February 11, 2021.
When the sun rose the next day, Dust prepared himself better for the discussion. He went over to his desk. Drafts for new spells and maps lay layered on top of each other. He had to drop everything in a hurry the last time he used this desk. Good ol’ Flowey just had to go wreak havoc in the middle of his studies.
Pushing the papers aside revealed the faithful Necromancy 101, opened mid-page. He bet that Anya and Stephan would want to see this ancient tome for themselves. Maybe they could tell him if there’s anything outdated.
He mused out loud: “Judging from the brightness of the sunlight, they would’ve already had their breakfast. Actually, maybe even lunch.”
At the living room, Anya stoked the fireplace. Stephan was nowhere to be found, plus the kitchen was rather quiet.
Noticing his presence, the lady put the coal prong away. “Good morning, did you have a good night’s sleep?” It didn’t look like the lady necromancer had taken off the cloak and mask since the previous night.
“Best I’ve had in ages,” Dust replied. “How about you?”
“I didn’t sleep,” she admitted. “I’m very sensitive to caffeine, you see. So… I spent the night making arrangements to get the power back.”
She walked over to the switch and flipped it on. Just like that, artificial light illuminated the living room for the first time since the apocalypse.
Dust wanted to stare at its glory, but he found it all too glaring. Perhaps he had grown too used to the gentler glows of nature, or so he thought.
“How did you pull it off?” he asked, “Told the electric company that this house exists and footed the bill or something? Because I know the inner workings within the farmhouse were fine, yet I never could get anything to work.”
“You’re half right. There were actual damages, but they were much further away. Fortunately, the power lines are linked to those of the Willowherb Society and I’m friends with the local electrician. It would have been much more difficult otherwise.”
At the very least, it sounded like the Willowherb Society lived within the same region as Mount Ebott. It explained how Stephan arrived there safely by foot.
Dust then pointed out: “I haven’t signed the contract yet. Is it alright for me to get free electricity?”
Anya froze for a moment. “Um… I suppose that if you refuse to cooperate, the electric company will terminate their service in due time. You have a month to think it over.”
“Heh, alright.” Perhaps it’s time for a change of subject. “So where’s Stephan? I thought he would be busy in the kitchen after yesterday’s bold proclamation.”
“He drove back to the village to get some groceries. We weren’t prepared to cook anything beyond the standard rations. Furthermore, we didn’t think it’s right to use your storage without permission.”
Dust knew what was in there, and it surely explained why the humans pitied him. Whatever he had was just enough for one person. One bad week could run them empty.
“Did that guy get a wink of sleep at least?” he asked, “It would suck if he dozed off on the wheel.”
In which the woman replied: “I am jealous of how caffeine does nothing to him. Absolutely. Nothing.” Anya Willowherb, conqueror of eldritch horrors, survivor of calamities, envied a simple farmer’s innate biological ability to ignore a single substance.
Showing the Necromancy 101, he said: “Come have a look, lady. Maybe some boring books will lull you to bed.”
They reconvened where they left off the previous night. Anya held the black tome with great reverence and joy. Her lips were still and her body straight, while her hands trembled as she cradled the book like a lost precious child, forcing herself to restrain her emotions.
The sight frustrated him. A person is a person, and a necromancer was no exception. Just because Anya had covered her face, didn’t mean she had turned into a robot.
He said, “You… are allowed to cry. Just letting you know.”
“I, uh, I’m just emotional from the lack of sleep. But, thank you.”
The more Dust learned, the less he could imagine Anya being a part of the military. She seemed too kind to bear arms. Maybe she wouldn’t have considered being a soldier had life gone a different course?
He brushed the thoughts aside: they’re mere flightful, empty contemplations by this point.
“Go ahead, open it.”
Anya did just that to inspect its condition. While flipping through the pages, she said, “You called this ‘Necromancy 101’, right? A very factual name.”
Dust shrugged. “Heh, it’s ‘barebones’. Just like me.” He felt a little proud that he managed to churn out at least one bone pun after all these years.
“I don’t think a punner is barebones. It takes an extensive vocabulary. Anyway, this tome’s real name is the Book of Vanquishing.”
“Vanquish… ‘to thoroughly defeat’,” said Dust. “That explains why the contents emphasized ‘search and destroy’.”
“You’re correct. It’s the antithesis to everything that The Book of Curses is capable of. Ironic, isn’t it? My clan destroys others in order to protect the world from destruction.”
“Now I’m getting curious about what’s inside the red one.”
And so, Dust reached for The Book of Curses. In comparison to The Book of Vanquishing, it was thicker, heavier, and taller. Even the cover was heftier to lift with his thin, bony fingers.
Upon witnessing the first page, a cold sweat trickled down his skull.
“…Huh? What? T-the Delta Rune?”
