All the things I've ever loved

[yourpieness]

This is not precisely where she intended (or expected, for that matter) to wake up. The floor is hardly comfortable; smooth, cold marble that invites the thought of being somewhere foreign prior to opening her eyes. And it is, indeed, quite foreign. The three thrones garner an uncomprehending glance- and perhaps, in some small, old space of her, she feels her heart squeezing at the sight- before Toriel collects herself from the ground, taking but a few steps before priorities are placed in order, and her voice calls out in a searching echo.

"My child?"

My child?

My child?

No. This is not precisely where she intended to wake, however, it would take more than the silly imposition of a dream to rattle someone of her stature. And the grand structure she wanders through truly is dreamlike in composition and grandeur; something out of the pages of a fairytale, with light pooling through the windows, curious corridors that lead to closed door after closed door.

She is intent on checking all of them. The purpose of such dreams is usually to seek, to find. All too logical to assume that even now, she still feels that intent to find, until dreams turn to wakefulness, and all that seeking comes to an end.

Perhaps this seeking would have been simpler, had her subconscious considered dreaming up a phone.

Comments

KICKS DOWN DOOR

[itstheend]

There's something of the cat about Chara, sleeping when they can in sunbeams. Even if it's to avoid shadows. The gardens have proven themself to be frequented too much, but some out of the way corner of the castle might be more isolated, even if they get up everyone once in a while when the sun has moved too far.

The magic's gone, leaving them drained and lethargic (is this how Sans feels all the time), but a calling voice is enough to wake them. And when it comes again, they stiffen, and begin drawing in. They know it.

*...mom?

Frisk's voice is filled with tentative hope. Touching, but Chara wants no part of this. Whoever she is calling for, they want nothing more to do with her.

They get up and start padding as quietly and fast as they can down the hall, away from the direction of her voice, ending up sacrificing from both.

Wow it's almost like your parents never taught you any manners

[yourpieness]

It is a habit of human children that has often been the source of much heartbreak; they are all so very quiet. She remembers- but perhaps that is not so significant, in this moment of time. It is the little she knows now that does, the habits that come with a child in her company for a mere month, nothing more, and the light scuff of shoes against a wooden stone floor that gain her attention.

Frisk is a very, quiet child. It is not so different from the others. Still, even a sound brings a soft sigh of relief, hastening her steps and pulling up the hems of her skirt for the freedom of movement it provides.

"Frisk? Child, where are you?"

what parents ahahaha

[itstheend]

Chara's shoulders shoot up to their ears at the further call. They've been discovered.

*Mom!

Chara forgoes stealth for speed, taking off at a run. It isn't easy, with Frisk internally pushing; strong suggestion, rather than actual force, holding back, but it still feels like they're having to fight against twisting around to see her to move.

*Chara, stop! She's...!

They think, for a moment, that they have to beat her to the door but... no, that's. Not the case. Besides, she's faster than they are. But they aren't constrained to just one door. They skid to a halt in front of the next in the hall, wincing at the sound their shoes make, and grab the doorknob.

Their bad luck this one is locked. They move quickly to the next, and they exhale a little as it turns. They don't particularly care where it leads to, as long as they can get in on time.

hahahaha let her hug you.

[yourpieness]

The louder the sounds, the quicker Toriel becomes, concerns outweighing any sense of dignity from her unwieldy attempts to hick her robes up further. She's beginning to regret these outdated things, the sense of responsibility the only reason she has left to not cast them aside, select a wardrobe suited to more modern of times. Perhaps a shorter skirt, or, goodness, even jeans would suffice in a moment like this.

"Please, Frisk! It is only-"

Me.

Chara. The very sight of them is enough to have her coming to a halt, pained intake of breath followed by the upraised pads of her hands, covering the width of her mouth.

It is also enough time for them to wrench open the door; to get away, if that is what they wish- and what the castle accommodates.

nnnOOOooo

[itstheend]

Their head whips toward her, wide eyes above a thin lipped smile, back straightening like their spine's a rod. Caught. Memory expects fire now, at any moment, and they snap out of it faster, wrenching open the door, racing through it and slamming it shut without checking what's within.

