āFrisk!? Frisk, wait! I canāt keep up!ā Flowey called out. He could barely see the child through the snow fall. He wandered aimlessly through the forest, popping up from spot to spot, but the weather didnāt make it easy on him. Finding the strength to burst out of the heavy blanket of frost that engulfed the ground on top of keeping up with a terrified child rendered him almost useless. He couldnāt tell if Frisk just couldnāt hear him, or was just too scared to turnback.
Flowey could feel his stem strain as he desperately tried to stay upright. It had been so long since he had actually left the ruins. As hard as it was to fight in there at least he was sheltered, at least he was warm, at least he could find the strength to keep his eyes open. Wilting. He let the weight of his petals drag him down. He let out a pathetic cough, and saw red.
Wait, when was the last time he bled? He shot up. No, that's not right. He canāt bleed, can he? He looked down at his stem. Bent and malnourished, yes, but no blood. Flowey searched the ground. There was a red drop, and another, and another. A trail. Not the most hopeful of signs, but itās a start.
They canāt stop running. They wonāt stop running. If they stop, theyāll be caught, if theyāre caught they have to go back, if they go back then theyāll be alone again.
Where is the flower? The little one who promised to guide them. Frisk turned around, but the distance was so blurry. Frisk waded through the thick snowfall. Not here, not there, where? Where was the flower? Where were they for that matter?
Lost. Frisk couldnāt tell where they were, but they knew what they were. Lost. Though the word itself held no meaning for the child, the feeling was all too familiar. They collapsed, the cold ground stinging their already bad wounds, it was too much to process. It was all too much. The adrenalin had left their body, and the pain had swiftly taken its place.
They opened their mouth, but there was nothing. The pain and the heartache was trapped in their vocal cords. Frisk hunched over, dry heaving, pulling at their hair, pushing and straining their dry throat. They wanted something, anything to come out. They wanted to know that there was still something left in them.
No, please, there had to be something.
Frisk shoved their cold, stiff fingers down their gullet, prying their sore throat open. The inner lining of their throat gave way, but nothing was coming out. Slamming their head against the ground, they tossed and turned violently.
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