Ted, in a comic manifestation, appeared with Sans on his back (#1). There were three reasons for this.
For one, Sans was the right size for piggybacking. For another, Chekov's Gun. You simply don't say such things without fatefully binding yourself to fulfill them.
The last was the most somber. Ted was never one to concern himself with bucket lists; his own life was already lived with such eager opportunism that it'd be superfluous. The revelation of Sans' mortality, however, changed that. Ergo, Ted wanted to be absolutely sure he did everything there was to do with Sans before some far off, eternal parting. Even the silly ones. Especially the silly ones.
Thus he appeared: The motley-dressed Fool with Death on his back, a symbolic silliness that meant more than he yet knew. For now, he was was smiling like always, with a galvanizing, anxious excitement that put a spring in his step. The long-awaited moment had finally come. He could've sustained himself on the mere loveliness of the event: a warrior's trial from which he'd emerge ready to fight old foes with renewed strength, both body and soul. If it was in a book, he'd be enthused. To actually live such a thing was almost unendurably thrilling. It was the best of Genessia; to be in a fairy tail, and step into the shoes of the hero. To top it all off, his friends were there to share his joy. Who could deserve it?
He let Sans off his shoulders. "Thank you for indulging me, Death." He waved energetically towards Star and Moon. "Hello! I'm prepared as anything; you'll find my you-know-what suitably worn and torn. Let's burn it to cinders, then resurrect it like a phoenix!"
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For one, Sans was the right size for piggybacking. For another, Chekov's Gun. You simply don't say such things without fatefully binding yourself to fulfill them.
The last was the most somber. Ted was never one to concern himself with bucket lists; his own life was already lived with such eager opportunism that it'd be superfluous. The revelation of Sans' mortality, however, changed that. Ergo, Ted wanted to be absolutely sure he did everything there was to do with Sans before some far off, eternal parting. Even the silly ones. Especially the silly ones.
Thus he appeared: The motley-dressed Fool with Death on his back, a symbolic silliness that meant more than he yet knew. For now, he was was smiling like always, with a galvanizing, anxious excitement that put a spring in his step. The long-awaited moment had finally come. He could've sustained himself on the mere loveliness of the event: a warrior's trial from which he'd emerge ready to fight old foes with renewed strength, both body and soul. If it was in a book, he'd be enthused. To actually live such a thing was almost unendurably thrilling. It was the best of Genessia; to be in a fairy tail, and step into the shoes of the hero. To top it all off, his friends were there to share his joy. Who could deserve it?
He let Sans off his shoulders. "Thank you for indulging me, Death." He waved energetically towards Star and Moon. "Hello! I'm prepared as anything; you'll find my you-know-what suitably worn and torn. Let's burn it to cinders, then resurrect it like a phoenix!"