It's a small bedroom, dusty and musty and plain, save for a desk and a bookshelf. No window, no door other than the one they entered through and are leaning their slight weight on, no escape.

Too late. Useless. She's not going to go by, unconcerned. There's no water source in here. But at least fireballs would have trouble going through the door. They calmly reach up from their sitting position, legs up to their chest, and slide the bolt with a loud and somewhat satisfying CHUNK.

*She's not...
*Going to hurt you.

That's what they said that first time.

*...

They close their eyes and count to seven, breathing. Go away, goat lady. Nobody's home.

Absolutely yes

[yourpieness]

It is exactly how she remembers them. The door slams shut, and with it, so continues her ability to breathe, exhaling roughly and covering her eyes, seeking to gain some composure. If, by some horrible, fluke of misfortune, that room is more than simply a confined space to hide, then she has lost them.

The bolt sliding into place is both a gift and a curse, and it's with no small sense of care that she approaches, one hand hovering mere inches from the door. If this is a dream, then please.

Do not allow her to wake, just yet. Give her but a little more time.

"...Greetings, my child." Soft. Careful, as the fixated, almost glassy reflection of their eyes just prior to leaping away demands of her. "Do not worry, I will not hurt you. I am going to sit by the door; not in front, or beside. Should you decide to leave, then I will not restrict you."

She knows far better now. She knew far better, then. It had simply taken another child to remind her, the foolishness of an old woman with fearful intentions. Toriel seats herself on the floor, against the wall opposing the door. Breathing slow and calm, as if they are right before her, capable of replicating that.

"If it is alright with you, then I would simply like to talk, a while. Is that acceptable?"

Definitely not

[itstheend]

Their teeth grind, and their hands fist in their hair as she talks. Just knowing she's there feels like a violation of personal space, like if they concentrate hard enough they can sense her precise presence by that prickle alone. It makes them want to rip off their skin to get rid of it.

I will not hurt you. I will not restrict you. Trust in either, at this point, has been shattered. They silently snap at Frisk impressing green and release like that would magically make it otherwise.

Please do not come back.

They exhale. It comes in jumpy stutters, shoulders shaking, silent. Talking is impossible on their part; not without opening the door which is out of the question. But they can't exactly stop her from doing so, can they?

*Please, please

They limply smack the back of their knuckles against the door, head lolling back against it. It's one for yes, two for no, isn't it?

It's going to happen, there is no escape

[yourpieness]

She waits, silently, for their response. So very patient, when she has until the end of time. So very impatient, certain that this moment will be stolen away from her once again, without any closure. The mind can be a cruel place, and dreams crueler still.

It takes all of her fortitude to contain a sob, a blunt, quiet voice in her mind that reminds her of the fact that, however she feels now, it is worse for them. Nothing exhibited in their behavior thus far is happy or content.

"I have missed you very much." Toriel says quietly. "You and Asriel both- I have never forgotten you."

*Determination

[itstheend]

You and Asriel both.

It feels like a shard of ice through their chest, a bright piercing, and then a crackling as coldness slowly spreads out through their body from the wound, leaving everything in its wake brittle and numb.

It's not theirs, but it doesn't make their breathing feel any less restricted.

They regard the bookshelf with sudden calm. If they want to communicate, they're going to have to get creative. They walk over to it and remove a book from the shelf with a finger, flipping to an empty dedications page. They take it back to the door, and sit, crosslegged, taking a knife from their sweater.

They slide the edge across the stone floor several times to sharpen it, and then carefully run it down the inside of the spine, pulling the page free. There. They snap the book shut and then set it aside, pricking the tip of their left index finger and squeezing it until a good-sized bead has wollen up. They waste a second looking at it, rolling it back and forth, before methodically starting to write.

They hesitate on the 'CH', a drop spatting onto the paper. She never even asked their name, in three lines. There's no interjection from their passenger, now curled into a withdrawn ball. That flicker of spite is allowed to flare fully.

Eventually, a piece of paper slides out haphazardly from under the door, the letters large as its size would allow smeared but still legible.

