[AN: Hey everyone! First off, I want to apologize for how long this chapter took to come out. š I've been dealing with a pretty rough bout of burnout over the past few months, and every time I sat down to write, my brain just... refused to cooperate. Rather than forcing myself and ending up unhappy with the chapter, I decided it was better to step back for a little while and wait until I could enjoy writing again. Thankfully, that spark has started coming back, and I'm really happy with how Chapter 12 turned out. This chapter is a quieter one compared to some of the previous chapters, but it's one I've been looking forward to writing for a long time. It marks a pretty important turning point in the relationships between several characters, especially with Jester beginning to question things he has believed his entire life. Thank you all so much for your patience, your comments, and everyone who kept checking in to see if the story was still continuing. Reading your reactions genuinely helped motivate me to keep writing, even when burnout was making it difficult. I can't promise a perfectly consistent upload schedule, since real life and college still come first, but I can promise that this story isn't abandoned. I've got a lot more planned, and I'm excited to finally start getting into some of the bigger mysteries of this AU. As always, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! š]
Jester POV
I am reeling.
Not visibly.
Never visibly.
My posture remains straight, my expression controlled, my hands folded neatly despite the tension running through every part of me.
But internallyā
My mind is moving too quickly.
Queen Toriel.
Monster Queen.
Subjects.
Friends.
Muffet.
The name sits uneasily in my thoughts, lodged there like a thorn beneath the skin.
I do not trust it.
I do not trust her.
And yetā
I cannot immediately disprove her either.
That is what unsettles me most.
My eyes remain fixed on the goat monster as my mind begins pulling through every obscure book, every half-burned record, every oral tale from my childhood, every scrap of monster history I managed to find and read over the years.
Lies can be crafted.
Stories can be embellished.
Titles can be stolen.
But detailsā¦
Details are harder.
And she has too many of them.
Too much certainty.
Too much ease.
Too much presence.
My fingers tighten slightly against one another before I force them still.
No.
Do not react.
Think.
Analyze.
Break it apart.
If she is lying, then there must be a flaw.
There must be something inconsistent.
Something that does not align.
But insteadā
Memory rises.
Unwanted.
Old.
Faded.
My mother's voice.
Low and tired, telling us stories when the nest was still whole, when there were still enough of us to curl together for warmth and safety.
Stories of the golden age of monsterkind.
An age without starvation.
An age where monsters did not scavenge like vermin in alleyways or claw at scraps left behind by humans.
An age where we did not have to hunt them.
Did not have to feed on them.
Did not have to use their flesh and blood to keep ourselves strong enough to endure another day.
Ambient magic, she had called it.
Magic that lived in the air, in the earth, in the water, in every living thing around us.
A world where a monster could breathe and be sustained by existence itself.
A world where humans and monsters stood side by side as equals.
I had scoffed at it.
Even as a child, I knew better.
Because the world outside the nest was not golden.
It was cold.
Hollow.
Hungry.
There was no paradise waiting for us beyond the dark.
There were only humans who feared us, hunted us, trapped us, bought tickets to stare at us.
Humans who smiled while they starved us.
Humans who learned very quickly that monsters could survive longer if fed the right things.
Or the wrong people.
My jaw tightens.
Fairy tales do not survive contact with reality.
And yetā
I look around the cottage.
The walls.
The photographs.
The warm light.
The impossible calm.
And for the first time in longer than I can rememberā
One of those old stories does not feel entirely impossible.
That thought is dangerous.
I reject it immediately.
But it remains.
Quiet.
Persistent.
My gaze shifts to Harlequin.
He sleeps curled into the chair, face half-buried in fabric that carries her scent, his body relaxed in a way I have rarely seen. His breathing is even. Deep. Untroubled.
And he looksā¦
Different.
I had noticed before.
Of course I had noticed.
He has more weight to him now.
Not weakness.
Not softness.
Health.
A subtle fullness beneath the skin, a steadier quality to his posture, less strain hidden in the corners of his movements.
At first, I thought he was feeding elsewhere.
Privately.
Recklessly.
But there has been no blood.
No iron scent.
No traces of human remains.
Only cinnamon.
Butterscotch.
Warmth.
My eyes narrow.
Whatever this place is doing to him, it is sustaining him.
