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There was a child curled up under the awning of Toriel's laboratory.
She blinked, wiping rain away from her eyes. Perhaps she was seeing things? But no, even through the sleet and the gloom there was nothing else the shape could be; Toriel could see their hands poking out from the sleeves of an oversized sweatshirt.
Toriel grimaced as she walked towards the laboratory's door, pulling her coat more tightly around herself. It wouldn't be the first time some overly-confident trainer had decided to make the trek to her out-of-the-way little home, absolutely convinced that they would be the one to finally pull her out of retirement. Normally, though, they at least had enough sense to check the weather report before starting the journey; Route 216 was covered in snow forty-eight weeks of the year and sleet the other four. This one must be exceptionally young or egotistical or both.
(Likely both. Trainers could be such an insufferable bunch.)
The trainer was close enough to the laboratory's door that she couldn't simply avoid them, so she repeated her script to herself as she approached her home. No, I'm sorry, I'm not interested in talking. You need to leave now. No, I don't care what it is you have to say. Please go. Now.
Toriel pulled her keys from her pocket. At the sound of them clinking together, the trainer glanced up.
They looked awfully young, hardly old enough to be tramping around through the wilderness all by their lonesome. A pang of sorrow and disgust ran through her as she realized just how tiny the body inside the sweatshirt was. Didn't this trainer's parents realize what they were doing? Didn't they ever stop to think about how they would feel if they never saw their child again?
No. No, of course they didn't. No parent ever did, not until it was far too late.
The door to the laboratory was shaking—or, at least, Toriel's hands were. It made it hard to fit the key into the lock.
The child still hadn't spoken. If Toriel waited until they did—if she tried to argue with them now—she was going to say something she would certainly regret.
They keys hit the pavement as she let her hand go slack.
“Child,” she said firmly. “You cannot stay here.” She stood as tall as she could and contorted her face into a nasty scowl. Someone who didn't know her well would probably never realize she was trembling.
Toriel waited with bated breath for the trainer to argue with her. They would challenge her to a battle, perhaps, or insist she hear them out. Despite all the respect they claimed to have for her, trainers never, ever listened.
The child on the ground blinked once, twice. They pushed back their soggy bangs to look at her better.
“Oh.” The trainer had such a very quiet voice. Toriel could barely hear them over the sound of the rain. “I'm very sorry.”
And with that, they pushed themselves up, took a steadying breath, and staggered off back into the freezing rain and the darkness.
Toriel watched them go. Her mind was practically blank—it was still looping through all the arguments she'd meant to make, all the protests she was ready to shut down.
She hadn't expected the child to listen to her.
If the trainer had been any older, any bigger, any less drowned and defeated-looking, Toriel would have picked her keys up and headed back inside. They weren't, though, so she didn't, which meant that she was watching when, twenty feet away from her, the child stumbled and fell and didn't get back up.
Toriel's legs started moving before her brain even realized what she was going to do. She dashed off into the rain.
The young trainer had tripped over an exposed root. They were almost back onto their feet by the time she made it to their side, looking at their bloodied knees and blinking away rain or tears.
“My child, are you all right?” Toriel winced as she said it—this little straggler wasn't hers.
The child jumped at the sound of her voice. “I'm fine,” they said, a little fearfully. “I'm sorry, I'm going, I promise-”
“Wait,” Toriel said. She reached out a steadying arm, then pulled it back when the child flinched away from her. “First, tell me: why did you come here?”
None of this was making sense. No trainer would come all the way out to her little laboratory only to turn around the moment she asked. And this child almost seemed afraid of her.
The child shrugged. “It looked drier than the forest. I thought it was abandoned.” They took a deep, shuddering breath, then stood up fully. “Sorry again.”
“Stop!” Toriel snapped immediately. She could see the child swaying on their feet, they'd never make it more than fifteen minutes before collapsing again, what did they think they were doing—
The child froze completely, fear burning in their dark eyes.
“I mean...” Toriel paused. Something deep and instinctive told her that she needed to be careful here. If she chose the wrong words now, they'd run, and the only thing she'd ever find of them would be a weather-ravaged corpse. “I just wanted to ask you if you'd like a cup of tea.”
“A...” The young trainer frowned. “A cup of tea?”
Toriel nodded. “Yes. I put a kettle on earlier, but I accidentally brewed too much. I'd much rather share with someone than let good tea go to waste.” She kept her voice low and calm as she talked, and made sure to keep her hands far away from the child.
“I don't think I should. I really need to go. You should share it with someone else.” They bit their lip, staring fixedly at the ground. Toriel might almost have been convinced if not for the way they glanced up at her through the soggy mop of their hair.
They wanted to say yes. It was her job to convince them they could.
“Oh,” she said, letting worry and disappointment seep into her voice, “what a shame. There's no one else around here except my pokémon, and not a single one of them will touch the stuff.”
The child looked up, meeting Toriel's gaze head-on. “There's really no one else?”
“Not a single living soul.” Toriel sighed. “I suppose I can't complain,”—it had been the reason she moved out here in the first place, after all—“but still. A little company would be lovely occasionally.”
The child swallowed nervously. Toriel could see their shoulders shake under the weight of their exhaustion and their pack. “Well, I guess I can come in, then. Just for a few minutes.”
Toriel smiled, stretching muscles that had been left unused for far too long. “Wonderful.”
---
The moment they stepped into Toriel's lab, the child collapsed.
She yelped as they fell, grabbing their arm just in time to keep them from cracking their head against the floor. The young trainer winced at the feel of Toriel's hand on theirs, and for a moment she thought they would try to shake her off. With a fluttering of their eyes and a half-mumbled attempt at saying something, though, the child fell completely unconscious.
“Um,” Toriel said to the empty room. What now?
Focus, she thought. First things first: she needed to dry the kid off. She plucked a poké ball off her belt and sent it tumbling down onto the hardwood floor.
“Caaa...” The pokémon that burst forth barely fit into the narrow hallway. Her camerupt blew an annoyed smoke ring at her as he tried to shuffle forward into the (slightly) larger space of the foyer.
“Sorry, Mags!” Toriel winced. Even now, part of her still expected to have all the space of the lab she once used. “But please, I need your help.” She pointed towards the child, still laying dazedly on the floor. They were still shivering, if only barely, but there was little time left.
A vicious pang of guilt seized Toriel's heart like a vice. She was a former professor, and yet she still hadn't realized just how close to death they were. She'd come so very close to letting them freeze to death on her doorstep.
