Papyrus woke up in the atelier alone.
A mild headache gripped his noggin. It reminded him of his first hangover from chugging down all that brandy.
Still in a daze, he tried to rub his eyes with the back of his hand. It’s only then he noticed that he’s not wearing his usual clothes.
“…WHAT TIME IS IT?”
After a brief check on his body, he realised that he didn’t have his phone either.
“MAYBE I SHOULD WAIT FOR THE FAIRY GODMOTHER TO COME BACK.”
In the meantime, he observed the sheer intricate technology in his surroundings. In a way it reminded him of The Core.
Papyrus heard someone knocking on the door.
“COME ON IN!” he chirped. Then, he remembered that he’s not the host. How embarrassing.
More knocks followed.
“…SANS? IF YOU’RE TRYING TO DO A KNOCK-KNOCK JOKE IN SOMEONE ELSE’S HOUSE, I’M SO GOING TO SCREAM. THAT’S ABSOLUTELY IMPOLITE!”
The visitor opened the door from the outside…
…But there was nobody there. The hinges rolled on their own, unassisted other than the initial push.
Papyrus pondered about his next course of action. Should he stay in the safety of his bed, or explore at the risk of being rude?
Then, an idea struck him. “OH! I’M A GUEST, RIGHT? THEN MAYBE MISTER MAGUS IS TRYING TO GUIDE ME SOMEWHERE! I NEED TO FOLLOW PRONTO!”
Without a single hesitation, he jumped to his feet and exited the atelier.
“HELLO?”
Silence greeted him back.
The confusion soon gave way to awe. The architecture reminded Papyrus of Mezil’s hideout in the Void. Except, fancier. Taller. Older. With a whole lot more rooms.
Dim nightlights illuminated the arching pathways in all their sleepy amber shades. They mimic torches. Only the ones in close proximity to Papyrus ever lit up.
A part of him wondered if he’s standing in a museum of sorts. The air in this building felt ‘different’ compared to Ebott, or even the Magus Spire itself.
If he could describe it… it’s like sampling a taste of undiluted cordial: thick, rich, and intense.
The flavour? ‘Time and History’.
A second glow illuminated the junction. The shadow of a cloaked humanoid figure stretched against the walls.
“MISTER MAGUS?”
The person turned away, causing the lights to dim upon every step.
“WAIT!”
Papyrus dashed down the halls. The lamps’ glow rolled by as fast as he moved.
For some strange reason, he couldn’t catch up to the mystery visitor no matter how hard he tried. Papyrus suspected Sans-level teleportation played a large role in this person’s elusiveness.
On a normal day, he wouldn’t mind the jog, but he just woke up from goodness knows what.
“SIR? MADAM?? I DON’T MEAN TO BE RUDE, BUT COULD YOU PLEASE SLOW DOWN???”
Papyrus paused to catch a quick breath. When he did so, the mystery person vanished.
Now he's left alone to traverse the foreign hallways of the house, if he should even call it one. The sheer size reminded him more of Asgore’s castle, though he never went anywhere beyond the King’s immediate living quarters.
There’s a doorway up ahead on the left. When he arrived there, Papyrus found himself looking down at a living room…
The tables and desks bore the hallmark elegance of historical movies. Somewhere between the ‘18th’ and ‘19th’ centuries, whatever it meant. They’re either detailed, had curvy legs, or both. It exemplified the craftsmanship of carvers and carpenters.
A casual comfy couch set surrounded said table, dressed-down with a simplistic design from the modern era as if it’s purchased a few months ago from some boutique shop.
Oddly, the most ubiquitous and vital piece of furniture known as the television was nowhere to be seen.
WHY WOULD ANYONE NEED SO MUCH SPACE?
MAYBE THERE ARE LOTS OF PEOPLE HERE AND EVERYONE’S JUST ASLEEP?
…IT’S KINDA LONELY OTHERWISE.
A plethora of art hung on the wall, preserved behind thin sheets of glass and wooden frames. There’s a drawing on yellowed parchment that depicted a human siege battle: with the defenders aided by wizards. He could tell that it came from a time before the study of anatomy, as everyone looked like a kid’s drawing.
Next was an impressionist’s painting of a grand school. The people of that era started to experiment more on colour and the art of capturing the ‘moment’. It’s looser compared to the realistic portraits, yet it seemed to ‘live’ in ever repeated moments of time.