That alone makes it valuable.
That alone makes it dangerous.
Because anything capable of changing one of mine so quickly cannot be treated as harmless.
Even if the change appears beneficial.
Especially then.
I look back at Toriel.
She stands there with the composure of someone who has ruled before and has no need to prove it. Her kindness is not weak. Her gentleness is not uncertainty.
That complicates things.
I dislike complications.
"ā¦Your story is impossible," I say at last, my voice low and even.
Not hostile.
Not accepting.
Just fact.
"Or it should be."
My eyes flick briefly toward the photographs again, toward the image of the spider monster smiling in a place I do not know, surrounded by others who look alive in ways I have only seen in old stories.
"Monsters do not live like this anymore."
The words come sharper than intended.
I do not apologize.
"We survive," I continue. "We take what we need. We endure what we must."
That is the truth.
The only truth I have ever known.
And stillā
Harlequin sleeps peacefully in her chair.
My Harlequin.
The youngest of my pack.
The one who had stood between us with fear in his eyes.
Fear of me.
My chest tightens.
I push the feeling down.
"You have affected him," I say, gaze returning to her fully. "That much is obvious."
My tone lowers.
Controlled.
Careful.
"I do not yet know whether that makes you safe."
A pause.
The fire crackles softly between us.
Warm.
Domestic.
Absurdly calm for the conversation being held.
"But I know this."
My eyes move back to Harlequin.
"He is better than he was."
The admission tastes strange.
Not bitter.
Not exactly.
But difficult.
Because acknowledging it means acknowledging something worse.
That whatever she has given himā
I did not.
Could not.
Did not know how.
My fingers curl once against my palm before stilling again.
"ā¦For now," I say quietly, "I will not remove him from this place."
The decision settles as soon as it leaves my mouth.
Not surrender.
Not trust.
A tactical allowance.
A controlled risk.
My gaze sharpens as I meet her eyes again.
"But I will be watching."
That is not a threat.
It is a promise.
"If this harms him, if this changes into something else, if you become a danger to him or to my packā¦"
My voice remains calm.
Too calm.
"ā¦I will act."
There.
Clear boundaries.
Necessary ones.
My eyes drift once more toward Harlequin, sleeping with an ease I have not seen in years.
My expression does not soften.
But something in me does.
Slightly.
Against my will.
"ā¦He will choose," I add after a moment, quieter now.
Because that is the part I understand least.
The part I do not like.
The part that matters.
"If he wishes to return here, I will not stop him."
My gaze returns to Toriel.
"But neither will I allow him to vanish without word again."
Structure.
Safety.
Accountability.
Those are things I can give.
Things I understand.
Trust is fragile.
But rulesā
Rules hold when feelings do not.
And until I understand what this cottage truly is, what this Queen truly is, and why every instinct in me screams both danger and relief at onceā
Rules will have to be enough.
I leave an hour later.
Not abruptly.
Not carelessly.
Every movement remains controlled as I step away from the cottage, my gaze lingering one final time over the clearing before the woods begin swallowing it from sight.
The homestead sits peacefully beneath the evening glow.
Too peacefully.
The fenced pens.
The wandering animals.
The flowers growing in impossible abundance.
Smoke curling lazily from the chimney.
Warm light spilling softly through the windows.
It looks like something from a storybook.
Something untouched.
Something preserved from a world that no longer exists.
And despite myselfā
Something twists in my chest as I look at it.
Not pain.
Not suspicion.
Something else.
Something I refuse to name.
So I do not.
Instead, I turn away.
The forest shifts around me as I move through it, my limbs carrying me soundlessly between branches while my thoughts remain trapped behind in that cottage.
In that chair.
With Harlequin.
When he wokeā
He had looked calmer.
Softer.
Still tired, but no longer stretched thin the way he usually is after restless sleep.
And then he told me.
Directly.
Without hesitation.
"I'll be staying here for now when I'm not performing or done my chores."
The words replay unpleasantly in my mind.
Not because he asked permission.
Because he soundedā
Happy.
Truly happy.
My jaw tightens slightly as I leap across another branch, the motion instinctive and practiced.
I should be relieved.
A leader should be relieved seeing one of their own healthier.
Safer.
More stable.
And I am.