NOT
YOUR
CHILD

[voidster]

One of those doors leads to something interesting. Someone quite peculiar, sitting at a dusty old desk, all alone. A monster she has never seen before in her life, who looks like somewhat like a skeleton, minus a nasal cavity, with one good eyesocket and holes in his palms. His 'labcoat', close up, is really strange amorphous blackness wrapping around most of his body.

And he's scribbling away in notebooks, plural, aided by an extra pair of conjured up hands. Purple again, and identical to his real hands down to the holes. Good luck trying to read his writing--it's all in his own private shorthand.

He glances up when Toriel opens the door, blinking once. Well. There's a face he knows. The pens are laid down for the moment and the second pair of hands vanishes. A slightly delayed wave (hello) follows.

[yourpieness]

"Oh goodness." An exclamation of the harried mind, not of the horrified. She smiles as kindly towards him as she would anyone else, hands clasping as her front as she seeks to regain some of the lack of decorum shown, in opening doors to rooms that do not belong to her.

"Greetings. I apologize for my intrusion, however..." A glance into the corners of the room, before that calm (hopeful) gaze rests upon him once more. "Have you seen a child wandering the corridors, by chance? I fear they may be rather frightened."

[voidster]

You're fine. I was only collecting my thoughts.

Start off slow, make each sign with care, to see if she even remembers how he used to speak. It's not much to ask for, surely, because writing everything down is bothersome and slower than handspeak.

I don't believe I've seen any of the children today. Who are you looking for?

[yourpieness]

It really is the oddest thing.

She would have sworn upon her very life that she did not know such a manner of speech, and yet, it seems unusually simple, interpreting each gesture as they come. She does not remember learning it; nor, ideally, if responding in kind with her own voice would come across as somewhat rude, an opposition to the language presented.

"Their name is Frisk. Small, with brown hair. They are a very quiet child, with a...rather distinct fashion taste." The corners of her eyes crinkle, an internal joke to a rather fond memory. "And an interesting method in greeting others."

She has absolutely no doubt that, had he met them, Frisk would have invited the man to tea.

[voidster]

So she does remember something. A small piece of his life, something more personal and less obvious than 'someone must have built the CORE'. It's a bittersweet sort of satisfaction touching his SOUL. Better than nothing at all.

Frisk, not Chara. He nods, rising from his chair with a faint smile.

I know them. They're here with us, and doing fine, as far as I know. I met them building a swing out in the gardens.

Do you know where you are?

[yourpieness]

Then they are fine. The relief in her smile is clear, coupled with the slow relaxing of her shoulders. For a dream, it has all been rather coherent, thus far; perhaps influencing her anxiety. What a silly thing this is. Does it matter where they are? Does it matter where she is?

"I do not, perhaps you would be willing to tell me about it, as an escort to these gardens?" She is imposing on his good nature, at this point; but it is a necessity.

[voidster]

Of course.

He closes his notebooks, tucking them away in a flat satchel he's found, looping the strap over his shoulders. They're getting more distinct day by day. Soon, he may look like a normal skeleton monster again, and without even having to try. He hardly remembers what he used to look like... the process goes on by itself.

It may be a long walk. The corridors have a tendency to shift around us. Please don't think I'm deliberately leading you astray, if they do.

[yourpieness]

"Not at all; I appreciate your assistance."

Although she has been rather rude, thus far. A slight huff of laughter, holding a hand to him with a gentle smile and friendly countenance. "You must forgive me another time, my friend. I have yet to introduce myself. I am Toriel, and- I do not believe I have met you."

A monster that she does not know. It isn't a surprise anymore, not after her many years in self-imposed exile. Even in her dreams, she must remind herself of what she has not done for her people.

[voidster]

It doesn't come as a surprise. And yet it's sad. He's young enough to have been born Underground, old enough to have known Toriel and Asgore before the great tragedy. So caught up in work, he didn't have many friends outside his coworkers and the two monarchs, who would even go so far as to invite him for dinner occasionally, perhaps to make sure he ate something healthy for a change. After all, he was 'their' Royal Scientist.

My name is G-A-S-T-E-R. he spells out before taking her hand with his own bony one, effectively shutting him up unless he draws on his magic.

god damn it i had a nicer reply but dw ate it

[collectyourfriends]

Frisk remembers Toriel's furry hand in theirs, her cooking, her home, perfectly enough it's painful--but not her voice. Not enough to recognize it on the edge of their hearing when she calls. If they did, they might've fled.

