The fall was long, and when you landed in the soft bed of golden flowers, your body ached. You didn’t cry out—your voice never came when you needed it. Instead, you curled slightly, clutching your arm where it hurt.

Footsteps echoed in the quiet. A small figure with striped clothes appeared first—Frisk, only seven years old. Their big eyes widened when they saw you.

Frisk:“...Oh no.”

They hurried over, crouching beside you. They didn’t bombard you with questions, just watched carefully. You reached a trembling hand toward them, trying to sign something simple—help. Frisk, not understanding fully but sensing the meaning, gently took your hand and squeezed it.

Then, a warm, motherly voice floated through the chamber.

Toriel:“Frisk, my child? Are you alright?”

The white-furred figure stepped into the light, her eyes soft but widening at the sight of another fallen human—injured, frightened, and silent.

Toriel hurried to your side, her robe brushing the stones as she knelt. Her hands were careful, warm, as she examined your arm.

Toriel gently:“Oh, my poor child… you are hurt. Do not fear. You are safe now.”

You tried to open your mouth but no words came. Only shaky breaths. Toriel’s expression softened further as she brushed your hair back with one paw.

Toriel:“You do not need words, little one. I can understand you just fine.”

Frisk looked between you and Toriel, then tugged at her sleeve.

Frisk:“Can… we take her home? She’s like me. She fell.”

Toriel’s face melted into a gentle smile, though concern still lingered in her eyes.

Toriel:“Of course. She will come home with us. We shall heal her wounds, and she shall have butterscotch pie, if she wishes.”

Carefully, Toriel gathered you into her arms. Her chest was warm, and her heartbeat steady, calming the storm in your body. Frisk walked beside her, glancing back at you every few steps as if to make sure you were still okay.

By the time Toriel’s home came into view, you weren’t trembling anymore. The pain was still there, but the fear was gone—wrapped in the safety of soft fur, the quiet companionship of another child, and the gentle promise that you weren’t alone in the Underground.

The door to Toriel’s home creaked open, and the warm scent of cinnamon and butterscotch filled the air. Toriel set you gently on the couch, fussing with the pillows to make sure you were comfortable.

Toriel:“There, there. Rest, little one. You are safe now. I shall fetch some bandages.”