“Ow!” 

Smudge yelped, and with it he was broken from his trance, tilting a sheepish look over his shoulder for Spot. He was the one who was meant to guide through the dungeon, he was the one who had trained his whole life, he should have been embarrassed that it was Spot who seemed to be growing in leaps and bounds while Smudge felt like a caterpillar turned to goo.

All he could feel was gratitude.

“Thanks,” he said, with a soft laugh that turned to a gasping choke as the gas reminded him exactly what it was he was supposed to be thinking about. 

By some miracle they all made it out, but it was not until he stumbled forward into fresh air taking a gasping breath, that he realized Faithful was gently clasped in Tamsin’s care. 

The hound came too nearly as quickly now that he’d been carried to safety, wriggling with excitement to find that Tamsin had invented some new game for them to play. His tail wagged, smacking against their chest as he wriggled attempting to get free.

“Thanks.” He repeated, this time with a bone-deep gratitude that he had not shared when it had been Smudge’s only life at stake. “If the Wizard ever asks our opinion, we should request all gas vents been banished from this dungeon.” 

It had been meant as a joke, but Smudge couldn’t quite get his tone right, making it sound as a somber, solemn promise.

As they continued on, they found the home of Frisk’s treasure, and of her crown.

The bloodstained box was nearly mesmerizing, but Faithful’s ears flattened at once, his tail tucking beneath his legs as he pressed against Frisk, hackles raised. He let out a series of barks, each more imposing than the last, informing the party exactly what he thought of the strange box that had begun to thrum with an energy so powerful Smudge could not tear his gaze away if he wanted to.

“Don’t open that.” 

This time, he wasn’t sure which of his party he was speaking to, or if it was a simple reminder for himself as he found himself taking a step towards the thing, horrified and curious. 

—

The effects of the gas faded quickly enough. 

What didn’t fade was the damned taste of it.  The smell, sulfurous, clinging.  In the far corridor, Frisk cast a sharp eye across their party, counting them off — Smudge and Tamsin first, then Faithful and Musca and Vex, and finally Spot and his hound — and wished that the floodwaters would come again.  She shivered her hide irritably as if from a biting fly, peeled back her lips in disgust when the movement of her tongue against her teeth came away rotten. 

Vex, woozy and clinging to her forelock, spat, too.  Wrinkled its tiny snout. 

“Shut up, it is not in my blood.” 

(But maybe it was?  Frisk didn’t know.  It felt bone-deep, a core of nausea that she didn’t fully shake until they’d left that cavern and several more behind.) 

Smudge stepped into the throne room first.  

Frisk followed warily, flattening her ears.  Among the heavy tapestries and faded stonework, the jeweled crown in her pack suddenly felt heavier.  There was a dead, airless quality to the room; a silence pregnant with dread — broken by Faithful’s first sharp yelp.  She lowered her nose to Faithful, bumping the golden hound with her muzzle, but his barking continued, rising in pitch, in urgency, and—

For once, she didn’t snort at Smudge to come get his dog.  She was looking past him at the box at the center of the room.  The bloodstained metal surface of it.  The chains that fastened it to stone.  It hummed.  It smelled, somehow, worse than the room before — like ozone, alien and burning.  The arrhythmic clatter of its movements strained at its constraints. 

Frisk’s eyes were wide and dark when she swung her gaze sharply up to Smudge. 

Don’t open that.

Even she knew better, but—

“We don’t have to,” she said.  “It’s gonna open itself.” 

—

It was a bone-deep, grateful sigh, that escaped Tamsin when Faithful began to wiggle. Only a few moments, seconds, less than a minute since they had escaped the gas, that the hound began to rouse - the longest few seconds Tamsin had yet experienced in the dungeon. 

They had known it would be fine. That same chamber (or perhaps not quite the same, but close enough - mimics or mirrors of each other scattered across the underground - a silent, lurking evil) had nearly caught them a handful of times already.

First Spice, then Musca, each one had drifted into sleep under the weight of the tainted air in their lungs - they too had roused with ease as soon as they had gone. 

They still laughed, a relieved, pleased sound, as Faithful’s tail tickled across their chest in the excitement of their wagging. Gently setting him on the floor, Tamsin raised his gaze to Smudge. There was no beat of concern, no consideration of the thought, that Smudge may be upset that Tamsin had chosen the dog over him. Tamsin knew it was what Smudge would have wanted. And if Spot and Smudge hadn’t stumbled through the door together right after them, Tamsin would’ve just turned back. 

Simple.

So they hummed easily in the wake of Smudge’s thanks, nudging the Appaloosa’s neck gently with their nose. No thanks required. 

They did however, trot over to Spot, nudging him more playfully with his shoulder. “You did good. That room sucks.” Or… did the opposite of suck. Whatever. 

Pleased with their latest achievement, Tamsin didn’t notice the tilt in the air until the others reacted, trotting happily beside them into the next room… pausing when they all hesitated. They glanced around, peering at the rather creepy room (but honestly not unheard of in the dungeon. Someone had some very specific decorative taste in here.)

Frowning, Tamsin shifted their gaze from Smudge, to Frisk, back again. “Okay so… what exactly does that mean?” Tamsin asked warily, eyeing the box. 

—

Spot coughed and sputtered a little as he stumbled into the new chamber alongside Smudge, blinking his eyes several times as they seemed to prickle and water despite his best efforts. He could hear Smoke sneeze next to him, and then sneeze three more times, the sound of his ears flapping against his head almost laughable, except that awful smell was still stuck in his nose, and Spot didn’t want to inhale at all.

Eventually, he was forced to, finding himself far less mirthful as he looked over Frisk, and Smudge, and Tamsin. Everyone seemed to be in one peace, the latter even laughing as Faithful wagged his tail. That was enough to hearten him some; the nudge Tamsin offered him a few moments later made him lift his head, suddenly a little happier that maybe, just maybe, he had actually acted appropriately just then.

Some of his fear began to settle away, like silt in a calm lake, but it was not long until the waters were turned again. “What…what is it?” he asked, looking between the others, his gaze finally settling on Frisk. She seemed to know what it was– Or at the very least, what it wasn’t.

Boxes didn’t just up and open themselves, after all.

Next to him, Smoke suddenly tensed, his eyes trained on the large iron cube. His ears pinned back seconds later and his tail arched high over his back as he peeled his lips back, baring his teeth as he began to growl. Spot’s hairs stood on end, his skin prickling beneath his chestnut pelt as he swallowed hard, uncertain if it was the menace in his dog’s threat or the lingering scent of poison on his lips that did it.

His dark eyes fell back to the box, almost like he couldn’t look away.

“What if we just– Keep going?” he whispered, suddenly feeling very, very small. “You know – outrun it?”