Instead, they follow it. Might as well see who else's stuck here right now.

They're all alone, team resting in their Pokéballs, when they come across her and freeze.

She's standing at an angle in their view so she's a silhouette in the sunlight (she'd never get to see I did this) and their stomach lurches ito their throat.

oh pish posh this is a lovely reply

[yourpieness]

Memories such as the ones Frisk contains are part of the daily norm, now. Waking in the morning, organizing a healthy breakfast before treading up the stairs, or failing to contain a smile as small footsteps scuff against the linoleum floor. Perhaps Frisk is a child that should be a little too big to be picked up, but not for a boss monster. Those precious moments with a tired child against her hip are some of the happiest in recent memory; a gift she had never dared assume she'd receive once more.

All the more reason to find them. And it takes but a few more moments, adjusting to the glare of the lights, head turning in unconscious recognition of being watched. She doesn't startle, doesn't convey a sense of shock. Toriel's smile grows all the warmer when aimed at her child, that same warmth translated into her tone of voice.

"Frisk." Why that expression, dear heart? "Forgive me, my child; I was not able to locate you sooner. Are you well?"

:'>

[collectyourfriends]

They're different from what she might expect. A bandanna on their head, a travel bag slung across their back, perhaps a bit more tall and toned.

Frisk jolts them. Toriel never got the chance to learn their name. This might be a dream. They had a few of her after she died, in the days they spent hiding in her house instead of moving on--dreams where she was kind, leaving them more sick than if they were outright nightmares.

At least they're aware of what they did this time. "I'm sorry," they blurt.

Forgive this child

[mercybutton]

Flowey's temper has lessened since October. He hasn't seen Asriel, as much as he'd like to give the goatboy a piece of his autotroph mind. Frisk's eased him out of being so pissy, too, saying that it's over and all we can do is move on. Asriel seems to have learned his lesson anyway. It pacified him for now.

Frisk's skin's been better. A shedding en-masse, it seemed--it reached a certain point of dryness at which it'd just fall off to a smoother skin underneath, like a peeling sunburn. They weren't complaining.

Frisk is in the hallway, talking to Flowey in his pot when he hears her.

That voice.

They know that voice. Both of them.

Haunts Frisk, sometimes. Sparks a little stupid paranoia, that they should really be over by now because come on it's just Toriel it's not like she meant to. But her voice incites fire, and fire incites accidents.

Flowey was more curious than concerned or worried. Another Toriel? This castle had too many worrying mothers and a lot of random, lost kids.

Nevertheless the voice is lost and Frisk is far from hard of hearing. Even practically miles down the corridors, the stone throws her voice and they catch it well enough to recognize it as hers. And, well--they aren't going to simply wait for someone else to welcome Toriel, of all people, to the castle.

So they seek her out. Hands gliding over stone walls, Flowey guiding them by voice, they seek her out until they find each other.

"Frisk, stop. Mom's here."
"Toriel? Mom?"

[trombones]

Sans' approach was quiet. He had always been quiet when he wanted to be, even without his "shortcuts". He followed her for a while, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming, or that she wasn't some sick illusion from the castle.

He wasn't, she wasn't.

Too bad his own phone had been dead for a long time.

"Hey."

'Hey'. Sure. Yeah. That's a great introduction. Sans steps out from the shadows he had been hiding in, from a door he hadn't been near a second ago. Mixed feelings be damned, he winks at her. He'd be lying if he wasn't happy to see her.

"You lost?"

CHAR 2: THE ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

[characlysmic]

[Chara had been wandering through the halls, hands stocked with food for their latest stash when they caught sight of a very familar face They freeze, an apple slipping from their grip before they scramble to pick it up again, shoulders hunched. Part of them still feels like its stealing, especially now that they've been reminded of her. ]

"M-mom?"

[Bright red eyes like a deer in the headlights. They can't hear what she's saying, can't let go of the food. They know Mom is safe, but anyone that much bigger then them just...appearing...after so long. They feel off balance but they repeat it again, like a prayer. Maybe she can make it ok. ]

Mom?