Mags snorted, looking down at the child. After a long, slow moment, he shuffled his way past Toriel and to them. His teeth sank gently into their sweatshirt, and he slowly dragged them back away from the cold blowing in from under the door before curling up next to their prone form. He breathed out, lungs groaning like a bellows and sending tiny pinprick-sized embers dancing through the room.
“Thank you,” Toriel said quietly. Mags was an experienced rescue pokémon; if anyone could bring the child back up to a normal temperature, it was him.
She hurried to the hall closet and pulled the door open, then gathered as much as she could into her arms. Blankets, towels—even a few dishcloths ended up in her frantic pile. She'd left most of her extra bedding behind when she moved out here, but there was still more than she ever used tucked away. The blankets she laid over the child's shoulders, pillowed under their head, or stuck absolutely anywhere else she thought might do some good. By the time she'd unloaded her armful the kid was covered in a veritable nest of cloth.
(She tucked the last few washcloths around their ears anyway, just in case.)
Toriel paused for a long, long moment before walking back to the hall closet. Once the child woke, they would need food and water and a fresh set of clothes. The first two were easy enough, but the third...
Well. She had a solution, didn't she? It would be selfish to deny the child, even if the very thought of what she was about to do left her feeling sick to her stomach.
Toriel crouched down and, hands trembling, dragged a small cardboard box out from the furthest corner of the closet's lowest shelf. It was so much tinier than she remembered; it had seemed to weigh a few hundred pounds when she first took it with her.
The flaps bent back easily. The jumble of clothes and books and toys inside were dusty and faded, but still in perfectly good condition.
He wouldn't mind, she thought. He'd want you to help people. She wasn't quite sure if she was telling herself that because it was true, or simply because she needed the convincing. Either way, it gave her strength enough to pluck out a lime-green shirt and a pair of khaki pants before closing the box and shoving it back into the closet's depths.
The shirt still smelled a bit like him. She pressed it against her cheek for a moment before walking back to the foyer.
“Here. The trainer can put these on once they wake up.” Toriel kept her voice as brisk as possible. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away.
“'Rupt,” Mags grumbled. He had to know just what she'd laid out, but if he had any particular feelings about it Toriel couldn't tell. Sometimes the camerupt's rather... inexpressive face could actually be a boon.
After that, everything went more smoothly. Toriel headed into the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove and opened up the fridge. She had neither the time nor the ingredients to do a proper meal, but something small would be simple enough. A spinach quiche, perhaps? Would a young child like spinach, or should she stick with cheese? But there was always the possibility the child wouldn't like cheese either. She wished she had remembered to ask.
Well, it would have to do. A child that thin likely wouldn't turn their nose up at any sort of food.
The next half-hour passed in a blur. Toriel let the rest of her team out and set them to making some chocolate pastries, just in case the child preferred sweet things. (It probably wasn't her smartest moment—her gogoat didn't have anything approaching hands, her flaaffy could barely reach the counter, and her kangaskhan spent more time sneaking her baby bits of chocolate filling than actually working on the food.) The quiche was just finishing up in the oven when she heard a noise from out in the hallway.
The child was waking up.
Toriel rushed back into the foyer, flour smeared across her face and bits of spinach stuck to her arms. She probably looked ridiculous, but right now she didn't particularly care.
“Hello,” she said quietly. “Do you know where you are?”
The child blinked dazedly at her from within their nest of blankets. Mags was still pressed up against their side, and one of their hands was buried in his rough fur just below the point where shoulder met volcano. The camerupt didn't much care for people other than her, but he seemed to be tolerating it well; if anything, he looked almost fond of them. They didn't seem frightened just yet, but Toriel had a feeling it would come.
“Um,” they said. “I'm... inside?”
She couldn't help but smile at that. “Yes, that's right. I invited you inside, remember? You were a little colder than you should have been”—for a value of 'cold' that meant 'very near to dying of hypothermia'—“so I decided to let you warm up for a bit. How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Better than before,” the child said. They glanced to the side, a little shyly. “Is this your pokémon?”
“Oh, yes. He's a species that isn't really native to these parts.”
They smiled, just a bit. “He feels nice.”
Toriel snorted. “Just be glad he didn't go out in the rain with me. He smells atrocious when he's wet.”
Mags snorted grumpily at her. The child's grin grew just a bit wider, and they pressed themselves closer against his immense bulk.
“So.” Toriel knelt, trying to meet the child at something closer to eye level. “I have some tea on the counter and some food ready too. There should be more than enough for your team, too, if you'd like to let them out. Do you feel up to having some food?”
Toriel was curious to see what the young trainer's team might be like. Had one of their pokémon become injured in some way? Or were they simply overconfident, wandering into a part of the wilderness no low-level battlers could handle? It was strange that the child hadn't released them from their poké balls even when their temperature had become so dangerously low. Sharing body heat could go a long way in a crisis situation, and many pokémon had more than enough to share.
The child hesitated a moment before nodding. Toriel could see the hunger written on their face. “If it's okay, I'll have a bit. But I don't have any pokémon to feed.”
The words echoed through Toriel's brain as she tried desperately to parse them. No pokémon to feed. Perhaps none of theirs ate normal food? But no, that didn't make sense—there were few such pokémon that a young child like them would be able to handle, and none of them were native to this area. Or maybe they simply had been fed already? Except that surely no pokémon would keep a normal diet when their trainer was so obviously hideously malnourished. Or possibly—
Toriel's brain screeched to a halt as the obvious interpretation finally caught up with her.
“You don't have any pokémon at all?”
The child flinched at her sudden outburst before steeling their expression. “Yeah. I'm not a trainer yet.” They frowned and half-sat up, blankets and towels pooling around them with the movement. “I'm old enough, though! I just don't have a license 'cause you need a birth certificate for that and I forgot mine.”
Yet, Toriel thought. Honestly, children were all the same.
“How did you get all the way out here? Where did you come from?” The nearest settlement was hours away by even by gogoat; for someone walking, it would take at least a day.
The child looked at them for a long moment. Judging, Toriel expected, whether or not they could trust her. “You won't call my parents?” they asked finally.
"How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“Then no, I won't.” They were—technically—old enough to be journeying on their own. It was a law Toriel disagreed with on every conceivable level, but that didn't mean she was above taking advantage of it when it suited her. Whatever the child's parents were like (and she had her suspicions), Toriel had no desire to involve them in this.
The child studied her a moment longer. Eventually they nodded, more to themselves than to Toriel. “I'm from near Lake Valor.”
“Lake Valor,” Toriel said blandly. “Lake Valor. That's halfway across Sinnoh! No, more than halfway!”
