Frisk, the tiniest Crimson Keeper in history, walked through the Ruins with great confidence.

On the other hand… Gaelic would rather be in any other place than here.

Feeling skittish, he kept his head low and his shoulders hunched. His sight peered through the floor for any signs of hidden traps.

Pressure plates. Tripwires. Proximity sensors. False switches. Baits. Rockfall. So, so many things that could go wrong with so, so many neglected contraptions.

The child looked back a few times. Their pace slowed to a halt, and they furrowed their brows in deep concern.

“Snakeface, are you cold?” they asked.

Gaelic inspected himself. It’s not surprising why the child had come to that conclusion. He had only a threadbare, muddy pair of long pants to call clothing; one article shy of total nudity.

He however knew that he wouldn’t succumb to such human limitations. The sensation was a nuisance at most.

“Nay, not chill o’ air,” he replied. “Chill o’ danger. Everywhere. Anywhere.”

“Don’t worry,” the child replied. “Mom made everything safe. She even has the solutions pointed out. See?”

Frisk walked over to a lever with many yellow arrows. “This one will lower the spike trap over there.”

Metal spikes blocked the path of progress.

Cenna… Cenna had tour…

No traps mentioned. Careless? Nay. If have traps, Cenna would mention. Cenna didn’t mention.

If nobody here, then why spikes now?

Senses on high alert, Gaelic burned his Eye to see beyond the walls.

Rust and roots had already encroached the gears. He couldn’t tell why it was wrong, only that system had already failed.

When Frisk pulled the lever, the clockwork of doom began to tick. The innards screeched in a strained metallic groan.

“H-huh? What’s happening?”

The spring mechanisms snapped, causing the spikes to shoot straight into the ceiling.

Gaelic’s protective instincts propelled him into action. He swooped the little one straight off the floor and fled to the opposite end of the corridor.

A cascade of breaking metal and rocks collapsed. That one mishap triggered a chain of trouble.

Once the dust cloud cleared, the damage was done. Purple bricks lay scattered about, and a mound of rubble prevented any further advancement. Road, blocked.

Frisk dropped their jaw. “Whaaaat?!?!? It’s not even been a full year!”

Strange logic. It stirred Gaelic’s curiosity. “Why year?”

“This place existed for over millennia,” said Frisk. “If it can last that long, why would it crumble now? It’s a cave! There’s no wind or rock to wear it down either.”

A cute, naive way of thinking befitting their physical age. “Wrong,” Gaelic grunted. “Very wrong, aye.”

He pointed towards the wall. “Friend. In there, bad gear. No maintenance. Air, very damp. Vines in walls. Not good for machine. Ten years a mutt may survive. But same mutt be ten years closer to death.”

“Gear may not be a thousand years old. Nay. Nay. M’lady say inside can change while outside stay the same.”

Frisk rubbed their chin. “In other words, there’s no guarantee the traps are as sturdy as the rest of the structure. And also, we may be looking at the end of their lifespan?”

“Smart,” Gaelic nodded. “No repairs. No upkeep. Dangerous. Treacherous.”

The child slipped their hands into their pockets and pondered harder, squinting.

When they made that face, it reminded Gaelic of his Lord. Already his heart pined for his master’s presence…

The nostalgia can wait. Right now, it’s his duty to protect those under his care.

Frisk had come to a conclusion. “We’ll have to avoid any path that contains lots of puzzles. Especially if they require constant maintenance. Um. My entire journey was full of them. And I don’t know if an alternative exit exists…”

They smell of worry with a twinge of fear. Perhaps a warm lick on the cheek would calm them down? They’re also in a serious need of cleaning.

So Gaelic summoned a flat, fleshy ‘ecto’ tongue: a skeleton’s magical mimic of non-bone parts. With that, he licked the dirt off the child’s cheek.

Frisk giggled from the sensation. “Haha, that’s tickles! Are you sure you’re not a dog?”

Intrusive thoughts of disgusted onlookers flashed by. Dogs. Beasts. The lowliest of low. That’s what many had labelled Gaelic for.

But to this child, dogs were cute, friendly critters. ‘Man’s best friend’ as the saying goes.

Flustered from the praise, the skeleton felt his cheekbones grow warm.

“We must go,” he said. “No food. Water not safe fer drinking.”

“Can’t you use your awesome wyrm blaster to tunnel our way out?”

Should?

Don’t. Not steady. Memories hazy. Will still remember friend?

What about Sans Serif? Ah remember. It hurts. Almost lost self. Fleeing. Flee to M’lady. Her touch enough to pass info.

