The rushing of waters
The glimmer of blue lights
The distant echoes of memories
For a time Frisk had long forgotten, they had come down to this tranquil area of the Ruins time after time. The child was always so entranced in the beauty of this strange piece of the Ruins, feeling both chills down their spine and determination in their heart. For awhile, the child had not acted like themselves, constantly trying their best to retain both innocence and kindness. Through all the battles, through all the trials, Frisk was tested, and judged, and now their kindness was finally rewarded with the surface and friends to truly call their family. Yet despite how some would gladly leave the place that caused Frisk so much pain, the child always returned to this place, sitting by the river's edges.
A breath escaped Frisk's lips, the savior gazing about the waterfalls. It truly was something of a beauty, to hear the voices of the Memory Flowers, illuminating rivers, and the cold breeze from surface winds being reduced to gentle breezes against the gems and flora of this wonderland. All-in-all, Frisk loved it, and while they knew that not everything was perfect, they had a family, they went to the surface, and they had conquered against the evil temptations that had caught so many before. A patient smile crossed the child's face, the human arising slowly, a red scarf wrapped around the angel's neck. A scarf that was, thanks to Papyrus, a welcome accessory, one that Frisk cherished with their overwhelming kindness and willingness of friendship.
With a turn, Frisk was beginning to walk, before a sudden sound rang out.
It was deep, mellow, yet sonorous and echoing. The child froze, feeling that something terrible and wicked had come to visit in this ancient aquatic labyrinth. Underneath that head full of hair, a gasp escaped Frisk's lips, the human nearly stumbling in pure shock. Grasping at one's heart, Frisk took a solemn, deep breath, blankly staring ahead as the memories danced and danced in that conflicted head.
A lone sunflower sat on the opposite edge of the river, a flower that Frisk recognized.
Could it be? Could it really? Frisk could only imagine and fathom, it had felt like years since they had encountered
Him again. Would he be the same, or would he be different? Thoughts ran wild, the body moving without the mind, Frisk pushing ahead to transverse over narrow, thin, small juts of rock found on the surface of the rushing waters. A right hand extended outwards towards the familiar flower, the hand of Frisk, a hand that had chosen to not wield the knife but to grasp the hands of friendship. Shakily, Frisk tried to call out...
But nobody heard.
In an instant, the waters came, spurned with Mother Nature's undying fury. A shrill escaped Frisk's lips, the child falling off that shaky piece of earth, water dancing around the angel as they fell deeper into the waters. The world shifted and rotated violently, Frisk kicking and arising occasionally to break the surface of the river, gazing at the distant, lonely sunflower. A ringing echoed in Frisk's head, the world becoming undone, memories of forgotten tales playing over and over. In those waters, Frisk saw the memories before those concealed eyes, seeing the murder, the blood, the war, the silhouette of a child who had sacrificed love for LOVE.
Desperately, Frisk called out their names, unable to ascend out of the rushing water, catching sight of an impending waterfall on the horizon. Toriel, Sans, Papyrus, Undyne, Alphys, Mettaton, Asgore, all were spoken, all were screamed, all were cried out as the breath was being taken from the angel's lungs. Determination went but so far, Frisk feeling dragged underneath the currents, the iconic sweater bogging the child virtually into the very ground surface of the waters. With darkness approaching, the light flickered, and one last time, the voices were whispered...
But nobody came.
----
Among the other participants in this joyously terrible festival, a lone figure arose shakily to their feet. Water dripped from the child's brown hair, heavy breaths going in and out in a constant rhythm and ebb. Fists that were once clenched in attempts to combat the rivers were unraveled, the faint glow of a red, heart-shaped object illuminating underneath an iconic purple-stripped, blue sweater. With one slow movement, Frisk's head arose, the child looking dazed and frighten, yet still retaining an almost patient, if not worried smile.
