Chapter Text
I was a little too young to remember how I got to Mt. Ebott initially. When you’re younger than four years old, you get more excited about things like seeing a bunny in the grass or chasing after a grasshopper or getting a piggy-back ride from your dad (at least, I think it was my dad that gave me those…?) than following instructions and staying with the group.
What I do remember is the flowers. I was certain they were calling my name, so I followed them up the mountain. They called me, I moved to that patch of flowers, they called me from another patch, and on I went. It was a game; I loved it! I loved it so much, in fact, that I forgot how to get back down the mountain.
When I realized I didn’t know how to go back to—to whoever I’d left behind—I was very afraid. I remember asking the flowers to guide me back down the slopes, but they went silent and said nothing. I felt more alone than I could possibly imagine, and it was around lunchtime and I was very thirsty. I was also very hot since the sun had come out—I tried to tug off my oversized sweater, but I couldn’t get my head out of the turtleneck. Now I was lost, thirsty, and too hot, so I sat down and cried. It was too hot where I had sat down, though, so I looked around for a cool place to stay, and I found one: a lovely looking bush with a nice cavity I could fit into to avoid the sunlight.
I ran to it so fast I didn’t see the Hole until I tripped on a root and fell into it. Heh. It’s almost funny: I’m still afraid of heights because of that day.
Another one? Toriel looked at the prone figure of the child spread-eagled among the golden flowers. Their brown hair was tangled and full of leaves and dirt and their right leg was sticking out from under them at an angle that defied all normal physiology—definitely broken. One of their arms, too, from the looks of things. But the child had fallen to their death, so what did it matter? The best she could do would be to bury them quickly and silently mourn.
But this one was so young.
Toriel gently scooped up the child, ignoring her tears and the child’s pooled blood and trying to think of a suitable place to bury them, but was surprised by a tiny gasp of pain from the child. They’re alive! Her footsteps quickened to a run. A small child like this would not survive wounds like these very long. She could feel their little chest moving slightly, very slightly.
Hold on, little one! Just a little further!
Working as quickly as she could, she did first aid for the little child. They had lost a lot of blood and were unconscious, but she set the bones and tended to the child as best as she could. Their forehead was hot, so she wetted a small towel and placed it on their head. Their striped sweater was badly torn and covered in blood; Toriel went to throw it away and noticed a small piece of paper stuck to the sweater. The word “Frisk” was discernible beneath a layer of blood.
”What is your name, little one?” She looked at the piece of paper from the sweater. “Is your name Frisk?” There was no response, so she stroked the child’s hair, wishing she could calm their wounds with her voice. “Everything is going to be alright. Don’t give up now!”
A few days went by before the child began to improve. Their forehead began to cool slowly, oh so slowly, but Toriel stayed by their side to care for their wounds, talk to them, and keep them company.
”My little child, would you like to know a snail fact?” There was no response from the child, but Toriel continued anyway. “Snails make houses in their shells and carry them with them. Isn’t that nice?” Still no response from the child. Toriel sighed; she’d try again when the child woke. She settled for turning on the music box by the child’s bed and humming along with the simple tune until she fell asleep holding the child’s hand.