Partially.
Harlequin looks better than he has in years.
Healthier.
Less hollow.
His movements carry less strain. His body no longer appears trapped in that constant edge of exhaustion monsters like us eventually learn to ignore.
Even his scent has changed slightly.
Less iron.
Less lingering starvation beneath the surface.
More warmth.
More magic.
My fingers curl slightly against the bark beneath me before I push onward.
That should be enough.
It should.
So whyā
Why does it still hurt?
The realization settles unpleasantly in my chest.
Because he chose her.
Not fully.
Not permanently.
But enough.
Enough that he smiled while saying it.
Enough that returning to us no longer seemed like the only thing tethering him together.
My pack.
The thought rises instinctively.
Protective.
Possessive.
Mine to guide.
Mine to keep safe.
And now one of them has found comfort elsewhere.
My eyes narrow faintly as I continue through the woods.
No.
Not elsewhere.
With her.
Toriel.
Queen.
Caretaker.
Impossible anomaly wrapped in warmth and kindness.
I still do not trust her.
But I also cannot deny what I witnessed.
Harlequin trusts her completely.
And somehowā
Against all logicā
She has earned it without force.
Without manipulation I can detect.
That unsettles me more than outright hostility would have.
The circus finally comes into view through the thinning trees, distant lights flickering against the darkening evening sky.
Home.
Or the closest thing monsters like us get to one.
I pause briefly at the forest edge, my gaze flicking back once toward where the cottage remains hidden far beyond sight.
"ā¦Tch."
The sound leaves me quietly before I continue forward.
I will inform Bil.
That much is necessary.
He deserves to know where Harlequin has been disappearing to and why I am allowing it to continue.
Because yesā
I have allowed it.
A calculated decision.
Nothing more.
At least that is what I tell myself.
As for Pierrot and Doctorā¦
No.
Not yet.
Pierrot becomes attached too easily despite pretending otherwise.
And Doctorā
Doctor would dissect every detail of that place out of sheer curiosity alone.
Until I fully understand what Toriel isā
What her intentions areā
I will keep them away.
The thought settles firmly into place as I near the tents.
Because whether she realizes it or notā
She has already begun weaving herself into my pack.
Into Harlequin.
And I will not risk her stealing more of them from me before I know if she is truly safe.
Even ifā¦
My gaze lowers slightly.
Even if part of me no longer entirely believes she means harm.
That changes nothing.
Trust remains fragile.
And I learned long ago what happens when it is given too easily.
Toriel POV
"That childā¦" I murmur softly as I watch Jester disappear between the trees, the woods bending and shifting around him as they guide him back toward the circus. "His soul is being held together by strings."
The realization rests heavily in my chest.
His soul had not merely felt guarded or wounded. It had felt bound.
Threads wrapped around cracks that had never been allowed to heal, holding each fractured piece in place through force of will alone. Every strand carried fear, responsibility, and the desperate determination of someone who believed that if he loosened his grip for even a moment, everything he loved would collapse around him.
Even his suspicion had not come from hatred.
It came from terror.
The terror of losing another member of his family.
The terror of trusting the wrong person again.
I lower my gaze, my ears drooping slightly as the forest closes behind him.
"Poor childā¦"
A quiet whine pulls my attention away from the trees.
Harlequin shifts restlessly in my arms, his face pressing further into the soft fur along my shoulder as though searching for a more comfortable position. Though he had awakened briefly to speak with Jester, exhaustion still clings heavily to him. The fear and tension from earlier had drained what little energy remained in his body, leaving him pliant and sleepy against me.
His arms tighten faintly around my neck.
"Mamaā¦" he mumbles, the word blurred by exhaustion.
My heart warms immediately.
"I am here, my dear," I whisper, adjusting my hold so his weight rests more comfortably against me. "You may sleep. I will not let you fall."
He gives another quiet, almost reptilian trill before relaxing again.
Carrying him through the cottage, I glance toward the photographs lining the walls. My eyes pass over faces preserved in happier moments until they settle upon those of my oldest friends.
Sans leaning lazily against Papyrus while the taller skeleton posed proudly.
Grillby standing behind his counter, flames bright with quiet amusement.
Muffet holding an elaborate tray of pastries while her family crowded around her.
