Chapter Text
It was a peaceful early morning. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming, cars honked lazily in the distance, and the faint hum of electric lines hung in the air like background music. The world had changed, drastically. For both monsters and humans.
Ever since that fateful day when monsters emerged from the mountain, nothing had been the same. Before then, it was only a myth, a spooky tale passed around campfires, or a dare among reckless children. The legend spoke of monsters sealed underground, and curious kids would sometimes climb the mountain’s peak on a test of courage. Seven of them, as the story went, vanished without a trace after falling through an unseen entrance. No one knew what really happened. Most assumed the harsh environment or the fall itself had claimed their lives. Their disappearance was written off as a tragic accident, and quickly forgotten.
Years later, monsters now roamed the surface freely. Integration hadn't been easy. Tensions simmered, suspicion lingered. But one monster in particular helped ease the transition: the ever-gentle King Asgore. With his towering, fuzzy presence and calming demeanor, he had a way of diffusing even the tensest situations. His warm nature often rubbed off on those around him, even the most skeptical politicians and nervous world leaders. Thanks to him, negotiations went smoothly, and slowly but surely, monsters found a place in human society.
In a quiet neighborhood, Toriel sat at her kitchen table, taking a small bite of her signature (yet disgusting as what Frisk calls it) snail pie. She glanced out the window at a bird’s nest nestled in a tree just outside. A mother bird chirped and fed a wriggling worm to her chick, while the father hovered nearby, singing his own cheerful tune.
Toriel smiled softly, then sighed and closed the blinds. It was 8:00 AM—time for Frisk to head to school.
She stepped to the door, handing Frisk their lunch bag.
“Reaaaally, Mommmm? I don’t wanna go to school todayyy,” Frisk groaned with a yawn.
“Is it because of the back-to-back math lectures you have today, my child?”
Frisk hesitated. “...Maybe,” they muttered, sheepishly.
Toriel chuckled and squatted down to meet Frisk’s gaze. “Well, I find math quite easy! What is exactly the problem?”
Frisk stared at her, horror-struck, as if she had just uttered the unthinkable.
“I... I have no words.”
After dropping Frisk off, Toriel lingered just outside the classroom. She watched from a distance as a crowd of children—monster and human alike—gathered around Frisk, exchanging cheerful greetings. Frisk had become something of a legend: The Human Who Freed the Monsters from Their Millennia of Isolation. A title like that tended to attract attention.
Content with the scene, Toriel headed to the principal’s office. She settled into a chair and, in search of a little entertainment, flipped through channels on the small TV in the corner. Her attention stopped on a news broadcast. There he was—King Asgore—speaking with a local politician. They were finalizing a deal to secure housing for "Monster Group 3," (Asgore of course continuing his trend of literal naming schemes, gave the batch that name.) the last remaining batch of relocated monsters.
When monsters first left the Underground, they had been divided into three groups based on the climates they could tolerate: those who thrived in snowy regions, those who required heat, and those who could adapt to temperate weather. Group 3—the most adaptable, was finally getting a place to call home.
Toriel watched the news with a faint scowl.
Asgore Dreemurr.
His face had been plastered across every news channel lately. Understandably so—he was the king, after all. But that didn’t make it any easier to see him. The goat monster’s eyes drifted to the small trash can beside the principal’s desk.
Golden flowers.
Her expression tightened.
“No,” she muttered under her breath.
Every week, like clockwork, Asgore would show up—neglecting royal duties, no doubt -to drop off a small bouquet. Sometimes to her house. Sometimes here, the school’s principal cabin. Always golden flowers.
Now both her home and this office carried the same bittersweet scent. She told herself she should throw them away, just toss the bouquet in the bin and be done with it. Yet every time, her hands would freeze. No matter how much she wanted to rid herself of the gesture, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“Just-” she started to say, but fell silent again.
He knew golden flowers were her favorite. He knew. That was the worst part.
Once, long ago, Asgore had called her and the flowers the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. She had laughed then-softly, bashfully-and placed a flower behind his ear, watching his cheeks flush as he stammered something awkward.