But woke up fine. Was okay. Why not okay now? Still missing words. Grr. Why so slow? So slow. Too slow!

The frustration turned inward. He started hitting himself on the head.

“S-stop!” the child cried.

And stop, he did.

“Sorry. I guess you haven’t recovered enough yet.” Frisk put on an encouraging smile. “That’s okay. We’ll take the slow way then. One foot at a time.”

Gaelic pointed at his chest. “Ah take lead from here?”

“Okay.”

His nose caught a scent: reminiscent of ionized air, yet not quite.

“Portal nearby,” he reported. “Wait.”

He kept his face close to the wall. There were little gaps between each brick, just enough for wind to flow in.

Left and right, he went. Searched for the weakest section, he did.

Many laughed at his apparent miswiring of senses. Most Seers depend almost entirely on sight. Those who diversified concentrated on hearing or touch. Like Mondie, or his fair lady.

Smell? Humans weren’t good with it. Less so for Lichborn. It’s a skill reserved for beast types, such as dog monsters. And yet it’s one of his greatest strengths.

Just thinking about it made him feel out of place. Others don’t understand. House Berendin does.

“There.” With his sharp fingers, he scratched an ‘X’ between two hanging vines.

Frisk asked, “Are you going to bust down that wall?”

“Aye,” he replied. “Escape beyond.”

Gaelic summoned a set of fangs. Sharp, strong, and conical. His masters showed him how industrial drills worked. They’re so simple, just slow with the limitations of manual labour. With his Orange, though, speed was not an issue.

He arranged the fangs according to the weakness of the structure. Then, he charged them up.

The fangs drilled into the wall. Hard, soft, doesn’t matter. Energy was all he needed.

In a matter of seconds, he made multiple small holes.

Frisk said, “Um, shouldn’t you summon one big drill? It’s easier to make a tunnel.”

Gaelic shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Watch.”

For the big finale, he brought out a heavy femur: weighted at the end. Then, with one large swing of his makeshift hammer, he smashed a clean hole through the wall.

The kid dropped their jaws.

“Whoaaa…” they said. “Did I just see the awesomeness of science? From you?”

“Science?” Gaelic tilted his head, puzzled. “Life skills. Split wood. Split rock. Same difference. Find weakness. Big rock different from brick wall. Dunno why you amazed.”

The human child looked like they wanted to say something. But then, they relented. “Nevermind. Let’s move on.”

Beyond their newly opened path lay the deep-maintenance chambers. The Ruins’ traps were sorted in there by layers. Gears, levers, springs, and other connecting contraptions all linked back to this same space.

Deeper in, there was a board detailing the maintenance schedule. The next inspection never happened, because by then the residents had already migrated to the Surface.

“You could read that?” Frisk asked.

“Some, aye.”

“That’s great! You’re getting a lot better than the first day.”

Their youthful cheer reminded him of Cenna. How strange it was, to share traits even though they’re not be related by blood.

Around a bend they then found the portal. It was kept away in a small room on its own. A janitor’s closet? A tool storage? It had long been emptied. The door, unlocked.

Beyond the portal lay…

Snow. Lots of snow. Pine-like trees. A taiga forest.

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Gaelic almost bolted back from where they came from. What’s before them was a frigid climate with even less chance of finding nourishment.

He worried not about his own self, but the child. Small size. Ill-suited clothes. Without shelter, it’s a recipe for impending doom--

“Wait, wait, wait!” Frisk pointed out. “There’s a house right behind us!”

Behind?

Gaelic turned around. There was indeed an intact cabin right before his face. It appeared that they had exited from a backdoor of sorts.

“Let’s check it out,” said the child. “Maybe there’s leftover food inside?”

“Aye,” he said. Low temperatures should slow decay.

They soon arrived at the front of the house. The snow had buried a fifth of the entrance.

Pointing towards a tall cliff, Frisk hopped up and down. “I recognize that place! It connects to the main Snowdin road!”

“Up there?” he asked back.

“Yup! There’s a cave overlooking this valley. I think it’s the Annoying Dog’s home. I managed to get in there once.”

“Which means…” They pointed to their left. “Straight in that direction is Waterfall. We’re not totally lost, yay~”

Knowing a direction was half the battle won. Spirits lifted between the two.

For now, they should get something to drink. Start a fire. Melt some snow. Humans need water the most.

Doors have knobs. They should be turned. Gaelic tried, and it refused to budge.

“Locked,” he growled.

Frisk was surprised. And perplexed. “Weird. Why would you lock an abandoned structure? Maybe this is someone’s summer home?”

The house had an unused fireplace, thus a chimney. To Gaelic, anywhere he could squeeze through was a valid entrance.