The child nodded. There was no mischief or guilt in their expression; they seemed completely genuine.
“How?”
“I took a train for a while, then a bus. When the buses stopped running, I decided to walk.”
“Without any pokémon at all.”
“Yeah.” The young trainer—no, not a trainer at all—shrugged. “I wanted to get away. I'm pretty determined once I set my mind to something.”
Forget hypothermia, malnutrition, thirst, or exposure. Toriel was suddenly amazed the child hadn't been eaten alive.
Her gut twisted unpleasantly. Where could she go from here? After the rain abated and the sun had risen once more, the child would surely want to leave. She couldn't in good conscience allow them to head back out through the wilderness without so much as a pokémon to guide them—if nothing else, the instincts she'd honed in her former profession would never allow it—but there was also absolutely no way she could condone this young one becoming a trainer.
Oh.
A plan blossomed suddenly in Toriel's mind. It would be absolutely, one hundred percent perfect. All she had to do was convince the child to agree.
As she thought, a faint smoky scent wafted through the foyer.
Whatever could that be? she wondered. Her pokémon had only just begun on the chocolate pastries, and the quiche...
“The quiche!” Toriel leaped up, sending flour dust swirling through the room. “I have to take it out, it's going to burn—oh, um.” The clothes were still laying on the floor next to the child's half-disrupted cocoon. “There's clothes on the floor for you, please do put them on. I'll hang your own up so the can dry a little better.”
The child looked over at the clothes, brow furled. “You keep... children's clothes lying around?”
“No, no!” Toriel could only imagine what sort of thing they must be thinking. “They are—were—my son's. He, ah... doesn't need them anymore.” Her voice shook as she forced out the words.
“Oh, okay.” The kid looked down and bit their lip. “Sorry. I didn't realize.”
“It's fine,” Toriel said. “It's normal for you to ask.”
Flaafs bleated at her from the kitchen, a high, alarmed cry.
Right, the quiche.
“Please, meet me in the kitchen whenever you're ready, all right? The food should be right out.”
“Okay.” The child clutched lightly at the clothes. “Thanks again.”
“It's my pleasure,” Toriel said, smiling a moment before rushing off to do damage control.
---
Any worries Toriel had about her food were dashed the moment the child started eating. They devoured the first slice of quiche like a newborn larvitar, and when she set another piece in front of them they gulped it down too. The shirt was a touch too big, but no more ill-fitting than the clothes they'd shown up in. With their head down and the familiar green shirt on their back, Toriel could almost see...
No. Absolutely not. That wasn't fair to them, and it wasn't fair to him either.
A wet sort of crunching noise filled the room as the child swallowed the last of their second slice.
“Would you like another?” Toriel asked.
They hesitated a moment before shaking their head. “No thanks. I'm full now.”
Toriel leaned across the kitchen table, pushing their cup of tea a little closer. They looked much better now that they were in dry clothes, but it couldn't hurt to get something warm in their belly. “Here, try some of this. There's sugar in the bowl if you'd like some.”
The child didn't so much as pause before dumping a heaping spoonful into their glass. Another followed, then another and another until there had to be more sugar than tea in the cup.
Toriel laughed. “Bit of a sweet tooth?”
“Mmm.” The child took a sip of their tea. “Thank you. It's good.” Their fingers drummed nervously against the side of the porcelain cup. “Sorry. I didn't mean to use so much of your sugar.”
Toriel's kangaskhan snorted from her spot curled up in front of the stove, the tips of her ears twitching in amusement.
“Oh, hush,” Toriel chided. “What Kanna means to say is that I already go through sacks of the stuff quicker than you could imagine. A little bit like that doesn't matter in the slightest.”
She'd been hoping to get another smile out of the child with that one, but instead they just bowed their head and stared down into their cup.
As she waited, she sipped from her own cup. It was a rather lovely blend made from some sort of seaweed, sent to her by one of the gym leaders who still kept in (rather one-sided) contact with Toriel. Toriel didn't much appreciate the woman's inability to take a hint, but she absolutely did appreciate her fantastic taste in tea.
Her cup was nearly half-empty by the time the child spoke once more. “Miss?”
“Please, call me Toriel.”
“Toriel...” The child looked up at her finally, dark eyes wide. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Oh, child.” Toriel didn't know quite what to say to that.
Because I'm pathetic and starved for human company. Because you looked so tiny out there when you were freezing to death. Because no child should be left to wander across the continent by themselves.
Because you wear my son's shirt size.
“Because,” she said, “It's been too long since I last shared a meal with someone. It's a nicer feeling than I remembered.”
The child frowned. “That doesn't mean you had to pick me, though.”
“Young one...” Toriel paused. “No, pardon me. May I ask your name?”
The child pursed their lips together, staring down at their glass.
“My earlier promise still applies,” she added.
The child looked into their tea a moment longer before taking another sip. They drank very, very slowly, as though this mouthful might be their last. It was quite obviously a stalling technique, but Toriel could hardly blame them. Opening up to others could be very difficult.
“It's Frisk.”
Toriel blinked. The child looked at them seriously from over the rim of their cup. “My name. It's Frisk.”
“Thank you, Frisk.” Toriel smiled. It was a strange name—for all she knew, they'd made it up on the spot—but there was something endearing about it nonetheless. “Now. Let me be honest with you.”
Frisk shrunk back and quickly glanced towards the entrance hallway. “What do you mean?”
Oops. A recluse, living alone on the side of an uninhabited mountain with nothing but some pokémon and a bunch of lab equipment for company... Toriel kept forgetting just how strange she would seem to even a normal traveler. Frisk, cautious as they were, probably suspected she was out here dissecting children or something. She soldiered ahead quickly—any delay here would only mean sticking her foot in her mouth even further. “Years ago, before I came out here, I worked as Sinnoh's regional professor.”
That got Frisk's attention quickly enough. They swallowed half their tea and nearly spat out the rest as they looked up at her. “You're Professor Dreemurr?”
Toriel shifted in her seat, half-proud and half-ashamed at the gleam of admiration in the child's eyes. “I was,” she admitted. “But these days I don't really use that name any more.”
“Wow,” Frisk said quietly. “I—wow.” They leaned in a little closer, near to wriggling with excitement. “I always used to listen to you when you came on the radio, you know. I even had a poster of you on my wall, except it's the one where you're dressed like a turtwig so I couldn't really tell what you looked like normally.”
“Oh no,” Toriel said. “Tell me you didn't.” She remembered that poster well—it was for a campaign on responsible trainership, and also one of the worst of the (many) ridiculous promotions Mettaton had come up with. She'd always hoped they'd managed to burn all the copies.