The memory struck like a stone.
“Leave me be,” she whispered, her voice sharp and low.
She hadn’t realized her hand had ignited. A small fireball hovered in her palm, aimed squarely at the trash can. She blinked, then sighed and closed her hand, extinguishing the flame with a gentle hiss. Burning down the school just simply wouldn’t solve anything. Nothing at all.
Toriel squared her shoulders, collecting herself.
At best, she could tolerate Asgore as a distant acquaintance now. Maybe even—on her more generous days—a friend. But even that felt like a stretch. Every time they crossed paths, she would shoot him a cold glare.
And every time, he’d meet it with a sorrowful pout, like a scolded puppy who still hoped for a pat on the head.
Asgore Dreemurr.
Her ex-husband.
The title echoed in her mind like a closed book she kept on the highest shelf—out of reach, and always gathering dust in the background.
Toriel stood by the window now, arms folded, her gaze fixed but unfocused as the muted voices from the TV droned on. Asgore was smiling again, shaking hands with yet another official. Behind that gentle expression, that lowered voice, that fatherly warmth, she could still see the man who had-
She closed her eyes, forcing the thought away.
It wasn’t fair. Well.... he was trying. He always had been—clumsily, awkwardly, but genuinely. And yet, some things couldn’t be undone with apologies. Not with words and not with flowers.
Especially not those flowers.
Her eyes flicked back to the bouquet still resting gently in the bin. Neatly arranged, tied with a pale yellow ribbon. They hadn’t wilted. Golden flowers never did. Just like the memory they carried—they lingered, stubborn, refusing to fade.
Back when the Underground was still home, he used to pick them for her, sometimes even enlisting tiny Froggits or Looxes to help carry them. He’d show up with dirt on his hands and a bashful grin, proud of his “harvest,” as he liked to call it.
He was never cruel. Not by nature.
And that made everything worse.
Because Toriel wanted to forgive him. Sometimes, in the quiet of early mornings like this, she thought she already had. But then she’d see those flowers. Smell that soft, honeyed scent. And the hurt would rise again like a tide—slow, steady, inescapable.
He let them die. The children. The ones who fell.
Toriel’s chest tightened. She turned off the TV abruptly, silencing the king mid-sentence. His frozen face lingered on the black screen for a second before vanishing.
What had he been thinking? That she’d come back to him? That he could drop off a few sentimental gifts and expect things to return to how they were? How they used to be?
She had given him everything once. Her trust, her heart, her faith in his judgment. And he had broken it.
And yet…
There were moments—brief, traitorous moments—where she remembered the warmth of his arms, the sound of his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her over a shared cup of tea. She hated that those memories still lived in her. That they still mattered.
Toriel sat down, resting her elbows on the desk and rubbing her temples.
“I.. I am too old for this nonsense,” she murmured.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She quickly straightened, masking her expression with the gentle poise she always wore around others.
The door creaked open. It was Alphys, holding a clipboard awkwardly, her glasses sliding halfway down her snout.
“Oh, um, sorry, Principal Toriel—I didn’t mean to interrupt! I-I was just dropping off the new integration reports.”
Toriel smiled faintly. “It’s quite alright, Alphys. Thank you.”
Alphys lingered for a moment, then glanced at the bin where the golden flowers peeked out.
“He dropped by again, huh…?”
Toriel’s smile thinned. “As always.”
Alphys hesitated. “He… he’s really trying, you know. Not that I’m saying—! I mean, I’m not defending him, I just… I see him working himself ragged, and sometimes I wonder if he’s doing it for the kingdom, or just to feel like he’s making up for everything.”
Toriel gave a slow, measured nod. “Perhaps both.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Alphys gave a small, awkward cough. “W-Well, I’ll just leave this here then! Uh… have a good morning, ma’am.”
With that, she shuffled out, shutting the door behind her.
Toriel stared at the flowers again.
She reached over, carefully took the bouquet from the bin, and for a moment, held it in her hands. The petals glowed faintly in the morning light. Still flawless. Still vibrant.