He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Looking at the page again, he noticed the circle with wings was surrounded by three triangles: two upright at the bottom, one inverted at the top. The original Delta Rune had them at the base, as though they looked up towards the celestial being.
“That was quite a scare. I thought it was the good ol’ monster prophecy for a moment…”
“A prophecy? Could you tell me about it?”
After clearing his throat, Dust explained: “Back when I was still living under the mountain, our hope came in the form of The Delta Rune. It symbolized an ‘angel’ who has seen the surface, descending from above to bring us freedom. Someone who managed to venture out, return, and break The Barrier.
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“But…” he continued, “By the time I became a teen, a different interpretation surfaced: the harbinger of destruction. Death is a form of freedom too, so they believed.”
“I see. The second interpretation seems more accurate to my ears.” Pointing her finger on the symbol, she revealed: “This shape represents a ‘Soul Fusion’, the most forbidden art.”
Pointing to the circle, Anya added: “This here is a human who discarded their humanity to become a DEMON.”
And to the triangles, “These represent the psychia of sentient lifeforms. What you call the SOUL. The upright triangles represent the psychia of humans, while the inverted triangle represents a monster psychia. When different beings fuse their might, they ascend to godhood. Two humans, however, cannot simply become one. They need a monster to avoid rejection and stabilize the process.”
“At the pinnacle, all seven types of humans are involved, each bearing a colour of the rainbow. This results in the ultimate being. To reach this next level of existence has become the goal of countless many. It’s the ideal fusion for which they’d pay any cost to attain: ‘The Seven SOUL DEMON God’. That’s what the wings represent.”
Dust commented, “It’s not just a superstitious myth, huh? Scary stuff.”
Didn’t Papyrus mention that The Celestial Calamity had happened before, about two centuries ago? That’s way after the monsters were sealed under the mountain. A Soul Fusion shouldn’t be possible without them. Could that mean that the humans had discovered a substitute?
But…
…Toriel was murdered. The present day perpetrators didn’t need to depend on a substitute. They had a true blue Boss Monster SOUL in their possession.
He turned to the next page. It was the book’s introductory text. And so, he read it out loud:
“We, The Damned, curse our very existence.”
“We curse the heavens for the sun that scorches, for the rain that floods, for the snow that freezes, for the stars that seal our fate.”
“We curse the earth, for the hunger of famine, for the prowling beasts, for the pestilence of wings and worms, for the dusty grave that swallows us.”
“We curse the sea, for the calm waters that thirst, for the stormy waters that drown, for the dragons that lurk, for the confines it creates.”
“We curse the gods and fae, for their oppressive dogma, for their whimsical cruelty, for their forced hands, for their silence upon our prayers.”
“We curse our parents for bringing us into suffering, our siblings for the torment, our friends for their betrayal, our children for their abandonment.”
“We curse our humanity, for our frail fragility, for our falsehood, for our greed and gluttony, for our short finite lives.”
“We curse, we condemn, we spite.”
“And therefore, we dare to dream.”
Dust had to stop to take a deep breath. It was like drinking undiluted bitters, so intense that his senses rang between his skull. “Wow. Here I thought I was the one being too edgy for my own good. Puts into the mindset of how wretched The Damned really are.”
But after he finished his sentence, he noticed that Anya’s breathing quickened in pain. Her shoulders rounded forward, slowly yet surely bending over the table.
The Phantom’s voice whispered into Dust’s ears: “See? I told you, brother. She’s not to be trusted. Kill her, now!”
The untimely intrusion stirred anger. Dust snapped back. “I’m not killing another sick girl!” Attending to her, he asked, “Hey, you alright?”
But when she spoke, Anya’s voice gained a strange, ethereal tone: “O’ Restless Dead, hush thy spirit. I command thee to return to sleep.”
After that, her chest glowed a gentle red. Her breathing calmed down, a sign that the crisis had passed.
What followed after was pure awkwardness. On one hand, Dust wanted to know what in the world just happened. On the other hand, he didn’t want to intrude.
“I…” Anya muttered. “I suppose I have to clarify myself.”
“Yeah,” Dust slowly returned to his seat. “You should. Unless you wanna be kicked out of the house.”
She thus explained: “Those who die from The Celestial Calamity cannot rest. They’re bound to the curse and become what we call ‘The Dead’. They will perpetually resurrect unless they’re broken from the source.”
Anya showed her palm. She conjured an image of a shepherd’s hook. “That’s where I come in. With this symbol, I have the gift to seal The Dead inside my being. They’d still exist in this world, but at least they will be under my care, safe from evildoers.”
Dust had a ton of questions to ask. Too many, if he wanted to be honest.
“So… what happened when I read that edgy mantra?”
“Some of my flock bear traumatic scars that resonated with the curses, threatening to awake in rage. I was fighting to prevent that.”
“Huh. That’s actually quite interesting. You’re hosting souls. But you didn’t take their lives, neither did you enslave them. Do you have any LV at all?”