Frisk laughed quietly into their hands. “I liked it.”
“It took ages for the green to scrub off. I looked ridiculous.” Asgore had laughed every time he saw her, the traitor, and Asriel... well, he'd been so young. He'd hardly seemed to understand what the paint was.
Toriel cleared her throat and shook her head. “Anyway, that's not the important part. The truth of the matter” —or part of the truth, at least, but it was as much as she could bear to give— “is that I'm out here researching delibird. They're not Sinnoh-native pokémon, but flocks of them have been appearing the area recently and I'd like to find out why.”
“That's pretty cool,” Frisk said. They'd leaned in more and more as she spoke, and by now their elbows were nearly a third of the way across the table.
“It's very cool! Delibird are, well... interesting pokémon.” She'd had more presents lobbed at her head than she cared to count, and the occasional healing didn't quite make up for all the ones that had exploded on her. Still, it was a wonderful research opportunity. “That said, it's difficult to gather all the information I need. The days are short this far north, even in the summer, and it takes a long time to get to all the areas I'm trying to collect data from. I'd hire a trainer, except...” She shrugged. “Well, I don't really trust trainers. You never know when one of them might decide that catching themselves a rare pokémon is more important than keeping the flocks calm. But when I found you—when I realized you weren't a trainer...”
Frisk bit their lip. They looked excited and apprehensive all at once. “You mean—?”
Toriel nodded. “I was wondering if you'd be interesting in becoming my assistant.”
They all but squeaked, a sudden shy smile working its way up their face. “You really mean it? Oh, but...” They paused, suddenly apprehensive. “I'm going to become a trainer, though. So I don't know if I can help you.”
A cold hand clenched Toriel' heart. “It doesn't have to be forever,” she said. But it can be, if you want it to. “No matter what, you won't be able to register as a trainer until you get some replacement ID. I could still use the help, even if it's only for a little while. And that way you could have somewhere to stay while you're waiting.”
Frisk drummed their fingers against the table, deep in thought. “You're really okay with having me here?”
“Absolutely.”
They took a deep, shaky breath, then nodded once. “Okay,” they said, smiling nervously up at Toriel. “If it's really okay... I'd like to stay for a while. Just until I get everything together.”
Toriel smiled back, feeling her heart leap in a mixture of joy and apprehension. “Wonderful. I hope you'll enjoy it here.”
Don't worry, child. I promise I'll keep you safe.
---
“Toriel!” The stomping of boots echoed through the front hallway, followed a moment later by the clattering of hooves. “Toriel, look at this!”
Frisk burst through the door to the living room, shaking snow off their coat and hair. Gogo, Toriel's gogoat, followed closely behind, covered in a thin layer of rapidly-melting powder and looking more like a snow sculpture than a living pokémon.
“Patience, Frisk,” Toriel said, setting aside the journal she'd been reading. “You're going to get the room all wet.”
“Sorry!” Their cheeks were bright red, but Toriel suspected that had more to do with the cold than any embarrassment—once Frisk got excited about something, all of Toriel's rules went right out the window.
(It would have been more frustrating if Toriel hadn't been the exact same way as a child.)
“You have to see this, though,” Frisk continued. They pulled off their coat hurriedly, then turned their attention to the Pokétch around their wrist. A quick tap brought up their camera app, and as soon as the picture appeared onscreen they were practically shoving their wrist into Toriel's face. “There's a new nest!”
“Oh my,” Toriel said, pushing her reading glasses a little further up. “That's amazing.”
A large nest, made from bits of cloth and old branches and discarded plastic and anything else the parents had been able to scavenge up, sat on a snowy outcropping. Within it, she could just barely see the rounded outline of an egg. It was one thing to have the birds swarm occasionally, but if they really were using this route as a new breeding ground then it meant there might someday be a permanent population of the species in Sinnoh.
Toriel blinked and took an even closer look at the photo. “That's a very clear shot. How close did you get?”
“Um...” Frisk paused for a moment, biting their lip as they thought. “Maybe fifteen, twenty feet away? I was really careful, though! I didn't scare them.”
“Don't worry,” Toriel said. “I trust you.” She ruffled Frisk's hair, grinning when they yelped a protest.
It was amazing, really, the way Frisk could communicate with pokémon. They had a natural gift for knowing when to get closer or when to back away, just what they needed to do to soothe a territorial pokémon or comfort a frightened one. Even Toriel's team liked them, and it had been a long time since her pokémon had met anyone they liked. They were rather like their master in that regard, she supposed.
Frisk seemed to be doing much better as well. They'd put some weight back on thanks to a steady diet of homemade meals—the child was still tiny, but at at least they no longer looked like they were a crumb away from starvation. She'd ordered as much as she could for them: toys and books and gadgets and clothes, everything a kid would need to be happy in an out-of-the-way place like this. (Not that they used most of the supplies all that much; Frisk preferred chasing after wild pokémon to sitting at home and relaxing. It was all Toriel could do to get them inside for meals and sleep.) The child had gotten quite a bit louder, too, once they'd finally realized they weren't about to be thrown back out into the snow for saying the wrong thing.
It had only been a few months, but Frisk had already become a fixture in Toriel's life. She could hardly remember what it had been like before meeting them.
“Did you get the mail?” This far into the wilderness it only came once a week, delivered by a starraptor that worked for Eterna City's postal service. Waiting so long could be frustrating sometimes, but it was a small price to pay.
Frisk nodded as they reached into the pack slung over their shoulder and pulled out an armful of slightly-crumpled papers. “I think the new Sinnoh Geographic came in.”
“Oh, lovely.” Toriel flipped through the bundle: junk mail, junk mail—how did they find her address?—junk mail, Sinnoh Geographic, Poképuff Monthly… and, at the bottom of the stack, a plain white envelope, oddly heavy, with an official-looking seal printed in the corner.
Strange. Normally the bills never came so early in the month. Toriel ripped the flap open and pulled out what was inside: a few sheets of paper and, stuck to one of them, a thin plastic card. The name on the front wasn't Frisk, but the picture was of their face.
“Oh!” Frisk jumped up, grinning, and peered over Toriel's shoulder at the letter. “Awesome, it came!”
“What...” Toriel could hear her voice go flat, though she hadn't meant for it to. It felt like she was drifting out of her body, watching herself from the outside. “What are you doing.”
Frisk blinked, looking suddenly concerned. “Huh? I'm not doing anything.” They took a half-step back. “We talked about this. Remember?”