Finally, a true-to-life realistic painting followed right after. It depicted a red-haired nobleman wearing the robes of a priest, albeit with a wizard’s touch. His choice of moustache and a well-trimmed beard also screamed the fashion of ‘ye olden days’.
Contrary to his choice of strong colours and imposing form, this man hid patient wisdom behind his hazel eyes.
This was further exemplified by his choice of arms: a gem-decorated wooden staff. According to what Papyrus learned from Alphys, most human nobility showed their power with swords, spears, or shields.
The plaque below it reads: ‘Grandmaster of the Magi’. Name, conveniently left out.
THAT’S STRANGE… I THINK I’VE SEEN THIS MAN BEFORE! THE WAY HE STANDS IS SO FAMILIAR. HE'S GOT A STRONG BONE STRUCTURE.
BUT I DON’T KNOW WHO. HMMM… WHAT A PUZZLE.
Papyrus then heard familiar sounds echoing from the distance. It’s the hums of an exhaust hood combined with the sizzles of ingredients.
In other words, they’re the welcoming melodies of the culinary world.
So he charged right into the kitchen.
He spotted Mezil cooking himself a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs. He didn’t wear his fancy coat, instead opting for a grey elbow-length T-shirt and a pair of comfortable slacks. His cane was nowhere to be seen either.
Papyrus wasted no time to announce his arrival: “MISTER MAGUS!!! YOU WERE THE GUIDE ALL THE WHILE! WHY DID YOU DECIDE TO PLAY ALL SUPER MYSTERIOUS? ARE WE DOING SOME SPECIAL FRIENDSHIP THING?”
Mezil looked back with a raised brow. Then he started plating his meal. “Good morning, Papyrus. Sorry to disappoint you, but that wasn’t me.”
“HUH?”
“My father-in-law led you here.”
More mental head-scratching. “WHAT IS A ‘FATHER-IN-LAW’?”
“In-laws are members of a spouse’s family. In other words, he’s my wife’s father.”
“OH.” Papyrus then asked, “WHY DIDN’T HE WANT TO BE SEEN? IS HE SHY? I’M NOT DANGEROUS.”
“On the contrary. He just thinks that you’re not ready to meet him yet. Nothing against you. Say, would you like to eat with me?”
Despite not having a visible stomach, Papyrus heard a faint growl coming from his belly. “DO YOU HAVE ANY MILK?”
Breakfast, served. The two men sat down at the dining table with a spread of toast: some butter, a selection of jams, and a glass of milk. Mezil split the single portion of eggs in half.
Papyrus was reluctant to accept the offer.
“I DON’T FEEL RIGHT TAKING YOUR FOOD, MISTER MAGUS,” he said.
“It’s fine,” Mezil answered, “I shouldn’t eat too much either.”
“WHY NOT? BREAKFAST IS THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY!”
“Except…” One hesitant moment later, the old man admitted: “This is my supper.”
Up on the wall, a digital wall clock told the time. The numbers read: ‘4:20 AM’. It’s night, well before sunrise.
It took a while for Papyrus to connect the statements with the odd hours. When they puzzle clicked in place, the youngster cried out like a distraught mother. “YOU HAVEN’T SLEPT?!?”
“Yes,” Mezil replied. He then bit into his first toast. “Preparations are taking longer than expected.”
Up-close, Papyrus noticed that black tattoos decorated Mezil’s arms. Where do they begin? Where do they end?
Pointing to his own left side, the youngster asked: “MAY I SEE YOUR ARM?”
Mezil’s default face didn’t help to ease to atmosphere. He looks stern all the time, so it’s difficult to know if he’s offended or not.
After dusting off the crumbs, the grizzled Magus rolled up his left sleeve. Tucked the fabric on the shoulder so that it won’t roll off. He then resumed his meal.
Complex grams wrapped the entire arm, making use of whatever limited canvas it had available. Encrypted runic notes and circuit lines weaved the geometric shapes together into a singular entity. It further extended beyond the shoulder, indicating that he had more hidden underneath his clothes.
Papyrus’s jaw slacked from the sheer ‘badass cool’. He tried to snap himself out of it. There’s something he wanted to inspect.
Soon enough, he found what he had searched for: a long, vertical scar that stretched across the elbow to the upper arm.
“WHAT ARE THESE WEIRD DOTS? THEY SEEM TO COME IN PAIRS.”
Mezil answered, “They’re stitch marks. Do you have experience with tailoring?”