“Wait here,” he said.

Up, up, up he climbed: onto the roof. Once confirmed that he won’t get stuck midway the chute, he went in feet first.

His flexibility made the job easy. In but a moment, he’s inside. The soot didn’t bother him.

First thing’s first, unlock the door. A brief search in the drawers turned up a spare key. Frisk’s lessons paid off.

The child stepped into the space, chuckling. “Do you do this often?”

Gaelic replied, “In me home, always.”

“Is it Lemurian architecture?”

The innocent question choked his throat. He lowered his head, anxious of their possible response. “Nay. Y’see. Ah… I… live in a cave. Many tunnels. Many exits.”

Frisk’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Whoa! That’s sooooo hardcore! No wonder you’ve got them skillz. Do you still need to pay taxes?”

All of that worry, puffed into nothingness. The whiplash made Gaelic burst into a guffaw.

“Did I say something wrong?” the kid pouted. They closed the door behind them to cut off the cold air.

“Nay, nay, nay!” He waved his hand across the face. “Ya cute. Adorable. Like a button. Mm… dunno if pay taxes. M’lord takes care o’ that.”

“I expected the tax stuff to be handled by Lady Lucidia.”

“With money, M’lord better. He has uh…” Gaelic stared into the air, trying to remember that complex word. “Ak-koun-ting the-gree…?”

“Accounting degree?” Frisk fixed it.

He clapped his hands. “Aye. Aye aye aye! Read money trail. Hunt thieves. Work bud-jet That’s part o’ his thing.”

“I see.” Frisk responded with a slow nod. They then looked around to inspect their new surroundings.

“Oh wowie. This place is great! There’s a fireplace. A comfy sofa. Functional kitchen. And a master bedroom! We could stay here all day.”

That caught Gaelic off guard. He had assumed Frisk intended to loot the house for travelling supplies. Maybe find a packet of biscuits, or an abandoned can of beans.

Neither had eaten anything since they woke up. Weakness comes with hunger. Death waits for those who cannot trek: survival was always a race against time.

Gaelic warned with a low grunt. “Stay be bad. Must eat. Then move.”

“How so?” Frisk asked back. “By now, the Tsunderjudge should know we’re stuck Underground. Even if he doesn’t, he would still RESET by night for his investigation.”

“No no. Cannae stay.”

“Aww. Come on. Let’s just start a fire and see from there. It shouldn’t take long before we’re back in Ebott, safe and sound.”

“Eeeeh…” Gaelic wasn't sure about that logic.

Half of his job as a Tracker involved trying to prevent others from getting killed by their own poor choices.

He’d insist more, but there was a sinking suspicion that the human would disregard his warnings.

After all, they had that glint of determination in their eyes.

* * *

The lonely house in Snowdin had some books. Stories. Word puzzles. An instruction manual.

Frisk also found a forgotten ‘tangram’; the Ebott people sure love their little toys of the mind.

Over a meal of boiled crackers, the child and the snake read to pass the time. Frisk played the role of a teacher whenever they reached a difficult word.

One syllable at a time. String those together. Form a necklace of meaning.

When books overstayed their welcome, they resorted to puzzles. They made shapes from other shapes, searched for words in a mess of letters, and filled in blanks based on descriptions. Fun, in a quaint way.

Frisk kept staring at their broken phone. Perhaps they wished that they could play some electronic games. Perhaps they had bigger worries. Gaelic could only guess.

After being ‘Determined’ to the point of exhaustion, the child excused themselves to bed. They’re confident that they would be woken in the comforts of their home.

Gaelic stayed up to watch the fire. The logs won’t burn without input. It also gave him light to read some more.

He lived his life surrounded by books of all kinds. The neighbours thought he would grow up studious. Fly high in school, then at his job.

But… he had always read books for a different reason. It wasn’t the knowledge. It was the words. The shapes. The letters. Of how they string together into something meaningful.

So foreign. So mysterious. Like the stars overhead and the oceans beneath.

Before he knew it, he too drifted into slumber. The open book of puzzles became an accidental pillow.

He dreamed of a lady in sapphire. Dressed prim and proper. She stood on a rocky pillar against the violent ocean, crying alone.

A dark red shambling mess of faces approached her. Closer and closer, it inched to the maiden.

What is it? Why did it make her cry?

He cannot allow it!

Upon his command, the Earth trembled, the waves crashed. A massive bone snake -- his trusty wyrm-- rose from the depths. And they merged into one.

Hunt, he shall. End the lady’s grief.

Rip. Tear. Constrict and devour. The foe refused to waver.