They had, they hadn't but Toriel hadn't thought—
She'd thought they'd been happy here. Happy with her. And yet all this time they'd been plotting to leave right behind her back.
“You don't have a pokémon.”
“I'm going to catch one,” they said. “There's a lot of pokémon around here who like me; I bet one of them would be interested in going.”
“It's going to be winter soon.” Toriel was trembling. She hadn't even realized.
“I have lots of warm clothes now.” They bit their lip. “U-um, if you don't want me to keep them, though, that's okay. I can get more somehow, I don't mind.”
Maybe that would convince Frisk to wait? But no, they were so strong-willed; they'd head off in their nightgown and slippers if she let them.
Images flashed through her head in rapid succession. Frisk's mangled body, lying mangled and broken at the bottom of a ravine. Scraps of flesh and bone scattered across the hills where they'd been torn apart by wild pokémon. Frisk starving, frisk freezing, Frisk lost in the deepest part of the woods—
Asriel drowning, all alone.
Something snapped in Toriel's mind. She stood robotically, slipping the ID into her coat pocket. “We are not discussing this.”
“What?”
The look on Frisk's face was heartbreaking. For a moment she almost paused—they needed comfort, they needed her to say it would be okay—but the realization of what she was doing this for stopped her.
What Frisk truly needed was to be kept safe. Anything less than that would be a failure.
They ran to her, grabbing at the front of her coat. “Toriel, stop!”
They sounded so confused, so afraid. Toriel's heart was breaking and she didn't know what she could say, didn't know what she should do.
She never should have taken the child in. Trainers were all the same; deep down, she'd always known this would happen. She'd wanted to believe in a happier ending: a child who didn't leave, a parent who didn't grieve, a family that stayed safe and together for once. But that wasn't how the real world worked.
Toriel shook Frisk off. “Gogo, use vine whip.”
Her gogoat hesitated, glancing between Toriel and Frisk nervously.
“Gogo, please don't,” Frisk said quietly.
“Gogo,” Toriel snapped.
He paused a moment longer, then two thin vines slowly snaked their way out from under the fur of his neck. They twined gently around Frisk's body, more like a caress than an attack, until the child's arms were firmly bound at their sides.
Toriel hadn't realized she'd stopped breathing until she finally managed to start again. “Good boy,” she said quietly. She didn't want to hurt Frisk. There was nothing she wanted less than that. She just needed them to stay still for a while, so she could sit down and talk to them and explain why she was doing the right thing.
She couldn't help but glance behind her as she made her way to the front door. Frisk was sagging in the vine's hold, looking dully towards the ground. They seemed terrified and confused—she could see tears gathering in the corners of their eyes.
Turn back, part of Toriel's brain whispered. It's not too late. She shook the thought off and headed out into the snow.
Frisk would understand. They'd have to understand. And if they didn't… well, she'd rather they be alive to hate her than die caring about her.
---
The snow was bitterly cold under her feet; all Toriel had was the fuzzy slippers she'd worn while reading on the couch, and what was comfortable in the comfort of a cozy fire-warmed room was distinctly less helpful out in the middle of what had to be a gathering snowstorm.
Toriel pulled her sweater more tightly around herself, willing her body not to collapse. She didn't need to stay out here long. All she needed was a place to drop the ID card where Frisk wouldn't easily be able to find it.
The problem with that, of course, was Frisk. They'd search the entire mountainside if she gave them half a chance—she couldn't simply drop the card in a snowbank and call her job done.
The river, she realized suddenly. The river would be perfect. It hadn't quite frozen yet; she could let it go on the bank of the stream and let the current carry it away. Surely even Frisk would find that a deterrent enough.
When she went back to the house, what would she say? The thought made her shudder. Only now was the horror of what she'd done beginning to sink in; the image of Frisk's distraught face kept popping into her mind. She couldn't shake it out away matter what she tried.
I did it because I care about you, she tried to imagine saying. But no, that would ring hollow; no matter how true it was, she couldn't expect them to accept that. Perhaps she could try her best to tell her story, or perhaps she could pretend to stay angry and let them leave thinking she'd simply gone insane. (Would that make it easier for the child, or harder? Every plan that flitted through her head seemed like it would only hurt them further.) Or, maybe, she could simply say—
“Stop.”
Toriel turned, dazed with disbelief.
Frisk stood behind them, their hands at their sides and their expression cold and clear. She could still see that pain in the way they held themselves, but it was muted now, hidden behind layers of resolve. Their eyes burned with determination.
“How..?” Toriel asked. The word came out as barely more than a whisper. Almost reflexively, she took a step back, away from the force of their gaze.
They smiled softly. Toriel couldn't read the emotion behind it. “I asked Gogo to stop. Often, it's better to approach a pokémon gently than to immediately try to fight it.”
Toriel bit her lip at the memory—she'd said those exact words to Frisk only months ago. Pride and sorrow warred for dominance in her heart.
“You should go inside now,” Toriel said firmly. She drew herself up to her full height, standing tall amidst the drifting snow.
Frisk shook their head. “I'm not going to. We need to talk.”
“There's nothing to talk about.” Toriel let her hand move to the poké balls still clipped to her belt. It was a cruel display of intimidation—a habit from back when she'd been a true trainer herself—but Frisk didn't so much blink at the gesture.
“I don't agree.”
“Fine,” Toriel spat. “If you're so determined to become a trainer, let's settle this like they do! Flaafs, come on out!”
Her flaaffy appeared in a burst of white light, blinking confusedly at the expanse of snow stretching out around her. “Flaa?”
“Flaafs,” she commanded, “Use thunder wave!”
Flaafs tilted her head, looking across the snowdrifts for an enemy to fight.
“She wants you to use it on me,” Frisk said.
Her flaaffy cried out in sudden alarm, glancing back fearfully at her master. Toriel gritted her teeth, staring across the field at Frisk. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
“That was an order, Flaafs,” she said. “Use thunder wave.”
“It's okay,” Frisk said. They smiled gently and took a step forward, crouching down next to the flaaffy. “I'll be fine. Don't worry about it.”
Flaafs made another panicky, distressed noise, then reached out and pressed a paw against the palm of Frisk's hand. The bulb of her tail glowed bright blue as a small arc of electricity jumped between the two of them.
A small, pained noise worked its way from between Frisk's clenched teeth as their left arm dropped uselessly to their side. The paralysis had hit, but only just—Flaafs clearly couldn't muster up the willpower to attack at full strength, knowing there was a chance she might cause Frisk pain.
“Return, Flaafs,” Toriel said tiredly. She replaced the poké ball on her belt and pulled the one next to it off its hook.