She sighed, set them gently on the desk, and turned away.
Let them sit there a little longer. Maybe tomorrow she’d throw them out.
Maybe.
Asgore Dreemurr stepped out of the studio, the early sun casting a warm glow over the city skyline. Reporters still lingered near the entrance, shouting questions, snapping pictures. He gave them a polite wave and that familiar smile—the kind people expected from their king. Soft. Steady. Safe.
The smile faded as soon as he passed through the revolving doors.
A low sigh escaped him. He adjusted his cloak, the purple worn down fabric swishing behind him as he made his way toward the car waiting out front. One of his aides—an excitable monster with clipboard arms—rambled about the next event. Another housing deal. More press. Maybe a charity visit. He nodded absently, tuning most of it out.
His mind was elsewhere.
Toriel.
She’d seen the flowers by now. He always timed it so they arrived before she settled in. He imagined her reaction—an annoyed sigh, maybe a scowl. Or worse: indifference.
He sat down in the back seat of the car and stared out the window as the city passed him by. Buildings made of steel and glass, streets bustling with both humans and monsters. So much progress… and yet, so much left unsaid.
He remembered when he and Toriel used to dream about peace. Before everything went wrong. Before the war, before the sealing of the Underground, before the throne had cost him his family.
His grip tightened slightly on his trusty red old trident—a piece he didn’t need now, but carried anyway. Something to hold onto. Something to remind him of what he had done with it.
He hadn’t wanted to rule. Not really. Not like this.
“I keep trying to plant things,” he murmured to himself, “but the soil still feels quite…scorched.”
The car pulled up outside the housing district where “Monster Group 3” was settling. Children played in the nearby park—monster and human, laughing, no fear between them. Asgore’s gaze softened. This was what he wanted. What he fought for now. A future where no one had to be afraid of the other. Where Frisk’s actions hadn’t been in vain.
He stepped out to be greeted by applause and a few camera flashes. His presence always drew a crowd. He offered his usual greetings, crouching to ruffle a child's hair, exchanging kind words with a local elder. It wasn’t for show. This part was genuine. He loved his people, even if he often felt undeserving of their love in return.
But still, his thoughts returned to Toriel like a high tide returning to shore every 12 or so hours.
He knew what he had done—what he had allowed to happen to the fallen children. And he knew that no crown, no peaceful speech, no bouquet of golden flowers could undo that.
Toriel had always been the better of the two. Kinder, stronger, wiser. He had wielded the trident, but she had carried the soul of the kingdom.
And now?
Now, she carried only distance.
A distance that is so close, yet… so far.
He stopped near one of the new houses. A family of three monsters were moving in, dragging mismatched furniture through the doorway. Asgore helped them lift a heavy box without being asked. The family looked stunned at first, who wouldn’t be stumped if your king suddenly came to help with a matter as trivial as this after all?
“Please,” he said, offering a tired but warm smile, “I’m just happy to see you all getting settled.”
He stood a moment longer after they went inside, letting the peace of the moment linger. The wind carried the scent of morning dew and—faintly—golden flowers.
He turned his gaze toward the east.
Toward the school.
He wouldn’t visit today. He’d been there too recently. It wouldn’t help.
She needed space. She needed time.
But perhaps, one day, she'd no longer see the flowers as a reminder of what he broke... but of what they once built together.
And maybe—just maybe—that would be enough.
---
The late afternoon sun bathed the city plaza in warm, golden light. Long shadows stretched over cobblestone paths as the day wound down. Most children had already scattered home, but the square remained alive in its quiet way—soft wind rustling leaves, vendors packing up, pigeons cooing at the fountain.
Asgore Dreemurr sat alone on a bench by the fountain, his broad shoulders slightly hunched. His red trident rested against the bench beside him, its crimson sheen catching the sunlight. It looked out of place here—too large, too ancient, too symbolic. But he carried it still. Out of habit, or memory. Maybe both.
He closed his eyes, letting the breeze brush through his fur. Wind quietly whistling as it passed through his horns.