Frustrated, the serpentine one dragged it down into the depths. Though the wyrm soon dissipated along with the last of his might, the mass of faces were unable to swim back up against the currents.

‘Bad faces gone. Lady smile again’. That’s what he thought. That’s what he hoped. Caught in a watery embrace.

Gaelic then woke up. He gasped when he noticed that the fireplace had died down to mere embers. Hurried to rekindle the flames, otherwise he had to start the laborious process again.

Warmth once again filled the room. Gaelic breathed a sigh of relief.

He closed the book he slept on and put it away on the shelves. Already he had a bad track record of damaging property in Lemuria. Didn’t want to start another list in the Dreemurr Nation.

After that, he dropped himself on his pelvis and went back to sleep.

Again he dreamed. Always he dreamed.

Unavoidable they are, containing constant reminders of a painful past: such was the curse of his Eye’s colours.

This time, a foreboding thunderstorm loomed over his head. Their hot claps of lightning caused him to jump in fear.

Once again, the maiden from the cliff rocks shed her tears. She came to him pleading for help.

“Please, save my husband!” she said, pointing towards the gloomy horizon, deep in the cloud’s dark domain.

A common heartache was shared between the wife and the man beast. He too cannot bear to see them apart.

Another hunt commenced. This time, it took him to a faraway land.

He made his way inside a putrid den, filled with an unmistakable foulness. It reminded him of the hive where he once sought mates in desperate futility.

Therein lay the maiden’s own mate… sank in the mud of depravity, addled in a poison that the demons had inflicted upon him, and forced to endure torture to his heart.

The hunter hauled the man on his back. Upon that instant, the surroundings turned bright red. Demons chased hot behind their tail.

He ran. Climbed. Jumped. Scurried.

In the midst of their flight, they encountered a long stretch of foul water.

So the rescuer returned to the way of the beast. He united himself with his steed, and fled through the city’s waterways, toward the ocean. All for the sake of their survival. Until at last, they escaped.

Shedding the shell of a beast, he brought the human to rest at the shore. There, on the sands, he built a campfire. His clouded mind almost made him forget the art of ignition. Before long, the scent of burning coals filled the his nostrils.

“Thank you for saving me.”

He asked why the Keys of Fate refused to turn.

“…And wipe out all evidence of their crimes? Hmph. They’re counting on that.”

“If I turn back time now, I would have no proof of my scars. Be deemed a lunatic haunted by some malaise imagination.”

“No. I will be their downfall. Mark my words.”

The scene shifted toward an elegant office. Grand. Stately. Refined. As far removed from the wild at it could be.

Wife on the left. Husband to the right. The same two that he had helped, they stood before him.

“You now belong to House Berendin.” Said the woman. “From this day forward until dust, you shall be our knight: Sir Gaelic Blanc.”

The man reached out his hand. An invitation.

“Come.” he said “Join me in my next hunt.”

“Our prey is Persona and all those dear to him. DEMONS: every single one of them.”

“Leave none alive.”

With that, the sleeper woke up yet again. The rush of bloodlust ran into his skull.

“PERSONA! DEMON! KILL!”

Gaelic growled, ready to pounce into action.

“Wait…” he muttered. “No Persona. Aye. I’m… in ‘Snowdin’. Cabin.”

How annoying. He always had a hard time telling apart reality and illusion. At least the outburst didn’t wake the little human.

He lay back down on the floor, curled up, watching the flames dance in their hearth.

Fire. Proof o’ me humanity. Ah can live without fire, ‘cause ah not be human.

But. Beasts do not build fire. Do not craft tools. Do not pray.

What am I?

* * *

Frisk began to stir in their bed.

Gaelic kept watch. The long-awaited show of the day was about to begin. What oh what would this child’s bedtime habits be?

So far, they did not share Cenna’s overexcited rolling. Occupying the same space as her guaranteed disaster. Punches, kicks, blanket theft, body roll. She’s the worst sleepover mate.

Maybe they’d have issues like his Lord? Difficult to sleep and worse to wake. Trying to get him up early was an effort that required ‘perseverance’. Too often he would fall right back to bed, with hazy memories of his brief awakening.

Or, they had the impeccable timing of his Lady? She’d sleep and wake on the clock, not a minute too soon or too late. No thrashing or rolling. Almost unmoving. Less a monster, more of a machine.

A minute later, the child suddenly sat straight up. “Good morning, Frisk! It’s Wednesday!” they exclaimed.

They then fell back onto the soft mattress. “It’s. Not. Wednesday…” Their sheer disappointment exuded from every tired word.

Gaelic chuckled his heart out. “Dinnae ah say? Bad to stay. M’lord may not rewind.”

