Reset: Once Upon a Time

The tale resumed beneath the mountain, where grief now roamed freely like a ghost unchained, drifting through each corridor and echoing chamber with chilling familiarity.

Toriel did not speak for days after Asriel returned—his small, limp body broken from a world that had refused their plea for peace. Her cries, once sharp with mourning, eventually dulled into silence. She stayed in the Ruins, refusing to return to the castle, unable to bear the echoes of her child's laughter that still lingered in the hallways. Every room she passed whispered memories. The library, once filled with bedtime stories. The kitchen, where flour-dusted paws helped her bake. The garden, where flowers still bloomed though the warmth had long gone.

Asgore tried to be strong. He stood tall in the throne room, issuing orders and comforting subjects, but his strength was a crumbling facade. There were cracks in his smile, and his gaze grew distant. When he looked at the throne, he no longer saw a seat of guidance, but a reminder of everything they had lost. He often wandered the castle alone at night, pausing before Asriel's old room with a hand against the door, unable to enter.

The monsters felt it too. Whispers filled the streets—of betrayal, of hope dashed, of monsters forever chained to the dark. Some blamed humans. Others, though quieter, blamed the royal family. Tensions brewed in places once filled with joy. Hotland's machines hummed with unease. Snowdin's laughter fell quiet. Even Waterfall, where songs once lingered in the mist, now carried only low, uncertain murmurs.

"What were they thinking?" a monster muttered one night in the shadows of Waterfall. "Sending the prince to the surface? That was suicide."

The grief turned to fear. And fear slowly became anger.

Asgore stood before his people not long after and made a declaration that would shift the course of their world.

"If a human falls down here," he said, his voice hard and unwavering, "we will take their soul. We will break the barrier."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. This was not the Asgore they had known. But it was the king they needed now. A king hardened by loss, forged by sorrow.

Toriel did not stand by him.

When she learned of his words, she left the castle for good. With only a soft goodbye, she vanished into the Ruins. The split between them was never spoken of publicly, but the weight of it hung over the Underground like a heavy fog. A kingdom divided. A family broken.

Time passed.

Monsters tried to move forward, but the wound left by Chara and Asriel remained raw. Flowers grew at the edge of the golden fields—sunlight forever out of reach. Laughter became a scarce commodity, traded in hushed tones like treasure. No human had fallen since that day, but the memory of the first had settled into the soul of the Underground like a scar that never faded, only deepened.

Back atop Mount Ebott, the man speaking to the girl fell silent.

She sat still, hugging her knees, her eyes wide. Raindrops clung to the brim of her hood as if reluctant to fall. He watched her for a moment and then said, "The Underground was never the same after that. And perhaps… it never healed."

The girl looked down, her fingers clutching the frayed edges of her book. There were still blank pages. Still empty lines waiting to be filled. Her silence, as always, was not a lack of thought, but an ocean of questions she couldn't voice.

The wind on Mount Ebott had grew gentle, and the rain slowed to a quiet drizzle. The man's voice had fallen silent, the weight of memories thick between them. For a long moment, neither the man nor the girl spoke. Only the soft patter of water on stone filled the space around them.

Finally, the man turned his head slightly toward the girl. His face, shrouded by the deep hood of his dark robe, remained hidden. "So," he asked with a slight smile in his voice, "what do you think so far?"

The girl didn't respond with words. She shifted her legs, tilted her head slightly, then gave a single slow nod. Her hands were curled around the frayed book in her lap, the pages still blank toward the end. But her eyes, wide and intent, held a depth of emotion.

The man chuckled gently, the sound muffled slightly beneath the deep hood that forever cloaked his face in shadow. "I take that as… 'It's a lot.'"

She nodded again. Then, with hesitation, she raised a finger and tapped it against the book. A question.

"What became of the king and queen?" he interpreted aloud. "They… drifted apart. Like two stars pulled by different gravity. It's tragic, but sometimes grief does that to people."

She lowered her hand. Her gaze didn't leave the horizon.

"You remind me of someone," the man said thoughtfully. Though his face remained obscured beneath the hood, his voice held a quiet warmth. "Not Chara, not quite… but someone with that same quiet curiosity. That same… determination."

He leaned back on the stone bench, his robe damp but forgotten in the moment. "You know, I've told this story many times in my head, but never out loud. Not like this. Maybe I didn't want to remember it too clearly. Or maybe… I was waiting for someone who needed to hear it."

She looked at him then, and for the first time, there was the hint of a question in her expression.

"Why you?" he asked for her. "Why am I the one telling this story?" His voice softened, and though his tone betrayed a flicker of vulnerability, the shadows of his hood never lifted. Not even in this quiet moment of confession did the girl catch a glimpse of his face—it remained as hidden as the truths he slowly unravelled. He gave a small chuckle. "Because I was there. Not for everything—but for enough."

She blinked slowly. A quiet acknowledgment.

He gave a deep, satisfied nod. "Good. Then let's begin again."

He shifted slightly, settling in. His eyes—unseen beneath the robe's shadow—turned toward the mists swirling below, where the past waited like a dream on the edge of waking.

"It was around this time," he said, "when things began to… shift. Some monsters started speaking of strange dreams. Others had moments of déjà vu, remembering things that never happened. Time, it seemed, was no longer a straight path—but a tangle."

He looked down at the girl. "And at the centre of that tangle, something watched. Something in the void. But I'll get to that later."

He leaned closer, his tone softening again.

"For now… let me tell you what came next. The beginnings of change. The other children."

The girl didn't move, but her expression deepened with focus. She was ready.

The man smiled faintly. "Then, as all stories must, this one continues."

And he began once more.

As his voice resumed, calm and slow, the girl leaned back slightly. Though she said nothing, her eyes shimmered with thoughts unspoken. Her mind turned inward—toward the child named Chara, the plan, the sacrifice. What would she have done, if she had fallen into a world so isolated, so desperate for hope and love? Could she have carried the same burdens? Would her heart have faltered?

A drop of rain slid down her cheek, uncertain if it had come from the sky or her own eyes. She clutched the book closer, its blank pages whispering of what was yet to be heard.

The man said nothing of her silence—but somehow, she felt he knew. And with that quiet understanding, the story continued.