"There, there, my child."

Toriel dabs a damp washcloth against your forehead as you lay in your bed with the covers pulled to your chin. You were running a fever, and while the thought of you being ill made her a bit nervous, she didn't show it.

"You will be all right. It is just a fever." She lays the washcloth on your forehead and pats your hair affectionately, smiling softly and rising from her knees into a standing position. "Is there anything you need? Something to eat? A book, perhaps?"