Would That Make You Happy?

Frisk is your child, the result of a teen pregnancy, but they've always been told that you're their older sister. In an effort to get away from your own abusive mother, the two of you end up falling into the Underground, where Sans is startled by this abrupt change in what had become a predictable pattern of events. Maybe your presence is what is needed to stop the endless cycle of Resets.

After many struggles, both internal and external, you and your found family reach the surface, only to face even more difficulties from the society you weren't sure you'd ever see again. You meet new friends and encounter people from your past, though for good or ill, you're not sure. Sometimes it's difficult to tell kindness from cunning.


185. Abnormal

A lot has changed in regards to the mages since the monsters learned of their continued existence. The Literatum now live in the newest of Ebott’s neighborhoods, Woodside (named, of course, by Asgore after the wooded valley it’s nestled into). Woodside was built specifically to house the gradual influx of humans (mostly mages) that had begun to trickle into the monster society.

The monsters, after taking a little time to adjust, were as friendly and welcoming as always after they’d heard about what Morwenna and the others had done to help secure their legal rights. And once Asgore had assured his people that they meant no harm, their incorporation went smoothly.

And so the Literatum set up a base of operations on Ebott, headed by Morwenna and Grant, which gradually began to grow as word spread among the unaffiliated mages and other groups that the mountain was something of a safe haven for magic. It’s Ebott’s worst-kept secret; so far as the world is concerned, humans don’t have magic. There are rumors of course —there are always rumors— but any odd incidents are easy enough to explain away as coincidence, or a trick performed by a nearby monster.

Having a home where the mages can be themselves, unafraid of using their magic and being caught, Frisk knows how comforting that is.

Though, lately they’ve been second-guessing this whole ‘embracing their magic’ thing.

“Frisk, you need to focus ,” Morwenna says, resting her hands on her hips as she bites back an aggravated sigh. She’s annoyed with them, that’s plain enough to see, and it doesn’t help that they’re annoyed with themselves, too.

“I am focusing,” Frisk snaps before they can catch themselves, pushing sweat-damp hair out of their face as they scowl.

Her head tips a little to the side, arching a brow as she gives them a bemused look. Frisk is standing there in a fighter’s crouch, breathing hard, and Morwenna hasn’t even broken a sweat. Her tank top is still pristine, short orange hair (graying just at the temples) not even mussed. It’s embarrassing, being put through their paces and outstripped by a woman just shy of sixty.

The training room at the Literatum headquarters (officially known in Woodside as the ‘Community Center’) is empty save for the two of them. At least no one is there to see this.

“This is pointless!” Frisk blurts out, dropping their arms back to their sides and letting out an exasperated noise.

“Put your hands back up,” she says. She settles into a combat stance, raising her arms.

“I can’t do this without Asriel here,” they insist, shaking their head.

“I will only say this one more time. Put your hands back up.”

“It’s not going to work,” they mutter. They don’t move.

Morwenna doesn’t answer. Instead she lunges forward, lashing out with the heel of her palm. With a yelp of surprise, Frisk tries to twist out of the way but she’s too fast, hitting them square in the shoulder with enough force to knock them off-balance.

“Stop!” Frisk yelps, trying to bat her hand away but missing as she snaps her arm back. But she’s moving forward again, her mouth set into a hard line, her brow furrowed. “Wait!”

“Stop me yourself,” she says, shifting her weight with a fluid motion as she moves, striking again. Frisk manages to deflect this one, just barely, but they’re backpedaling. “You have the magic necessary, you can be faster than this. Use it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can!” she snaps. There’s a fire in her eyes as she forces Frisk back, just shy of overwhelming them. The worst part is that she’s obviously holding herself back; she’s not using any magic! “Use your magic, Frisk.”

They try to reach for it, to tap into that huge well of power that’s hidden deep inside of them, but they can’t do it. They just can’t glean enough magic for something simple, something ordinary like Morwenna can. The only thing they can touch is that bright point in their mind, the thing they know is their Save, but they aren’t trying to Load. All they can do is Load and that’s not what they want! “It’s not mine!” they cry out, frustrated tears blurring their vision. “The magic isn’t mine!”

Frisk raises their hands to defend themselves against an attack that doesn’t come. After a second, sniffling, they blink to try and clear their eyes and look at Morwenna. She’s watching them with a somber look on her face, arms hanging limply.

“It is yours,” she says softly. “It’s inside of you, it’s connected to your Soul. Maybe it didn’t start out as yours, but it is now.”

“You don’t understand.” Frisk swipes angrily at their eyes, frustrated and embarrassed.

“I understand enough. I understand that you can’t stop thinking of that power as Chara’s, that it isn’t yours to use,” she says. You and Sans and Deacon had agreed to tell her the truth, years ago. That as the only other person who might understand Frisk’s magic, she needed to know. (Also, Deacon insisted on telling Bo. Which brought the number of people who knew about their powers up to six, not including Frisk themselves.) Frisk drops their gaze to the floor. “I understand that you’re afraid of it.”

“I’m not afraid,” they mutter, digging their toes into the ground. “I just can’t do this by myself.”

“You can’t keep relying on Asriel. Yes, he has most of Chara’s Soul, but you have their magic. You’ve used it before,” she says, her tone careful. Cautious.

“Yeah, when Asriel was with me,” they say petulantly.

“He can’t always be with you, Frisk.”