“SOME. I KNOW HOW TO MAKE SWEATERS!”
“Well then, I can skip some explanations. My severe battle injuries were sewn up like a piece of fabric. Ghastly, but necessary. It keeps vital fluids in and infections out. Minimizes scarring too.”
He’s never going to see tailoring the same ever again. Papyrus then asked, “DOES IT HURT?”
“I would be numbed for surgery, of course. There’s no pain there. The recovery process however… that’s the worst. Thankfully, that’s done and over with.”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Mezil continued, “You may not realise it, but humans are nowhere as invincible as you Ebott folk make us out to be. Do you know why the Persona targeted my left arm?”
Come to think of it, that action struck Papyrus as an oddity. As far as he knew, most humans favoured the right side of their body.
“ARE YOU A LEFTIE LIKE MY BROTHER?” he asked.
The Magus nodded. “Yes, we’re both ‘sinisters’.”
“I NEVER NOTICED THAT. YOU SEEM TO SWITCH AROUND A LOT. LIKE, YOU’RE EATING WITH YOUR RIGHT NOW! AND, I THINK YOU HOLD THE CANE ON THE RIGHT TOO.”
“That’s because I’m forced to do so. Over the years, the Persona had attempted to cripple my marksmanship by targeting my dominant arm.”
Mezil finished his toast. He reached for the glass of milk with his left. When he tried to lift it, his hand shivered: struggling to carry the weight.
The old man’s brows furrowed.
“In the end, that bastard succeeded. He had ripped through some of my key nerves. Despite having the best medical care within reach, the damages never recovered in full. This weakness could spell life or death in a battle.”
“My wife had implanted extensive aid to support me. It’s perfect, but I may not be able to depend on it for every situation.”
“I suppose I should demonstrate.” With a thought, The Magus channeled some magic into his troubled arm, lighting a chain of code from black to white. Most of the relevant magic concentrated on the ugly scar.
Mezil now downed his milk with ease. When he set the glass back on the table, the tattoo’s light faded.
“I cannot emphasise just how much luck you had, Papyrus. If Doctor Gaster didn’t administer emergency aid, your recovery process could end up much more complicated. Perhaps crippled for life, lest we rewind time to an event before the accident.”
The thought chilled Papyrus to the bone.
“Which brings us to the next question: are you really going to let your breakfast go cold?”
That’s Mezil in all his tsundere glory.
It’s true. The curiosity had become a complete distraction. “OOPS. SORRY, MISTER MAGUS! I’LL EAT NOW.”
Though cold, the meal was hearty and comforting. Papyrus wondered in silence how people could tolerate his old cooking. He had to admit it’s terrible compared to what he’s capable of today.
He could make a joke about skeletons not having tongues to taste, but that would be an insult to his career-chef parents.
After both men finished their meal. Papyrus offered to wash up.
Mezil shook his head. “Leave it. There are more important issues to address.”
‘No’, however, refused to be an answer. Let no housework be left undone!
In a blink, the stacked plates ended up in the sink. And the cutlery. And the cooking pan too. He soaped up the sponge to begin.
Since Mezil can’t argue with that level of enthusiasm, the magus leaned against the counter in wait.
“EXCUSE ME, BUT WHAT IS THIS ‘IMPORTANT ISSUE’ AGAIN?” What could be more important than cleanliness?
“Your life-changing decision.”
“WHICH LIFE CHANGING DECI-- OH. THE FAIRY GODMOTHER DELIVERED MY MESSAGE, DIDN’T SHE?”
“F-fairy Godmother?” Mezil cleared his throat, trying to not chuckle at the image. “Yes. She told me that you didn’t want to lose any of your experiences.”
Papyrus nodded.
“Are you certain? In this round, you had heard words that should have never reached your ears.”
More nods.
“Why go to such lengths to preserve your mental scars?”
Sir Tsundere Principal asked a good question. People try to live life with as little pain as possible. Some were permitted as part of growing up: like learning to walk or studying for an exam.
Otherwise… why?
Papyrus tightened his grip on the plate. Surely Mezil had heard the reasons from his dear wife, yet he still wanted a personal confirmation.
It’s a test. Like any teacher, he wanted to make sure his students can survive the outside world.
“I WANT TO GROW, LIKE FRISK DID,” he answered.
“What if there’s nothing you can do? What if the person rejects you?”
“THEN I’LL JUST TRY TO UNDERSTAND. LET THEM KNOW THAT… THAT THEY’RE NOT ALONE. AND THEY DON’T HAVE TO STAY ALONE.”