“LV?” she asked back, curious and confused.
“The Level of Violence. I have some from euthanizing my brother. My research concluded that the more a person kills, the more EXP a.k.a Execution Points they gain, and the less pain they feel. Think of EXP as the quantification of drained lifeforce. Eventually mass murder becomes nothing more than an afterthought.”
“That… doesn’t match up with how humans deal with the guilt of murder.”
“You mean humans are capable of killing many and still remaining remorseful?”
“Yes,” Anya nodded. “There are humans out there who feel nothing at first, taking death as an expected part of their job. Yet, the moment they become aware about the lives ruined by their hands, they become haunted by their sin.”
“Curious. I suppose that’s because most humans don’t suck the souls out of others. But what about evil necromancers? I think they eventually treat regular humans as food.”
“I suppose that’s true as well. That’s why The Willowherb Society exists: to vanquish those who’re beyond return.”
Anya then said, “Mister Dust, could you do me a favour? Flip to the back end of the book and read the last few pages.”
The Phantom whispered: “No, brother! Don’t! No, no, no, it’s a trap! The most wretched of traps!”
That was an oddly specific request. It certainly spooked The Phantom into a small panic. Nonetheless, out of curiosity, Dust did exactly what was requested. He flipped to the back end of the book, attempting to read from the ending first.
Yet… the pages were empty.
“Huh? Nothing?” At first he thought they were unused leftovers. But the more pages he turned, the more nothingness he found. “Is this an incomplete copy?”
Anya shook her head, “I can confirm the book’s final pages aren’t empty. Rather, you are being prevented from reading them. Just as the opening statement contains the power to stir The Dead within me, the latter half of the book has the power to block your sight.”
“Is that really true?” Dust questioned back. “Written words alone don’t do anything. It’s all about the observer. You reacted to what I’ve read out loud because you’re carrying troubled souls. If that same logic applies… it means… there’s something wrong with me?”
He watched for Anya’s response. Not even her heavy concealments could mask her swirl of negativity. Was it sadness? Dread? Worry? All three? And was their root care or concern?
Her behaviour continued to puzzle him. No matter how kind they were, a person’s heart was limited to their bonds. If they were acquaintances… if they were mere strangers… if this was their first meeting… Anya shouldn’t be this distraught.
“Have we…” Dust paused mid-sentence, hesitant to finish the question. “Have we met before?”
She couldn’t answer.
No. Rather, she refused to answer.
“Brother… I told you that she’s dangerous. She clearly has something to hide!”
Maybe The Phantom was right after all. Nothing good can come from someone trying to keep secrets. What if she was waiting for a moment of weakness to capture him? That’s what a smart person would do.
Dust readied to defend himself. But at that moment, he heard the crunching of wheels and the humm of an engine. Stephan had returned.
The way the farmer opened the door created a slight sense of deja vu. He hauled everything on himself before busting through the front entrance.
“I’m back with groceries!” Stephan exclaimed, “Today, we’re gonna make a meeeeeeean ole pasta! Oh boy, Mister Sans, you’re gonna love it!”
Dust decided to disengage. Pretend as if nothing serious had ever happened. Turning towards the fit farmer, he commented: “Gee, are you a pack mule? There’s no need to carry everything in one go.”
“Being a farmer means that sometimes you have to become a pack mule for your pack mule. It gets silly, I know. Anyways! Here’s the food! I’ve even brought extras for you to store away.”
Dust inspected the load of edibles Stephan just delivered. Onions, ketchup, tomatoes, sausages, tons of dried pasta, and more. He came prepared for quite a rustic feast.
While sorting the goods, the farmer observed Dust’s red scarf. “It looks familiar… W-wait! Doesn’t that scarf belong to The Great Papyrus?! It looks so worn out. We need to preserve it. That’s a national treasure!”
Chuckling, the short skeleton said: “Don’t worry Stephan. The one I’m wearing right now is a different red scarf. I just made some adjustments to give it a similar look. The original is kept nice and safe.”
“Thank god!”
Always nice to meet a Papyrus fan. It’s proof that his memory lives on.
“Mind if I help out in the kitchen?” offered Dust. “I’ve learned to cook pretty well over the years.”
Realising that was an invitation for a casual hangout, Stephan glowed in delight at the suggestion. “Sure! Definitely! We have so much to catch up.”
Anya remained suspicious in his eyes, but a tactical retreat was in order. It’s unfair to drag Stephan into the matter. He might get in the way. Get hurt over something he didn’t understand. The innocent should be left alone.
“We’ll reconvene after lunch, Miss Anya. You’ve not convinced me yet.”
After that, Dust left for the kitchen with deep unease in his heart. He wondered if he still dared to seek the truth, or if he preferred to stay comfortable in ignorance.
For the first time in his life, Sans the Skeleton had begun doubting his own memory.