“Now can we talk?” Frisk's arm was still hanging limply, but they were already standing back up.
“I have nothing to say,” Toriel said, putting as much force into her words as she could muster. “Kanna, let's go!”
Kanna grumbled unhappily as she appeared, shielding her child's head from the snowflakes with one massive paw. She glanced sleepily at Toriel, as if to say You brought us out into this?
“Kanna, use roar!” she said, pointing a finger towards Frisk just to make sure she couldn't mistake her target.
Her kangaskhan blinked confusedly at Toriel before turning in Frisk's direction. She opened her mouth, revealing fiercely pointed incisors, crouched into a defensive position, and roared.
Flocks of flying type pokémon took to the air as the sound echoed across the hills. The snow beneath the shook and crumbled, and even Toriel had to clap her hands tightly over her ears to keep the awful cacophony from overwhelming her senses completely.
Frisk had no such protection—their numbed arm meant they had no way to block out the noise. Surely, she thought, they'd have to turn back now.
With the way the Kanna's call overwhelmed every other possible sound, Toriel didn't get to hear what Frisk did next. Instead, she watched through half-shut eyes as Frisk threw back their head and laughed.
Even without any sound, Toriel could practically hear the noise echo through her head. The child had such an infectious laugh; she'd always felt so proud whenever she could pull a giggle out of them with a terrible pun or a particularly silly comment.
Frisk walked fearlessly towards Kanna, not even bothering to try covering their ears. When they reached Kanna's side, they knelt down and whispered something into the delicate shell of her pointed ear.
Toriel didn't know what was said—probably she'd never know—but a moment later Kanna shut her mouth. She yawned lazily, patted her child on the head once more, and walked back to Toriel's side. The message was clear: I'm done. Let me back in.
“Fine,” Toriel said, sounding more shaky than she'd meant to. “Kanna, come back.”
Her pokémon disappeared in a flash of ruby-red light.
“Don't even try it,” Toriel said furiously before Frisk could even open their mouth. “I'm not budging. Not on this.”
Frisk frowned. She could see the hint of tears gathering in their eyes once more. “Toriel, please,” the said, a little desperately. “If I did something wrong, I'm sorry, but please—”
“Mags, go!”
A cloud of steam rose into the air as her camerupt formed out of the light; his mere presence was enough to melt the snow around him in all directions.
“Caaa?” he asked, breathing out a plume of smoke as he spoke.
“Toriel and I are battling,” Frisk said by way of explanation.
Mags blinked, very slowly, and glanced to either side.
“No, I don't have a pokémon.”
“This isn't a battle,” Toriel snapped. “You don't have anything a trainer needs.”
“That's not what's making you mad, though.” Frisk took a small step forward. “Right?”
“If you get any closer, I'll attack!”
“Toriel, please stop!”
“Mags, will-o-wisp!”
Blue-ish white orbs of flame burst from her camerupt's mouth and the pits on his back, arcing widely as they flew. Each of them missed Frisk by dozens of feet, instead melting circles in distant snowbanks or burning themselves out against frostbitten tree trunks.
Frisk moved closer once more. “Toriel—”
“Again!”
Their paths danced closer this time before bouncing away once more. The flames' eerie glow lit the hills around them, making the whole world seem garish and unreal. It was like they were living in an overexposed photograph.
Toriel shivered in place as Frisk stepped closer and closer, until they were so near to her that they could have almost stretched out their arm and grabbed her. “Toriel, please.”
“Mags!” she shouted, pressing her hands against her face to force down the bile rising in her throat. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes felt warm; when in the world had she started crying?
This time, the flames passed so close to Frisk that they nearly caught their coat on fire. Toriel could see the dancing trails they left as they slipped past the child's face.
Frisk shrieked, throwing their good hand up to protect them from the glowing, and took a stumbling step sideways. “Mama, stop!”
Toriel blinked once, blankly. For a moment, she almost thought she'd imagined Frisk's words. Surely they hadn't said—surely they couldn't think—
Then reality crashed back in on her and she dropped to her knees, landing face-first in the snow. Her breathing was coming quick and shaky; she could feel her heart slamming against her ribcage.
Frisk rushed to her side, dropping to their knees in the snow next to her. “I'm sorry,” they babbled. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…”
Their voice sounded thick and choked. They had to be crying too.
Toriel pushed herself up, brushing snow off of her cheeks. The cold was a relief against her swollen and puffy face. “You called me your mother.”
Frisk's face twisted into something awful, small and scared and so unlike the child she'd come to know. “I didn't mean it. Or, I mean, I did, but...” They paused, dropping their gaze to the ground. “I didn't mean to start thinking of you that way. I'm sorry, I know it's not fair to you—I wasn't trying to take your son's place, I promise. You're just”—they rubbed at their eyes—“the only person who's ever really felt like family to me.”
“Frisk,” Toriel said. No, that wasn't right. That wasn't what they truly wanted to say. “My child.”
Frisk twitched, an unreadable expression flitting across their face.
“Please,” she continued, “don't apologize. I'm the one who betrayed you.” She dug into her coat pocket, pulling out the ID card. “Take this. I cannot apologize enough for what I've done to you today.”
She'd taken the trust of the one person she cared for most in all of the world and shattered it into a million pieces, all because she couldn't admit her fears to anyone else.
Wasn't that what she'd been doing all along? Why else had she left Asgore, the leaders, her professorship?
Frisk took the card from her hand and slipped it into their pocket, then reached back over and wrapped their fingers around Toriel's own. “I'm not angry,” they said.
“You should be.”
They shook their head. A small laugh escaped from between their lips. “This isn't even—this doesn't even compare to what I'm used to.”
Toriel flinched. “Just because it's not as bad as it could be doesn't make it okay. You know that, right? I shouldn't have done any of this, none of this has been okay.”
Frisk was silent for a long moment. “Okay,” they said finally. “You're right. I shouldn't compare you to them. But,” they said fiercely, “I still like you. I still care about you.”
“I don't deserve that.”
They shrugged. “I used to care a lot about what people deserved. I'd get really angry about things that weren't fair. But ever since I left Lake Valor, none of that's mattered to me anymore.”
Toriel looked up. She and Frisk met each others' tear-stained gazes.
“Please,” Frisk said softly. "Will you tell me why you're upset?”
She thought for a second before nodding. “Okay. You deserve an explanation, though I'm afraid it won't be a very good one.” She glanced around, taking in her soaking slippers, Frisk's wind-whipped hair and bright red ears, and the fact that neither of them had proper mittens. Only Mags looked even half-warm, and considering his normal body temperature that didn't mean much. “Let's head back inside, okay? Once we're warmed up, I'll explain.”