“And what if the cards of fate stack against you?”
“I WILL LIVE THE BEST I CAN.”
The stern Magus contemplated the decision. “…Your courage continues to impress me. You had made the same decision in the past timeline too.”
Watching how hard Papyrus scrubbed the eggy bits off the frying pan, the old man let out a discreet cough. “We do have a dishwasher, young man.”
“LE GASP, YOU HAD TO EMPLOY A PERSON TO DO THE DISHES FOR YOU?! THAT’S SANS LEVEL OF LAZY!”
“No, it’s a machine.” Mezil pulled out the dishwashing rack to prove his point. “Think of it as a launderer for cutlery.”
“THAT’S EVEN LAZIER!”
“It’s a standard household tool. Are you saying that none of you Ebott folk have it?”
“I… UM… IT NEVER CROSSED MY MIND. MAYBE TORIEL WOULD. OR ALPHYS!”
“Since you’re such a big fan of cooking, I suggest that you invest in one. Saves plenty of time washing up.”
Papyrus then asked, “ARE YOU AN ASPIRING STUDENT OF THE CULINARY ARTS, MISTER MAGUS?”
Mezil answered, “No. I only cook when necessary. My father-in-law is the one who enjoys it as a hobby. The jam and butter we had earlier? His handiwork.”
“THAT’S SO COOL!”
When the dishes were all cleaned, wiped and stacked on the drying rack, Mezil beckoned the skeleton to follow. “Come. You wish to grow like Frisk? Then you must know their place in this era.”
He led Papyrus through the house’s many chambers. The youngster had a feeling that he’s being watched from afar. When he looked back, he spotted the shadows of the cloaked man around the corner.
There was a red gleam. It slipped away as fast as it appeared.
HUH? DID HE POINT A LASER LIGHT AT ME?
He felt no malice, so he shrugged it off.
One would expect to be taken to an office for a debriefing. Or at least a command center. Certainly not a medical bay.
The west side contained standard beds and assorted other furnishings that Papyrus had seen in a human hospital. It’s nothing unique compared to the east area.
They had pods there. Lots of smooth, segmented pods, like pillbugs. About two dozen of those lined up against the wall, each with their own number. Each of the pod’s segments could either be moved up or down to reveal the glass beneath.
There’s an empty space between Pod 21 and 23. It’s in use.
What purpose do these pods serve?
Papyrus received a partial answer beyond the double-swing door. A sapphire-clad lady with long black hair toiled over the room’s mainframe console. Tubes and wires connected to ‘Pod 22’, standing right besides it.
A strange Lichborn lay suspended inside the glass bubble of green, illuminated liquid. This person’s skull seemed malformed by Papyrus’ standards. He’s hooked up to an oxygen mask. Do skeletons need to breathe?
Threads and pegs of magic held his shattered bones together. The damage stretched all along the left side, with an extra hole punctured through the right foot.
The sight made Papyrus feel queasy.
“Fairy Godmother,” said Mezil.
The woman responded, “Not now, Mezil! We’re not in a situation for cute nicknames.”
Papyrus blinked in confusion. She sounds like the kind wisp, but her tone of voice had a sense of command befitting a noblewoman.
When her mind clicked, she turned around posthaste.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Papyrus, you’re awake at last! H-how improper of me to be so harsh. Are you feeling fine? Any nausea? Lingering migraines? A mild headache is normal, but it shouldn’t last for more than an hour.”
“I’M FINE,” he answered with a tired smile. “THE HEADACHE WENT AWAY AFTER I HAD BREAKFAST WITH MISTER MAGUS. UM, MAY I KNOW YOUR NAME?”
She bowed a curtsy and introduced herself: “I am Lady Lucidia of House Berendin, spouse of Mezil Thyme.”
Lucidia: a name as pretty as her appearance. Fairy Godmothers are real, at least in appearance. Papyrus sparkled at the thought.
“I will check up on you once I finish tuning the IRP-- Oh dear!”
In a flustered hurry, Lucidia shifted the lower half of the pod’s segmented cover back into place.
Question marks popped over the youngster’s head. “WHAT’S THE MATTER?”
Mezil explained, “The patient is naked.”
Realising what happened, Papyrus had the sudden urge to wash his sockets. He turned aside with a giant orange blush on his face.“OH MY GOD, I’M SO SORRY FOR THE ACCIDENTAL BREACH OF PRIVACY!”
