Frisk drifted slowly back into the waking world, becoming aware of the solidness of the bed beneath them and the brightness of the morning light hanging in the air around them. They could hear Toriel going about her morning routine downstairs.
Their mind sorted the new awareness from the old, separating reality from the dream, even while it faded, as dreams are wont to do. The voice and words slipped without resistance from the child’s memory – the marveling at their rare and selfless wish, the questions, the request, the images – until only a few fragments of the dream remained.
There had been some sort of… call to action. Something that left the child with a sense of urgency, and determination. Something related to the one, central image that retained clarity: the bronze pocket compass, engraved with strange symbols and set with four triangular amethysts. But they could not remember what it was, and didn’t really care. It had only been a dream. Frisk, th