Toriel peers in and feels herself go cold.
"Pitch--Frisk--!"
Of course she rushes to her child first--they're weeping. They've been weeping for a while, silent, and she can see so many tear tracks down their face.