“Fret not. Gaelic is not one who’d feel that kind of shame. He’d laugh at your reaction instead.”
“He’s quite… a naturalist.” Lucidia cleared her throat. “Anyways, please wait for a moment. Mezil will answer any questions you have.”
She returned to the consoles. The curious youngster inched closer to the pod in the meantime.
‘Gaelic’ was the strange skeleton’s name. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but he noticed that the man’s form was quite unusual.
“IS HE ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE ‘MONSTROUS’ TYPES?”
That piqued Mezil’s interest. “Oh, so my wife had explained the anatomical variations of Lichborn. Yes, you are correct. His proportions are lankier and his joints are much, much more flexible than the norm.”
“OH, SO THAT’S WHY HIS SKULL IS SO WEIRD. LOOKS LIKE A DOG.”
There was a muffled laughter from Lucidia. Mezil chuckled too.
“No. Lichborn will always have a human skull. What you see here is the result of extensive cosmetic surgery: bone grafts and the like. Also that’s not a dog.”
“WHAT IS IT THEN?”
“That. I think you should ask the owner.”
The tale fascinated Papyrus. If there were more of his kind, how would they look like? He can’t wait to meet them all.
That’s still not the end of his curiosity. Everything was so new to his mind. All this tech, beyond the Underground’s dreams. “WHAT IS THIS WEIRD LIQUID? WHY IS HE IN THIS TOTALLY SCI-FI THING?”
Mezil explained, “You’re looking at an Intensive Recovery Pod, or ‘IRP’. You were in one of these too.”
“REALLY?!”
“Indeed. The liquid is a suspension solution designed to maximize the healing of physical injuries. What it contains depends on the patient. For Liches and Lichborn, it’s a magic-imbued calcium solution. Other species of monsters have different requirements, and humans too have their own.”
“Monsters can stay in the pod for as long as they need. Humans can’t. The maximum is two hours: any more than that and complications will follow.”
“WHY DIDN’T I SEE MORE OF THESE IN HUMAN HOSPITALS?”
“It’s still in the clinical trial phase,” said Mezil. “The first time I used this was right after the final battle with Persona. My body didn’t respond to it as well as it should, which placed me back into conventional medical care soon after.”
Lucidia interjected with a trivia. “They’re a common sight in monster nations. Though, the solutions can get rather costly. Therefore they’re reserved only for critical cases.”
A tired sigh marked the end of her task. “Alright,” she said, “It’s time for your inspection.”
Her delicate fingers held his jawbone, gently tilting his head to get a better look on his condition. The sense of detailed care reminded him of Uncle Gaster and his parents.
…Papyrus wondered if they’re okay back in Ebott.
As she performed her analysis, Lucidia’s eyes switched from a heterochromatic blue-green combination to an even purple pair. They then mixed together into layered, blended rings of colour.
Her attention moved from top to bottom: systematically running her fingers on his bones like a living scanner.
It’s unnerving and a little ticklish, but he remained still. Questions can wait.
Lucidia frowned. “I wish you had more time, young one. You are healed in full. But… I can’t pronounce you battle ready just yet. Your Eye still needs to reawaken.”
“BATTLE?” he blurted. “WHY? ARE WE GONNA GET INTO A FIGHT?”
“…Our current calculations indicate a high possibility that Sans Serif will initiate combat in the coming days.”
The mere idea stunned Papyrus so much that he staggered backwards. “MY BROTHER? W-WHY?”
“Motive: uncertain,” she replied, “But he has inflicted grievous injuries on Gaelic. Projections are grim.”
The youngster tensed up, ready to jump into the fray at a moment’s notice. “I… I DON’T WANT TO HURT SANS. I DON’T WANT ANYONE TO HURT HIM EITHER! I-IF ANYONE WANTS TO FIGHT MY BROTHER, THEY HAVE TO GO THROUGH ME FIRST!”
His brother had sacrificed so much. It’s only fair that he returned the favour.
“Calm down, young man,” said Mezil. “None of us wish to see him harmed either. That’s why my wife prepared an excellent capturing tool for you.”
Lucidia bowed in preparation to leave. “Please excuse me, I must fetch it from my room.”
“There’s no need, dear. Look behind you.”
Lucidia turned around to face the consoles. “Oh! That’s so sneaky. Hehe~ how typical of Grandpa to do so.”