“Old man!”
The voice jolted him upright.
“You look like a loaf of bread just…SITTING there.”
He opened his eyes and smiled. “Frisk.”
The kid jogged over, juice box in one hand, backpack swinging wildly off one shoulder. A pencil slipped out and hit the pavement with a soft clatter.
“I thought you’d be doing royal business or whatever,” Frisk said, flopping down beside him.
“I am,” Asgore replied, eyes twinkling.
Frisk blinked. “Sitting on a bench sulking is royal business?”
“When you’re the kind of king who’s made a lot of mistakes,” he said, the smile fading slightly, “yes.”
Frisk rolled their eyes and took a long sip of juice.
Any second now..
ANY SECOND NOW
Frisk maintained intense eye contact with the King the entire time they slurped on their juice box.
“Ugh. I’ve had enough existential angst for one day. I barely survived math class…!!”
Asgore chuckled. “It’s that bad??”
“Back-to-back maths lectures. My soul almost evacuated my body. And.. gym with Undyne” Frisk said with a quiver in their voice.
Asgore giggled at the last part, “Yikes.. gym with Undyne, she is quite the determined one when it comes to sports or activities in general”
“SHE BENCH-PRESSED LIKE 7 CHILDREN AT ONCE!!” Frisk said, squeezing their juice box tight.
“Sounds like her”
…
“Yknow, Toriel always said she liked math.”
“I know,” Frisk grumbled. “She called it ‘easy.’ I looked at her like she’d admitted to eating children.”
That earned a laugh from Asgore—a deep, genuine rumble that echoed softly across the plaza, Frisk too had joined him in the giggling.
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that felt comfortable, like a shared coat.
Then Asgore spoke, his voice low.
“I still think of them, you know. The children. The ones who fell. I see them sometimes in dreams.”
He exhaled slowly. “I don’t think Toriel will ever forgive me. Not for what I almost did… and not for what I didn’t do.”
Frisk was quiet, staring down at their juice box. Their fingers toyed with the bendy fun straw.
“I used to think forgiveness was like a spell,” they said finally. “Say the right words and—poof—it’s done. But it’s not.”
They looked at him, eyes clear and tired in the same breath.
“It’s more like planting something. You water it. You wait. Sometimes it never grows.”
A pause.
“But you still plant the seed anyway.”
Asgore looked at them—really looked—and then he smiled. Not the one he wore for the world. A smaller smile, cracked and tired but deeply human.
“You’re very wise,” he said softly, “for someone who hates math.”
Frisk groaned. “Ugh. Why would you remind me? I was about to say thank you! Yknow? Or like that I’m only 12 and already a philosophical GENIUS!!”
He laughed again, louder this time. A few pigeons startled and fluttered off in a rush of wings. For a brief moment, the years peeled away. He didn’t feel like a fallen king or a ghost of old mistakes.
Just a man, sitting beside the bravest child he’d ever known.
“I’m glad we have you, Frisk.”
Frisk shrugged. “You have me. Toriel kind of has me. The school has most of me. Math has NONE of me.”
They stood and stretched, slinging their backpack over one shoulder.
“I should get going,” they said. “Tell her you’re sorry. Even if she pretends not to care. She always hears.”
Asgore nodded, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes.
Frisk gave him a wave and headed toward the bus stop, their figure growing smaller with each step.
The light in the plaza turned soft and amber. The wind rustled gently through the leaves, and the day felt just a little less heavy.
He didn’t know if forgiveness would ever come.
But he’d keep planting.
---
Toriel stood by the second-story window of the school’s staff lounge, a lukewarm cup of tea cradled between her hands. She had been there for some time, staring past her own reflection, past the streaks on the glass, watching the afternoon settle over the world. The school day was pretty long this day.
Below, the plaza was beginning to empty. Parents, students, teachers. Everyone drifting home like falling leaves.
Then she saw them.
Frisk, seated on a bench beside him.
Asgore.
She didn’t flinch. She simply sipped her tea.