“Yes he can! The only reason he’s not here right now is because you’re keeping him away.” Gritting their teeth, Frisk turns on their heel to head towards the door. “You want me to do all this stuff, but you’re crippling me!”

“Frisk, where are you going?”

“Away,” they snap. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Fine,” she answers, her voice even from behind them. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow for more training.”

They want to argue, but they know it’s pointless. They remain silent as they storm off.

“You yelled at Morwenna.”

Frisk buries their face in their knees, letting out an anguished groan. Asriel clears his throat, rubbing their back with one hand.

“What did your mom say?” he asks.

“I didn’t tell her,” Frisk says, voice muffled. “It was the end of practice when I stormed off anyway, so she was just waiting out in the car. Just lied and said it was fine. Same stupid thing.”

“Aren’t you worried Morwenna’s going to tell her?”

“...Well I am now !” they whine, unfolding themselves and lifting their head to look at him. They’re sitting on Asriel’s bed, in his room, and he winces at the look on their face.

“Sorry,” he says, dropping his hand away from their back and glancing down at the bedspread.

Frisk can feel his apprehension, his desire to make them feel better somehow. It’s tangled up in this confusing uncertainty, and Frisk wishes they could make him feel better too. So they try to do what they can. They push him over so that he’s laying on his back, then sprawl out on their stomach and rest their head on his chest. Asriel makes a soft, confused sound as he twists his head to look down at them, and as their eyes meet they feel him relax beneath them.

That nervousness is still there though as Asriel shifts his arms, like he’s not sure what to do with them. Finally he settles on playing with Frisk’s hair, though from what they can feel through their bond, it doesn’t help his nerves. He’s been like this a lot lately; too anxious.

Maybe it’s what Morwenna said, or being worried about Asriel, but something ugly twists in the pit of Frisk’s stomach. Something that makes their throat tight and their chest ache. “Are we together too much?” Frisk whispers.

Asriel tenses beneath them, the fingers twirling through their hair halting in their fluid, circular gestures. “We promised to always be together,” Asriel says, his voice cracking.

“When we were little kids,” they say weakly.

“What do you mean? Do you… want to take it back?” He still hasn’t moved. He’s just laying there, looking at them. Frozen.

This was the wrong thing. All of this, it’s wrong and they don’t mean any of it the way it sounds. “No, Asriel, I don’t,” they insist, draping an arm over his stomach in an awkward attempt to hug him. “We just said a lot of… silly stuff when we were little. I— I don’t know, that’s not right either!”

He pulls his hand free from Frisk’s hair, propping himself up on his elbows. It shifts Frisk off of him, and they’re left having to push themselves onto their hands and knees. His expression is closed off, a little hurt, and though he might seem cold and stony on the outside, they can feel his emotions tossing him about. They’re not faring much better.

Asriel must feel it too, able to tell that they feel just as badly as he does, and instead of them feeding off of each other’s negative feedback they take a moment to just look at each other. As they hold each other’s gaze, not needing to speak to understand, Frisk feels Asriel start to mellow. It calms them, too.

“I’m sorry,” Frisk says, sighing. “Morwenna just… doesn’t understand. But she knows so much other stuff, so sometimes I wonder… If there’s something wrong with us.”

Asriel shifts his weight onto his side, freeing one arm so he can scratch above his ears. His snout scrunches. “Of course there’s something wrong with us. None of this is normal,” he says.

Frisk bats his hand away, kneeling beside him as they reach with both hands to rub the top of Asriel’s head. He lets out a contented noise as his eyelids droop. “Normal is overrated,” they declare, echoing a sentiment they’re fairly certain they’ve heard Deacon express. “She keeps trying to make me do magic the ‘normal’ way and I don’t think I can.”

“Maybe we can practice together tomorrow,” Asriel says, sounding sleepy as they massage the raised bumps where his horns are still waiting to come in. “If you figure out how to do it when I’m around, maybe it’ll be easier when I’m not.”

“They don’t want me doing anything unsupervised,” Frisk grumbles, ‘they’ being you, Sans, and Morwenna. Probably more, if they knew. “Cuz ‘magic can be dangerous’ blah blah blah… Like I haven’t been doing this stuff for years by now…”

Asriel huffs a snort through his nostrils. “And getting in trouble for it almost every time,” he mumbles, drifting towards Frisk as he follows their fingers. Before he realizes it, he’s lying with his head in their lap, on his side with one arm draped over them.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Frisk complains. “Or I’m gonna stop. And it was only a little bit of trouble.”

“M’not falling asleep. Just feels good.”

Frisk grabs his long ear and gives it a firm tug, making Asriel let out a startled bleat that cracks halfway through. His eyes fly open and he turns his head enough to look up at them.

“What was that for?” he demands.

“You were about to fall asleep in my lap,” Frisk answers, arching a brow. “I mean, you can if you want, but—”

Asriel rolls away, unable to stop himself from going a little pink under his fur as he grabs the ear they tugged on and worries it with his thumb. “Iwasn’t going to fall asleep,” he says stubbornly, staring up at the ceiling.

Frisk tries not to smile. “Okay.”

“I really wasn’t.”

“I said okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”



They fix each other with their best attempts at serious expressions, which crack in a matter of seconds. Frisk laughs and Asriel grins, and neither of them remember that they each meant to talk about their strange dreams.

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