The papers are everywhere. You wander aimlessly through the stacks, twisting and turning through the towering parchment corridors, but there is no sign of any way out. Above your head, far above the reach of the pages, there is only featureless black. You tried, once, to climb them, but the edges of the paper tore into your hands, and the razor-cuts sting now as you walk.
Your breath echoes in the impossible silence as you move through the labyrinthine halls. The utter stillness of the place unsettles you almost as much as the fact that you cannot find a way out. There should be life within walls that someone has built. You should be able to hear the sounds of movement within the parchment ruins: frogs hopping through the ink puddles, or spiders shuffling through the pages, or a mouse scurrying determinedly in search of cheese. But there is nothing. In desperation, you call out to someone, anyone, begging for them to hear you.
But nobody came.
Then, on the edges of your awareness, you slowly come to realize that the silence is no longer absolute. A deep, distant rumbling thrums through the soles of your feet. You turn, slowly, gazing around you as growling thunder builds in the distance, the tremors increasing as it draws nearer, until you realize: your cry for help had an unintended consequence.
The stacks are collapsing.
You turn and flee, pounding through the corridors as they tremble and begin to sway. Sheets of paper come loose, drifting around you in a steady rain as the thunder draws ever closer. Glancing over your shoulder, you see the stacks behind you topple into one another, paper shredding and tearing with the force of it. You cry out, putting on as much speed as you can, but it's useless. The walls are drawing closer with every step you take, until there's nowhere left to run. They're on top of you, closing over your head, and you're drowning in them. Frantic, you claw at the pages until your hands bleed, but there's no escape. You're lost.
Calm down.
"I can't!" you gasp. The air is growing thin, and the pages are crushing you. "I'll die!"
No, you won't. There's a way out of this. You just have to cut your way through it one step at a time.
Hands close around yours, gentle but firm, guiding you around the slicing edges until you're holding a page in your hands. There's a space for your signature at the bottom. You have no pen, but you're bleeding freely enough that you don't need one. Wincing, you trace your finger over the signature line, and the page turns to dust and vanishes.
Now the next one.
"There's too many!" They're closing in again, pressing down upon you.
There are lots, yeah. But you have to be patient. The hands close on yours again, turning you until you're looking into the face of another child. A faded ribbon holds back her dark hair, and you can see yourself in the depths of her eyes. She is at once a stranger, and as familiar as your reflection in the mirror. She smiles at you, her hands tightening on yours, and the cuts no longer hurt. It's okay. I'll help you.
There are more papers than there are stars in the sky, but you take a deep breath, and set to work. It isn't long before you can't feel anything in your fingers, but the tiny bandages that keep appearing on them keep the worst of the pain at bay. It's interminable, endless work, but the girl at your side radiates calm, wrapping you in it like a cool blanket until your heart slows and your focus narrows to the task ahead of you.
You have no way to gauge the time that passes. It feels like it could be years, and you would have given up long ago if not for the steady, gentle encouragement from the girl next to you. One paper at a time, you make your way through the infinite pile until, finally, there is a glimmer of light above you.
There. You're almost out. I told you. You turn, and the weight of understanding in her sad little smile slams into you. You fumble toward her, your bandaged hands grasping, but she's too far away.
"No! Don't go!"
I'm not the one who's going. You are. But it'll be okay.
"No, it won't!" You thrash against the pressure tugging you away from her, but now that you've cleared a path, the papers seem determined to shove you toward it. "I don't want to be alone!"
Be patient. Even when you're alone, you're not. And you know you're never by yourself for very long. Not any more.
Tears well in your eyes as she drifts further away. "But… but I don't…"
She just smiles again and shakes her head. Try not to let it overwhelm you, Frisk. It's a lot, but I know you can do it. Just take it one step at a time and you'll be fine. I promise.
The papers shift, and she's gone. Sobbing now, you give yourself over and let yourself be borne into the light.
The sweet scents of warm butterscotch and cinnamon twine around you, cushioning your fall back to waking. You wake slowly, coming back one sensation at a time, until you are aware of the weight of a soft hand on your shoulder. Your eyes flutter open, and you find concerned brown ones staring back into them.
"Mom?" Your voice is thick and heavy with sleep as you rub your eyes. Your hand comes away damp. In the dim glow of the night light, you can see steam rising from the slice of pie on your bedside table. That's not right. Usually, she just leaves Surprise Pie on your floor, so that it has time to cool before you wake. Bewildered, you return your gaze to your mother where she sits next to you on the bed. "Why'd you wake me up?"
"Because you were crying," Toriel answers, brushing the remaining tears from your cheeks. "Are your dreams troubling you again, small one?"
Her arm comes around you as you struggle to sit up, supporting you until you can lean against her. You nestle against her side, your arms wrapping around her as you breathe in the smell of spices that clings to her blouse. Her warmth envelops you, and you feel the tension beginning to ebb as you slowly relax into her embrace.
"A little," you admit. "But I'm okay."
"Hmm." Her touch against your hair is gentle, and soothing as she strokes. "Do these dreams perhaps come from something else that is bothering you?"