She picked up a familiar red bundle of fabric. Papyrus’ heart lifted in joy when he recognized it as his scarf.
The lady placed it in his hands. There’s a small piece of cardboard tucked into the folds. The angled corner begged to be picked out.
“WHAT’S THIS?”
It’s a playing card featuring a red Ace of Spades.
Lucidia smiled wide with a child-like fondness. “That’s Grandpa’s calling card. Looks like you caught his attention.”
Papyrus flipped the card around. Checked the back, front, then back again. He’s trying his darndest to look for something.
“WHAT GOOD IS A CALLING CARD THAT DOESN’T HAVE A PHONE NUMBER? OR A NAME? OR EVEN A PHOTO? NOW I HAVE TWO GUYS THAT I REALLY WANT TO MEET!”
“Two?”
“MISTER MAGUS’ FATHER-IN-LAW AND YOUR GRANDPA.”
The couple chuckled together.
Mezil thought he should clear the confusion before Papyrus embarrassed himself. “They’re one and the same. My wife has two fathers by technicality. Out of respect for her birth father, she nicknames her adoptive one as ‘Grandpa’.”
“OH.”
He kept staring at the symbol. He had played with these cards before and he’s sure spades are supposed to be black. Why is this one red?
Lucidia’s explanations interrupted his ponder.
“I hope you don’t mind the repairs,” she said, “Your scarf was on the verge of falling apart. I tried to keep the ‘cool’ frayed edges though.”
The scarf itself was as soft as he remembered. But, he noticed there’s something different about it.
Papyrus checked the ends. The little holes and rips were there, but they won’t tear any further. He always had to hand-wash the scarf because it was too fragile for standard machine laundering. Though he never mentioned it, he was worried that one day it would rip upon the slightest touch.
Now, it had the integrity of steel. Holding the preserved memento of his mother’s memory almost made Papyrus burst into tears of happiness.
“THANK YOU, LADY LUCIDIA! THIS IS SO AWESOME!”
That simple expression of joy warmed her heart. It reflected on her smiling face. “Try charging it with magic.”
He did as he was told. Lo and behold, a hidden magic circuit came to life. It’s the Delta Rune connected to a network of smaller Arcanagrams.
A closer inspection revealed that codes filled the interiors of the familiar design.
Triangles, squares, circles, hidden words weaved around the base lines to make whole stars: symbols embedded inside a larger symbol. The level of intricacy made his head spin.
“WHAT DOES THIS DO?”
Lucidia explained: “You always had the desire to end combat with non-lethal means, but you lacked the tools to do so. Therefore I weaved my colours into your scarf. If this is fine, my arts will be at your disposal.”
“This design will safely bind, root, and disable its intended target. It will also nullify all magic. This works on both humans and monsters.”
“WOWIE!”
“There… is one condition though,” she frowned. “The spell must be applied close-range. Directly. It’s quite risky as you can imagine.”
“THAT’S ALRIGHT,” Papyrus chipped, “I AM QUITE THE CLOSE-COMBAT SPECIALIST! THANK YOU SO VERY, VERY MUCH.”
His joyous reunion was short lived. Mezil’s phone rang and he picked it up. Turned away to talk in private.
Ending the call, he asked: “When can we wake Gaelic up? Since he got himself involved, I want him to be included in the meeting.”
Lucidia answered, “Approximate time: 30 hours and 23 minutes from now. I presume that call came from Cenna?”
“Yes,” Mezil replied, “Complained about sleeplessness. She’s concerned about the Dreemurr matron’s stance against the Trial. I told her to lay down the worries and rest some more. Another long day awaits.”
“It does concern me,” said the wife. “Her sleep quality has been poor.”
“MISS AUNT IS HERE?!” To Papyrus, it felt like forever since he last talked to her.
“No. But she will be sooner or later. She’s a vital member on our case after all. By the way Papyrus, you will attend the briefing too.”
The skeleton stared back, speechless for a few seconds. He then blurted: “WHAT? ME?”
It’s strange. Surreal. Scary. For his entire life, he was excluded from important decision making moments. No one trusted that he could handle the responsibility.
That all changed. He must now attend the same roundtable discussions that dictated the fate of others.
“You’ve chosen the path of a hero, young man. It’s time for you to prepare yourself for the road ahead: both in mind and body.”
Mezil spoke truth. Stakes will not favour the idle. Goodness needs action, and action needs council.
“YESSIR! I WILL JOIN YOU!”