---
Sitting at the table, Toriel couldn't help but remember the first time she'd had Frisk in her kitchen. It seemed like almost an eternity and less than a day at the exact same time.
The kitchen was much emptier now; the moment she'd released her team from their poké balls, they'd all gathered together in the living room. (To gossip about what had happened, she suspected.) It would take a long time for her to earn back their trust, but that was nothing less than she deserved.
There hadn't been time to make scones or a quiche, and anyway she suspected neither of them was in the mood. She'd allowed one concession to the memory of that first meeting, though; the tea in their cups was the same as blend it had been back then.
“So,” Toriel said once they'd both settled in. Frisk was wrapped in layers of blankets, and she'd put most of her best winter clothes on. “I'll start with what you know. You know I used to be married to Asgore Dreemurr, the Elite Four Champion, and that he and I had a son together. And...” she hesitated, trying to force the words out, “that our son—Asriel —died when he was quite young.”
Frisk nodded gently. “Is that why you came out here?”
Toriel pressed her hands against her teacup, willing herself not to cry. “It is.” No point in holding back the truth now, not after she'd spent so long burying it inside her. “My son's death was my fault. After he died, I couldn't stand being around anyone who might try to comfort me.”
Frisk took a long drink from their cup before responding. “What do you mean?”
“Asriel was an amazing boy.” Even now, Toriel couldn't help but smile at the memories. “The kindest child anyone could ever meet, and with a heart as big as Sinnoh. Ever since he was little, he'd been fascinated by flowers—he loved grass-type pokémon more than anything. And”—she sighed—“with the two parents he had, there was no way he wasn't going to be pushed towards battling.”
“He didn't like battling, though?” Frisk asked.
“Oh no,” Toriel said. “He adored pokémon battles. He was amazing at them too—there was no question he was a prodigy. Even being mentored by his father couldn't account for all of his skill; he had a natural talent for encouraging his pokémon. We got him his first real pokémon when he was seven, and he left on his journey when he was only eight years old.”
At Toriel's insistence, it had been a sunkern. Asgore'd been hoping to give the kid something a bit more exciting, but she'd vetoed absolutely anything that might bite, sting, scratch or envenom Asriel.
“For the next three years, he traveled all across the region to gather his badges. Anywhere he went, people talked about him. He was the pride of Sinnoh, the hope of the future generation. He was ready to challenge the Elite Four by the time he was twelve. And then...”
She took a desperate sip of her tea, clinging to its warmth.
Frisk said nothing, only waited until she was ready to speak.
“He plateaued,” she said finally. “He stopped getting better—or, at least, he stopped improving as fast as he had before. I'm not sure he ever learned how to tell the difference. Asriel was desperate to finally surpass his father, but no matter what he did he couldn't even make it past the first member of the Elite Four.”
He'd fought for months and months. At first, Asriel had called her after every loss, disappointed but cheery, telling her that next time he'd win for sure! The calls had dropped off the longer he'd stayed at the Pokémon League—by the end of it, he'd barely ever answered the phone.
“After a while, I started begging him to come home to Sandgem and rest for a while. I thought that if only he could take a break, he'd remember what he loved so much about battling in the first place. He refused completely at first, but then one day when I asked he suddenly agreed.”
Toriel looked at Frisk. “You're from near Lake Valor—have you heard of the legends connected to Sinnoh's lakes?”
Frisk coughed, nearly spitting out their drink. It was an odd sort of reaction; Toriel supposed they hadn't expected to be asked a question so suddenly. “There's… creatures living in the lakes,” they said hesitantly, “Powerful pokémon with gray bodies and gems in their heads, and psychic powers that no other creature in Sinnoh could match. They could warp a person's mind if they wanted to.”
“Good.” Toriel nodded. “That's an excellent description.” She hadn't taken Frisk for a folklore fan, but she supposed it wasn't as though they hadn't already surprised her so many times before. “Asriel had heard about the legends too. I was often busy in my lab, helping new trainers get acquainted with their first pokémon, and one day when I was distracted he snuck away from the house and headed to Lake Verity.”
Frisk leaned in. Their gaze was focused entirely on Toriel. “Did he see it? What happened?”
Toriel put her head in her hands, pressed her knuckles against her tear ducts as forcefully as she could bear. “I assume he found it. When he hadn't returned by the next morning, I realized something was wrong. Everyone else assumed he'd left to travel once more, but I knew otherwise.”
It had taken her days of searching—she'd scanned the woods in every direction, beaten through tall grass and heavy forest alike—before she'd finally come across something.
“In a cave in the center of Lake Verity, I found his first pokémon's corpse.” It had been half-rotted, soggy with lake water, and missing chunks where the scavengers had found it first. She still had nightmares occasionally about the moment she'd realized what the scrap of yellow and green truly meant. “Nearby, there were smears of his blood on the walls.”
Despite her best efforts, tears were starting to pool in her eyes. She sniffed, trying to keep her voice steady. “I never found a body. There was nothing for us to cremate.”
“I'm sorry,” Frisk said quietly. “I'm really, really sorry.” They reached their hand across the table, resting it against the back of Toriel's.
“Thank you, Frisk.” Toriel smiled weakly. Just remembering those days ached; those wounds still felt as fresh as the day she'd earned them. It had always seemed like it would be a betrayal to Asriel to try and move on.
“I'm sure it didn't want to hurt him.” Frisk looked at her intently. “I bet it just got—confused, or scared, or something like that.”
“Oh, I'm sure,” Toriel said. “Asriel was always such a determined child—he'd never back down from a challenge, even when he knew there was no hope of winning.”
She'd spent long nights awake, trying to imagine how it had happened. At first, she'd wanted to blame the pokémon in the middle of the lake; it was easy to see it as nothing more than a mindless predator out for her son's blood. In the end, though, she'd had to let that go. After all, Toriel was a pokémon researcher—despite her misery, she couldn't blame a pokémon for defending its lair. It would have been nothing more than a way to shift the guilt off herself.
Frisk was such a gentle child; they'd already hit on what it had taken her months to accept.
“After, I dove into a different kind of research. When a young trainer dies on their journey”—she'd been shocked by how often it happened, all the obituaries for children she'd managed to dig up—“we talk about how sad it is, how tragic it was to lose them, but we don't change anything. We don't reflect on what we can do to try and keep trainers safer. We just let the next batch out into the world, and when we lose those too we start the cycle all over again.”
