The Guided Hand

[Something heartwrenchingly sad, milkaanon make me cry]

Every day, they drew her a golden flower.

It was always a simple drawing done with whatever Frisk had at hand. Crayons, pencils or paint, the tools of trade mattered were secondary. The details were often smudged and stained; lines unsteady as if drawn with shaking hands. Sometimes the artwork was pristine, giving the impression of a steadily improving artist striving for greatness, while other times the paper was wrinkled and torn, as if they tried to destroy it several times over.

Toriel was at a loss on what to do.

She kept thinking back to the moment they finally left their age-old prison behind. Driven by pure love towards this little child; this tiny SOUL who saved all of them, she offered Frisk a place under her roof, if they so desired. She half-expected them to politely refuse, just as they refused her shelter in the Ruins prior, although the two situations couldn't have been more different. And yet, they timidly embraced her leg, whimpering in a soft voice so rarely heard before or since. They pleaded to stay with her, their hold on her leg quickly growing to desperate clawing.

She remembered leaning down and reaching out to them. Toriel held the child close, assuring them that she would care for them, house them, feed them, nurture them and give them the love they seemed to lack more than anything. Frisk nearly melted in her grasp and trembled all over, lapsing into stifled, hiccupping sobs. Back then, she was sure she could give the child everything they so desperately longed for.

A few months later, she wasn't so sure about that anymore.

The first few weeks passed by without incident and were some of the most heavenly she has ever experienced. Frisk was a perfect little angel, always very attentive and first to follow any possible parentla request she made. They hung out with all the friends they've made in the Underground, performed every meager chore to the best of their ability and would always be in bed by time. Sometimes, she almost wished they'd be just a tiny bit mischievous, but reasoned some children were just timid to the extreme. Frisk appeared to be one of them, but that was hardly an issue.

The problems only came afterwards.

It started with night terrors. Almost every other night, Frisk would wake up crying and sobbing in the dark, inconsolable until exhaustion would eventually claim them once more and drag the child back into their feverish dreams. Toriel tried her best, first alone and then with the help of friends, but nothing seemed to work. The child closed themselves off to everyone. They still smiled, interacted and helped with certain things, but it was a crude facade at best. Their behavior turned reclusive, barely leaving the house or their room, constantly absorbed in their drawings. Most of them they never showed her or anyone else, opting to either destroy or keep them hidden in some unknown compartment.

All of them, save for that one lone golden flower.

Toriel swallowed, observing the newest drawing Frisk left for her, just a few minutes ago. It was one of the more nervous ones, heavily smudged wherever the lineart was off in a desperate fit to fix it. The petals were drawn with meticulous perfection, and yet little droplets were scattered all around it, staining the sheet and the colors. Still, it was never the flower itself, that bothered her. It wasn't even the fact that they hardly drew anything else.

It was the way they worked on them.

She peeked into the room once, curious to find out just how they worked. The revelation was anything, but soothing. Frisk's artwork was not a result of love, but some unseen drive or force pushing them to do it. She could find no other explanation for the way they kept alternating between content drawing and frantic scribbling; between a calm half-smile and near-hysterics. The way the child kept turning their head left and right, Toriel could swear they were constantly trying to please a pair of invisible, infinitely harsh judges. One dictating the harsh, perfect lines and the other the kinder, softer touches. They were the ones drawing, while Frisk just seemed like a conduit at best.

And yet they obeyed every unheard order, whether they really wanted to, or not.

The goat monster turned the drawing around, an uncomfortable lump growing in her throat. The golden flower was just one half of the routine. The other half always waited for her on the other side and was so much more alarming, than any flower could be. All across the piece of paper, from top to bottom, left to right, there was a single phrase written over and over again, until it covered the entire sheet:

i'm sorry    i'm sorry
i'm sorry			i'm sorry
		i'm sorry
i'm sorry				i'm sorry
		i'msorryi'msorry
	I'M SORRY		i'm sorry
sorry sorry sorry
			   i'm sorry

The creeping doubt that had been gnawing at Toriel's heart returned with full force, as she read every single phrase through a thick fog of pooling tears. The drawings were cute at first, but once she noticed, this other half put everything in a different perspective. Nothing about this was natural, or even so much as childish. However likely, she was still fearful of jumping to the obvious conclusion.

This was the only part of the drawing actually made by Frisk.