Toriel is nothing if not perceptive, but then, she had a lot of training. Your cheeks burning, you nestle deeper against her. "It's nothing…"
"Hmmm." She says again. Then, she rises to her feet and holds out her hand. "Come then, my child. It is nearly time to get up, and I could use a little help getting ready for the day."
Obediently, you slide out from beneath the covers and stuff your feet into your fuzzy slippers before taking her hand. You may be getting a little big for hand-holding now, but you doubt you'll ever stop doing it. After all the years you spent reaching out only to find nothing, the feeling you get when your mother's fingers close around yours still creates a pressure deep in your heart that you don't have the words to explain. Toriel doesn't let go until you reach the kitchen, and she helps you up to a stool at the counter.
"Orange slices for snack today," she says, and you smile. Half the time, it's snails, and though you've gotten used to them enough to actually look forward to them, you hate the way the other kids protest; as much she tries not to show it, it always hurts Mom's feelings. But it's a full day at school today, as opposed to a half-day at the Embassy, and though the school gives meals to all of its students, Toriel never fails to bring a little something extra for everyone whenever she's teaching. Especially since she found out that some of the kids at the school don't have much food at home. Nobody at the Co-operative School ever goes home hungry any more.
The oranges are from the Community Greenhouse. They shouldn't grow in this climate, but you have yet to meet a fruit tree that can say no to Dad. As you take the knife Toriel passes to you and cut into one, you breathe in the smell of sunshine. After typing something into her phone, Toriel sets it down on the counter and joins you, and you work in silence for a time, the strokes of your knives falling into a thoughtful rhythm. There are a lot of oranges to do, but your mother keeps her pace to yours, and the pile begins to diminish.
Her phone buzzes, and she glances over at it. A moment later, her knife steadily chopping away, she looks at you. "There has been much to do at the Embassy lately, has there not? How are you finding it?"
"Okay, I guess," you admit, concentrating on your orange. "I wish there wasn't so much paperwork."
"Indeed," she laughs, setting her orange slices in the waiting container and selecting a new fruit. "Sometimes it feels as though paperwork was invented to keep anything from getting done."
"Paperwork and meetings," you say, making her laugh again. "Yesterday Bradley scheduled a meeting to plan for a meeting about a meeting."
"Oh, gracious," she snickers. "I do hope we are meeting his expectations?"
You pause in your chopping to look up at her in incredulous disbelief. "Mom. You did not just…"
"I suppose we could take away his computer so he can't Access any more meeting requests, but he does have a unique Outlook on inter-office mail, and even I must admit that he does Excel at spreadsheets."
"Mom, I don't need this Window on your mind," you protest, fighting to keep from laughing.
Giving a satisfied nod, Toriel chops up another orange. "All right, I will stop. But Frisk, you do have a secretary to help manage all of these things."
The smile slips from your face, and you look down at your orange. "I know. Kelly's great. But…" Toriel says nothing to relieve the awkward silence that stretches between you. You try to maintain it, but Toriel can outwait you any day, and eventually, you give a little shrug. "She doesn't get monsters like I do, so it's easier just for me to do all the report stuff."
"I see," Toriel says. "And did you think to teach Kelly what she needs to know in order to 'get' monsters?"
You flinch at the suggestion, and your knife slips on the last slice and grazes the tip of your finger.
"Ah." Placing the last of the oranges into the container, your mother puts the lid on and moves your knives and the cutting board to the sink. She washes her hands and dries them on a towel before fetching a small bandage from the cupboard and wrapping it around your finger. "Frisk, my love, Kelly did not grow up with monsters, but she tries very hard to understand. You must be patient with her. Teach her. She is a fast learner, and she does know her way around the reports in a way that you do not."
"I thought I could handle them on my own," you say as Toriel takes your hurt hand between both of hers. "Just take it one at a time."
"You can, no doubt," Toriel says. "But just because you can, that does not mean you needn't accept the help that is offered to you." Pale green fire dances through her fingers. The biting scents of mint and eucalyptus swirl around you, and the pain in your hand vanishes. "You are still a child. Your help bridging our two worlds is invaluable, but it should not come at the cost of your childhood. You must tell us if things get to be too much for you. Asgore and I are old hands at this; we can make things work."
Your hands clench on the towel that she passes you, the citrus smells sharp in your nose as you bow your head. "I just don't want to be a disappointment."
Gently, Toriel turns you to face her, and lifts your chin in her hand. "You, my darling child, are never that." Smiling fondly, she touches her nose to yours. Before she can pull away, your arms are around her, and she laughs as she hugs you back and lifts you from the stool. "Come, small one. Your pie will be cool now, and it is time to get ready for school."
Even now, a year later, it is still one of your fears. You cannot help but remember the last time an adult took you in, and how every effort you made to be good just seemed to let her down more. You still cannot quite bring yourself to believe Toriel's words, and you suspect that she knows, but she is very, very patient. With every slice of pie, with every hug, with every lullaby and every kind word, it gets easier to believe. For now, it is enough just to hold on and know that Toriel will not let go until you do.
Learning to love is easy. Learning to trust, to really trust again, is much harder. But like your work at the Embassy, you're getting through it. One step at a time.