“That's why you left?” they asked.
Toriel nodded. “When I thought about how many children I'd helped start out, I couldn't take the thought of being Sinnoh's professor even a moment longer.”
Some of the children had been even younger than her Asriel: six-year-olds clutching poké balls holding bidoof or starly, ten-year-olds who'd saved up all their pocket money to buy something from the breeder down the lane. She'd talked to them about responsibility (ha!), taken their pictures, stamped their licenses, and sent them on their way.
“After a while, Asgore managed to find me. He tried to convince me that it would be okay. He said I only felt like this because I was grieving.” She grimaced at the memory. “We had a truly terrible fight that night. I haven't seen him since.” There was no telling whether he was avoiding her because he was still angry or because he thought it was the right thing to do; her ex-husband had both a large heart and a long memory. “And, well, that's when you came along.”
Some of the others had tried to visit her as well, or at least send her letters. By now, though, she'd managed to burn most of those friendships to the ground.
Was that really what she'd wanted? Or simply what she'd thought she deserved?
Frisk took another gulp of their tea. “I get it. I'm sorry, Toriel, I didn't even think about letting you know. But, you know… I still do want to be a trainer. No matter what, I have to try.” They looked at her so very nervously, as though she might start snarling at them again.
She sighed. “No, this was on me. I told you I didn't have a problem with it, and then I went and acted like that. You have my blessing to leave whenever you want—I won't try to get in your way. And”—she took a steadying breath—“you can call me whatever you'd like. I don't mind.”
Frisk beamed. “Okay. I think I'll leave once the delibird chicks hatch, then.”
Toriel did a quick mental calculation. The eggs would be incubating for at least another two or three weeks. That meant at least half a month more with Frisk: time enough to give them every bit of advice she could, to buy them anything they might need, to let them know properly that she wasn't about to hurt them again.
“That sounds wonderful!” Toriel's cup was nearly empty; she stood, making to head for the kettle on the stove, only to be stopped by a sudden noise from Frisk.
“Um, wait!” They fiddled with the corner of one of their blankets, their legs swinging wildly under the table.
Toriel paused, looking at them in confusion. “Yes?”
Frisk pressed their hands against their cheeks, looking determinedly down at the tabletop. “I just wanted to say, um… thank you for everything, Mom.”
The teacup slipped from Toriel's grasp, crashing to pieces against the kitchen tile.
“Oh!” Frisk said. “I'm sorry, let me help—”
“No, no,” Toriel said, dropping to her knees. “I'm fine, it's my fault. But thank you anyway, my child.”
Toriel yelped as she was knocked backwards by the force of Frisk's arms wrapping around her. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth as she returned the hug.
The two of them stayed that way for a while: unmoving, sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by shards of broken china. Later, perhaps, Toriel would get around to cleaning it all up—right now she just wanted to press this moment into her memory.
---
“You have your extra winter clothes? And your mittens?”
Frisk nodded. “They're all in my backpack.”
“What about the pie I made you?”
They stuck their tongue out, showing off the red-and-yellow streaks lining it. “Ate it already!”
“And your extra poké balls?”
“Yes, Mom,” Frisk sighed, looking up at her fondly. “I already triple-checked them.”
Toriel leaned over to ruffle Frisk's hair. “I know, I know. At least have the decency to let me a fret a bit.”
She took a step back and looked the child up and down. Bundled up and with a sturdy backpack slung over their back, Frisk already looked like an experienced trainer. In a sense, they were—they'd spent so much time tramping through forests and over rugged hills with Toriel's team that they had the wilderness survival skills of someone years more advanced.
Still, doing research was one thing. Being a full-fledged trainer was quite another.
Toriel bit her lip. “You're sure you don't want to borrow Flaafs for a bit? A lot of trainers do it.”
“I'm fine!” Frisk grinned cheerily. “I'll find a new teammate in no time, don't you worry.”
Easier said than done. Weeks had passed like hours in Toriel's mind—she could hardly believe Frisk was already about to leave.
Nothing for it, though. She'd made her promise, and now it was time to abide by it.
"Once you get up to Snowpoint, say hello to the gym leaders there for me, would you? They're, well, interesting characters, but they have good hearts. I'm sure you'll get along great." Toriel had been good friends with the older of the two back in the day, but it had been ages since she'd last seen him. He'd probably come up with a thousand new jokes, each worse than the last, since the last time they'd chatted. It was almost enough to make her nostalgic for her time as a professor.
"You know, you really should just call them yourself." Frisk crossed their arms and frowned at her. "But yeah, I'll make sure to tell them you're doing okay."
She looked down at Frisk once more, trying to burn this image of them into her mind. They looked so very brave. “Say goodbye, everyone.”
Toriel's team brushed up against Frisk, almost knocking the child over in their mad quest to lick every exposed part of their skin. Frisk giggled and shrieked at the sudden intrusion, trying and failing to push their enormous bodies away.
“Okay, okay!” they said finally, nearly overcome with laughter. “Hah. I'll miss all of you.”
Mags snorted, and Toriel nudged him with her foot. “What he means to say is that we'll miss you too.”
Frisk slung their pack over the other shoulder, letting it settle across their back, then took their first tentative steps into the snow. Toriel watched from the doorstep as they made their way of the hillside, steps lengthening with every stride they made.
At the top of the ridge, they turned around. “Bye, Mom! I'll miss you!”
“I'll miss you too, child,” she called, waving to them almost desperately.
They turned back towards the path. A moment later, they were gone.
Toriel stood on her doorstep for what might have been five minutes and might have been an hour, staring at the crest of the hill as though Frisk would reappear if she only waited long enough.
Finally, Mags bumped her leg, letting out a low rumble.
“Yes, I know,” she said, and with fumbling, chilled fingers opened the door and stepped back inside.
Already, the house seemed cold and quiet without them. What had Toriel ever done before her child showed up on her doorstep? What was she going to do now? The thought of returning to the same lifeless routine filled her with dread.
A cheery ping sounded through the room. Toriel glanced around for a moment, confused, before realizing the noise was coming from her wrist—her Pokétch had lit up with a new message notification.
Strange. She never got texts these days. Surely Asgore couldn't be trying to contact her once again? Toriel tapped the button to bring the message up.
A picture of a vibrant blue flower surrounded by snow filled the screen, followed by a few lines of text.
hey mom!!! :) saw this cool flower and thought of u—its so cool what grows around here! Do u know what kind of plant it is? Ive never seen one this bright b4.
Toriel smiled as she began to tap out a reply. Perhaps things would be all right after all.