They were talking—laughing, even. Frisk’s legs kicked beneath the bench. Asgore’s shoulders, so often stooped with the weight of crowns and guilt, were relaxed. Just for a moment, he looked… like himself.
She hated how easily she could still read him.
She saw the trident leaned against the bench, the same red trident she once joked clashed terribly with his robe. He’d brought it everywhere now. A reminder, perhaps. A symbol of penance. Or power. It was always hard to tell with Asgore.
She watched Frisk rise, wave, and walk off, backpack slung over one shoulder.
Asgore remained seated for a while after that, his head bowed, fingers loosely curled around the trident’s handle. Then he stood slowly, like someone preparing to carry something invisible but unbearably heavy, and walked out of view.
Toriel closed her eyes.
Every Sunday, he still left flowers. The golden kind. The kind she used to press into his hair when he was flustered from royal meetings. The kind that once filled the fields of their home.
They were on her desk again this morning.
She had told him to stop.
He hadn’t.
But he hadn’t knocked, either. Not once.
That was how she knew he was still changing. Not through words or apologies, but through the quiet restraint of someone who finally understood they couldn’t just walk back into someone’s heart.
She didn’t know if she would ever forgive him.
Some days she told herself she already had, in some distant, philosophical way. Other days, she wanted to hurl those golden flowers into the fireplace. Or just burn them up herself.
But she never did.
Because no matter how old the wound, no matter how deep the scar…
She always heard.
Toriel sipped her Golden Flower tea again, the steam soft against her face. The plaza was empty now.
The sun was beginning to set.
She turned from the window and went back to work.
---
The kitchen was dim, the only light coming from the fading sun through lace curtains.
Frisk sat at the table, nibbling the edge of a sandwich. Across the room, Toriel moved with practiced silence, placing teacups on the shelf with slow precision.
“You saw him today,” she said, not turning around.
Frisk glanced up. “Yeah. After school.”
Toriel set one cup down too hard. It clinked against the shelf.
“Did he bring his trident?”
Frisk hesitated. “Yeah. It’s sorta his thing now.”
Another pause. This one sharper.
“He said he still thinks about the others. The kids before me.”
Toriel turned her head just slightly. “Hmph.”
Frisk spoke gently. “He said he’s sorry. For what he almost did. And what he didn’t do.”
Toriel exhaled through her nose—slow, but bitter.
“I remember them,” she said quietly. “All six.”
Frisk’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t have much time with them, right?”
“No,” she said. “A few hours, at most. They arrived in pain. In fear. Every single one of them.”
She stared at nothing, her eyes sharp and distant.
“They were so polite. So small. They called me ‘Miss Toriel.’ Some did not even know what had happened to them. Just... woke up in a cave. Alone.”
She clenched the hem of her sleeve.
“I offered them food. Safety. A place to stay. But they all left.”
Frisk nodded slowly. “Because they wanted to go home.”
“Yes,” Toriel said bitterly. “Home.”
Her voice cracked slightly. She turned fully now, arms folded, gaze burning.
“And where did they end up, Frisk?”
Frisk didn’t answer.
“With him” Toriel hissed. “At the end of the Ruins. In that horrible castle. In front of that door. One by one. Six children. Six souls. And all I did was watch the dust settle.”
She looked down. Her claws dug into her arms.
“He didn’t want to kill them all. But he still did it. And that’s enough.”
Frisk’s voice was small. “He changed.”
“Not fast enough,” she snapped. “Not before the coffins filled.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I know he regrets it,” Toriel said, softer now. “I know he mourns them. But I mourned them first. And I never got to stop.”
Frisk stood, slowly. “You don’t have to forgive him.”
Toriel looked at them.
“I just think,” Frisk said, “you never forgave yourself either.”
Toriel flinched. Just barely. But it was there.
“I’ll be in my room,” Frisk murmured. They left the sandwich behind and walked off.
Toriel stood in the empty kitchen, fists at her sides. The golden glow of sunset caught on something in the corner—flowers, again, in a small vase on the counter. Too fresh. Too bright.
She turned her back to them.
But she didn’t throw them away.