“Whyyyyyyyyy,” they whined.

“Today could be last day. Or be key break. If he cannot rewind, he cannot.”

Gaelic didn’t mention one more reason… It was also the likeliest scenario; times like these, he wished that his Lord wouldn’t put so much faith on his abilities.

The human’s belly growled out loud. That’s the price they paid for being stubborn. If they had listened to the Tracker’s advice, they would have been long home.

Frisk pulled the blanket over their head. “That’s it. I’m taking back the Keys. The Tsunderjudge can get dunked!”

They made all sorts of strenuous squeaks, trying to push their Determination past the limit of the Crimson Keeper’s Claim.

“Be Determined. You can do it. Dunk! The! Tsunderjudge! Ngaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!”

Gaelic had heard plenty about their maturity. They acted well enough in the Crimson Hall, but now? It’s a whiny tantrum befitting their age. Though, many an adult would behave the exact same way.

He knew he shouldn’t laugh… but their reactions. Oh, how hilarious they were.

Peeking under the sheets, he asked: “Why so fiesty? ‘Tis because o’ the hunger? That just be appetite, aye. Yer haven’t felt true hunger yet.”

“No,” Frisk pouted. “It’s my phone. It had all my account keys… Everything is tied to a unique ID. There are some services that would lock me out for two whole weeks for getting a new phone! That’s not counting the fact that Mom would need to contact the bank for even more account shenanigans. Security features are a pain.”

“And, at this rate I’m gonna lose Alphys’ super duper Gram writing app to my own stupidity. She worked so hard on it.”

The human planted their face straight into the pillow, uttering a long-drawn out groan.

With that perspective, Gaelic understood why the phone was so important to them. Lady Lucidia depended much on high-technology too. If she lost all her data in the same way… her mood would be foul for days.

“M’lady can fix it,” he said.

The statement caught Frisk’s full attention. “Really?!”

Gaelic nodded. “Past data, the Chronograph has. Repair, her speciality. She could try to sew yer phone back to one piece.”

“Sew…?” Frisk wondered out loud. “I don’t think that’s the right verb?”

He snickered. “When ya see it, ya understand.”

“Oh. So it’s not wrong Gaelic speech. Speaking of which, you’re a lot more fluent today!”

Gaelic touched the top of his skull. The child had a point: his words flowed and his thoughts were clear.

“Cor Blimey, yer right!” he exclaimed.

The child laughed. “What’s the weather report today, Snakeface?”

“Clear skies with some sparse clouds.” He smiled back. “May ah see yer wounds?”

Frisk sat up in the bed. Gaelic checked their chin first. He recalled how they tripped and landed hard there.

It developed a bruise. Otherwise, nothing serious.

The other stray scratches had dried out. His observations discovered no sources of new blood. Infection was minimal as well.

“Ya be fine as long ya don’t touch any water,” said Gaelic.

“Aww,” the human frowned. “How are we gonna get past Waterfall then?”

“If needed, I’ll lick ya clean again.”

“That sounds… unsanitary. Yet it’s the right answer, isn't it?”

“Aye. Some poisons thinned are medicine. M’lady made sure ah can make any concoction fer M’lord.”

He opened his maws wide and showed off his long, purple tongue.

The child said: “Shh, stay still.”

They peered deep in his mouth. Almost stuck their head inside.

“Whoa. You really have two sets of teeth! One here…” Frisk poked the outer fangs. “And another one within.”

Their fingers ran on the edge of his true, straight-lined teeth. It was part of the human skull he was born with. Added the outer layer of fierceness later.

“Are you a moray eel?” they asked, snickering.

“Ah wonder if yer cheeky wee mouth could still snark once ye drink some earthworm soup.”

Frisk stopped laughing in an instant. Their face froze in their default stoicism.

“…Seriously? My teacher used to scream at kids who ate earthworms in the playground. I can’t believe I’m gonna do this for real.”

“That, and whatever ah could scrounge in the Ruins before our journey. Maybe some roots. Or bugs. Aye, if we be lucky we might even get a snake!”

“Hey, leave some space for the REAL feast in Waterfall. It’s a buffet in there. We’re talking all of that plus catfishes, eels, breams, trouts, carps, fireflies, AND water sausages galore!”

Hearing about the good hunt made him drool a bucket. “Aaaaah, ye whetting me appetite! Do ya not fear I’d get impatient and start with ye instead?”

Grinning, Frisk said: “You won’t eat friends. Riiight?”

“Cannae refute that,” Gaelic hollered. “Ye determined lil’ bean, yer one o’ a kind.”