Alphys smiling nervously beside Undyne, who appeared ready to leap straight out of the frame.
The memories rise gently at first.
Warm.
Fond.
I remember Alphys visiting Snowdin for a New Year's celebration many years ago, bundled beneath so many layers that she could barely bend her arms. Despite claiming she had dressed appropriately, she had spent most of the evening pressed against Grillby's warm side or standing far too close to the bonfire.
Cold-blooded monsters had always sought warmth instinctively.
Harlequin appears to be no different.
When I enter the spare room, the magically heated blanket is already glowing faintly across the neatly made bed. The moment Harlequin feels its warmth, his tendrils loosen from around me, reaching toward it sleepily as though it were calling to him.
A small laugh escapes me.
"Yes, yes. I know you are eager."
I lower him carefully onto the mattress, but he makes a protesting sound when my arms begin to withdraw.
"Mamaā¦"
"I am not leaving yet," I assure him, resting one hand against his chest. "I merely need to make you more comfortable."
His grip finally loosens.
With careful hands, I remove the unnecessary pieces of his costume one by one. The heavier ornaments are set upon the nearby dresser, followed by the decorative outer layers that would only dig into him during sleep. I leave anything he might consider private untouched, mindful of the boundaries he has not yet spoken aloud.
Once freed from the stiff costume pieces, he immediately curls onto his side.
The heated blanket wraps around him with a faint shimmer of magic, settling over his body and adjusting itself to his preferred temperature. Harlequin releases a deep, contented breath, his entire form seeming to melt into the mattress.
"Warmā¦" he mumbles.
"Just as it should be," I reply, pulling the blanket higher around his shoulders.
His face softens in sleep.
Without the sharp smile, theatrical posture, or carefully arranged costume, he looks so much younger. Not helpless, certainly, but vulnerable in the way every child becomes when they finally believe they are safe enough to rest.
My hand moves gently over his hair, smoothing the disordered strands away from his face.
The warmth of the room brings another memory.
Asgore carefully adding extra fireplaces to our first home because he worried the children might become cold during winter.
Asgore sitting on the floor with Asriel and Chara, cards scattered everywhere while he attempted to explain the rules of Go Fish for what must have been the tenth time.
Chara accusing him of cheating.
Asriel insisting his father would never cheat, only to discover that Asgore had misunderstood his own hand.
Their laughter filling the room.
The memory sharpens too quickly.
That final day waits behind it.
The last time I saw so many of them alive.
The last time the world still feltā
No.
I close my eyes and draw in a steady breath.
"Not now," I whisper firmly to myself. "Those memories may rest."
When I open my eyes again, Harlequin remains before me.
Alive.
Warm.
Safe.
A child who needs me in the present rather than a ghost reaching from the past.
My expression softens as I sit on the edge of the bed.
"You would have liked Asgore," I tell him quietly, knowing he cannot truly hear me. "He would have adored you."
I can picture it far too easily.
My husband attempting to teach Harlequin card games, only to discover within minutes that the boy cheats shamelessly.
Harlequin making terrible jokes merely to see whether Asgore laughs.
Asgore laughing every single time.
The two of them tending the garden together, one far too enthusiastic and the other pretending not to enjoy himself.
"He always wanted a large family," I continue, my fingers gently stroking Harlequin's hair. "Another son would have brought him such happiness."
The words ache, but they are not entirely sorrowful.
There is love within them.
Love for the husband I still miss.
Love for the child sleeping beneath my hand.
Love does not diminish merely because it must make room for grief.
Harlequin shifts again, one hand emerging from beneath the blanket to catch weakly around my wrist.
Even asleep, he refuses to let me move too far.
I turn my palm and lace my fingers gently through his.
"Rest, my little one," I murmur, bending to press a tender kiss against his forehead. "You are home now."
His breathing settles once more, deep and peaceful beneath the magical warmth.
I remain beside him long after he has fallen completely still, holding his hand and watching over him in the quiet room.
I could not change what happened to Jester.
I could not erase what Harlequin had endured.
I could not return to the happier days captured within those photographs.
But I could protect what remained.
I could nourish them.
Teach them.
Love them.
And perhaps, with enough patience, I could show both wounded children that they no longer had to hold themselves together alone.