Chapter Text
The Mother
The first thing you notice about Toriel is how she watches you. When she takes your hand to guide you, you glance up and meet her gaze briefly before returning to staring at your feet. You can almost hear the smile as it spreads across her face. As you allow her to lead you, you can feel the steady pressure of her attention, as she absentmindedly navigates the ostensibly-deadly spike pit. You feel yourself flushing and struggle to make eye contact with her afterward.
Even after she takes you into the long corridor, kneels down and apologizes to you before dashing away, she casts glances back your way. You find the exercise endearing, and a little ridiculous. You’re not certain how this is meant to test your independence, but you humor her anyway. When she emerges from behind the singular hiding place at the end of the corridor, you narrowly hide a tiny grin at her solemnity.
When she leaves you and offers you a spare cell phone, you gratefully accept, but struggle to understand precisely what she intends you to do with it. The call you receive as soon as you leave the room quickly makes it clear—she intends to continue watching you from afar, as best she can with her voice alone.
Later, when you emerge into her courtyard covered in scrapes, burns and bruises, her expression morphs to one of horror. She kneels down in front of you with tears and quiet rage in her eyes as she demands to know who was responsible for your injuries. You shake your head; you don’t want to be a bother. She stares at you for a long moment, and her panic visibly fades, and is replaced by resignation. She sighs, smiles and shakes her head before standing and taking your hand once more. Even once inside the house, she keeps watch on you out of the corner of her eye until the distant scent of burning pastry demands her attention.
When you wake up later, disoriented and immobilized, you discover that she’d been checking on you even in your sleep. You wake up tucked into a warm bed, and with a single slice of pie waiting by the bedside. You realize that, at some point, you’ve decided to stay here. You take a bite of the still-lukewarm pie and find that you don’t regret this at all.
The second thing you notice about Toriel is her pain. It takes you a long time to notice, and longer still to understand it for what it is. But all the signs are there, and as familiar to you as your own face—indeed, some of the expressions you see her wear are some you’ve worn yourself.
You help out in the kitchen sometimes, because it’s easy to lose yourself in the simple, mechanical tasks. Once, you had been absorbed in flattening a thick ball of dough, when it occurred to you that that the kitchen had fallen silent. You turned to find Toriel watching you with a sad smile and a faraway look on her face. It had taken her several long moments to notice you staring, and before she could say anything you had wrapped her in the tightest hug you could muster. You felt her arms encircle you and felt her take a single, shuddering breath before she smiled, gently pushed you away and told you that she could finish up alone.
You gave her space.
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Scattered throughout the house, you find clues. Never enough to piece everything together, but enough to give you the outline. Half a chocolate bar from the surface, buried in the back of the fridge. A dusty collection of children’s shoes in a box hidden in the corner of your room. A collection of old toys, even dustier. A small pile of broken, half-used crayons in the back of a drawer. Even the carefully padded pitfalls back in the ruins.
The long, dark hallway underneath the house that Toriel never, ever failed to notice you exploring.
The final thing you notice about Toriel is her fear.
When the days had turned to weeks, and the weeks had begun to blur together, you’d felt a growing restlessness. You’d tried to dismiss it—you were safe, you were happy, Toriel said she loved you.
But the ruins were small. Over the years, you’d grown used to a level of freedom that was now denied to you—partly by Toriel’s protective nature, and partly by the size of the ruins. You’d missed the sky. You’d missed the stars. You’d begun to feel like the ruins were smothering you.
So you ask Toriel how to leave. You see naked fear flit across her face, momentarily war with grief and resignation, before a wall descends across it and all emotion vanishes.
When she issues a command to stay where you are, you follow it as well as you had the first time she’d asked, just after giving you the cell phone. After a moment’s pause, follow just behind her.
When she finally turns to face you, bordered by a massive stone door, her eyes are devoid of emotion. You fail to repress the shiver of fear that run up your spine. You cry out as burning fire sears the air around you, no longer the gentle crackling flames from the fireplace.
But you are determined to find your freedom, and stand your ground.
You shut your eyes tight, plant your feet, and wait for the pain to pass. Pain is an old companion, and you know its tricks. You wait for its waves to finish rolling over you, and open your eyes. You step forward, and keep your gaze locked on your feet. Meeting Toriel’s gaze right now would sap your resolve, and turn your feet to stone.
A second wave of heat and pain washes over you, and you wait patiently. Your nails dig into the heels of your palm and you feel them draw blood.
Another step.
Heat this time, but no pain. You hear the crackling blaze of the flames mere inches from you, but this time, they do not connect. You find the courage to lift you head and blink your eyes free of tears.
Toriel stands in front of you, head down, arms hanging limp at her sides, shuddering. Dying sparks still trail from her fingertips.
You drag yourself forward, step by pained step until you stand before her. Guilt and shame make your tired body heavier still. You raise your shaking arms and step forward.
And encircle Toriel’s waist with them.
You hear a single choked sob from above you before strong arms pull you close. They don’t let you go for a long time.
It is only then that you finally allow yourself to cry.
A moment in time …
Toriel sat by the fireplace, a book spread across her lap. Her head drooped slightly—the heat and the sound of the human child’s pencil scratching across the page was making her drowsy.
She still had not mustered the courage to ask for a name. The child had not offered, and so she let it be. That made it easier.
The sound of the pencil stopped, to be replaced by the sound of small feet padding across the wooden floor. She roused slightly.
“Mom, what does this word mean?” The child asked.
Toriel blinked drowsily, automatically leaning closer to the book the child held up. Then the words reached her and she blinked again.
“What did you call me, my child?”
The child’s gaze fell earthward. “M’sorry.”
Toriel’s heart broke a little more. She’d never heard the child’s voice raised much above a quiet murmur, and any question Toriel almost immediately prompted an apology.
"It is fine my child.” Toriel paused a moment. “Would that make you happy? To call me…mother?”
She knew to look for it by now—a tiny nod. She sighed and smiled, before reaching out to stroke the child’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Call me whatever you like, my child. Remember that I will always be there for you. Now, what would was it that you wished to know?”
The child smiled shyly and dared to make eye contact briefly before holding up the book again.