(04)

Toriel had done it again. A big, hot, perfectly baked snail pie. After so long making these, she could make them blind-folded with one arm behind her back, and still have them turn out just right every time. She hoped that the human would enjoy it if he did wake up, he really looked like he needed some food. That got her wondering, though…

'He apparently does not need a heartbeat, breathing, or maybe even food to survive, although I am sure he has never had monster-made food. I bet it will give him a surprise, eating it for the first time. If he wakes up, that is…'

She took a pie cutter to the potted confection, cutting it into perfectly equal sections of eight slices. Once divided up, she placed the pie tin on two plates with a pair of forks, and brought the dinner to her room.

The human was still unconscious, he had not moved an inch. Sighing, she put the plates, forks, and pie next to her diary on the table, and set to writing while she ate her portion. She wrote about the flower, how she'd encountered the man in the darkness, how she carried him here, healed him… she made sure to get observations in. She excitedly wrote about his soul, its gargantuan size still capable of being faintly felt from across the room. She wrote about his armor, his mask, his dropped weapons, she was making sure she got everything she knew on him written down.

He seemed to be rather special, after all. No other human or monster was quite like this one, and she could be the one to save him.

Penning the date and time at the end of the entry, she flipped to her previous one, the entry being a few jokes she had gotten from her friend on the other side of the Ruins door. She still wondered just who her friend was, but one thing was for sure.

He was quite proficient with skeleton-themed jokes.

Smiling, she closed her diary and stood up. She had already eaten her fill of the pie. She stood from her table and leaned on the bed once more, tentatively putting her hands over the human's still heart to feel his soul once more…

vvv

'...There it is again, that warmth… have to wake up. I need to know what is happening.

I need…'

vvv

As Toriel viewed his soul, she peered into the center of it again. She was surprised to see the raw edges had begun fading away around the empty section until nothing separated the large outer soul from the empty inside, yet nothing came in to fill the soul-sized piece.

Toriel gently lifted her hands from him again and sat in her chair, pondering the oddity of the human as she did. She picked up her book again…

vvv

'The warmth is leaving… then I will follow it.'

vvv

As Toriel opened back to her spot, a movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. His arm was moving slightly. She set her book down on her lap and stared. The human's arm stopped moving, and then his hand clenched and unclenched, before lifting to his face to stroke across it, as if he were wiping the sleep from his eyes. The pale man then sat up against the bed's backboard and looked around the room, spotting Toriel to his left. She gave him a warm and welcoming smile, her book still open, face down on her lap.

"Hello, human. I am Toriel. Welcome to my home."

The man stared, slightly agape.

"May I ask… what is your name?" She scooted her chair a little bit forward, trying to encourage the man to speak to her.

"..." He simply blinked at Toriel, then felt at his throat and looked at the floorboards before he looked back up at her. "..."

He was still rubbing at his throat when it seemed he suddenly had a stroke of inspiration or revelation of some kind. He worked his jaw for a few moments, and let out a strangled, low cough.

While she was concerned about his unhealthy mannerisms, it seemed he was about to speak, so Toriel slightly leaned forward, still giving him her warm smile.

"Do… not… know." His voice was horribly hoarse and rasped out, and sounded breathless. Worse yet…

Toriel's smile drooped a bit. 'Just how horrible were this human's living conditions? He wears layers of armor, is thin to the bone, practically dead, and he does not even know his own name.'

Toriel cocked her head a little, before asking: "Do you call yourself anything?" A head shake was all she got in response.

Her smile all but vanished and was soon replaced with a look of concern and intrigue. "That is terrible… you do not have a name… I need to ask you some other questions, is that alright by you?"

The man looked reserved at that, before giving her a nod as consent. "Alright. I have to ask you why… you are not alive, yet you are still… alive. Alright, admittedly that sounds strange, but… your heart is not beating, and you are not breathing… how?"

"...Undead."

Her brow quirked. "Undead? What do you…" Before she could finish, the man pulled down his shirt's loose collar, revealing his chest and where his heart would be. A circular scar sat right over his heart. She had not examined him close enough, apparently.

Toriel looked on in shock, her hands quivered, and her book slid from her lap onto the floor. It looked like something had been ripped right out of his chest, the scar reminded her of something being pulled or broken out of a container. She stood from her chair and carefully approached the man. He eyed her before laying back against the headboard, and let her examine the scar. She lightly touched it, tracing the outside. The skin was raised like a hot brand had been pressed into him.

She looked him in the eyes, causing him to look away, then asked: "What did this to you?"

vvv

He couldn't remember what placed the Darksign on him. Like other undead, he found that such a memory was missing, it was too far back in the past to recall.

He put aside the question and instead thought of her as her hand rested over his heart. She was the warmth, he could feel it powerfully coursing through his body once her hand rested upon his chest. She had saved him from the flower and brought him here. Was she… a friend? He considered a few people he knew and if they were "friends," but they may not have done such a thing for him, Patches being the perfect example. Were they really friends? Compared to this woman?

'Just what is she, anyway? She looks like a fanged goat-woman, but she is certainly not a Capra Demon. A demon would have torn my throat out, not saved me, let alone be able to introduce themselves after doing so.'

She was still hovering over him, expecting an answer. He needed to speak again, but speaking was rather straining on his neglected throat. He had either lost the ability or inclination to speak at some distant point in the past, yet words seemed to have jumped back into his throat the moment he needed to answer her.

"Do not… remember."

Of course, the answer was disappointingly similar to the one about his name. After hearing it, Toriel stood up and asked him another question.

"What do you remember?"

He remembers many things, just not the things he wanted. He decided to list off the things he knew most, in broad categories.

"Fighting… pain… d-death. Hundreds of years, time… broken. Life… broken." He could tell his choppy and muted speech was hard for her to follow, but she seemed to get the gist of what he was saying.

He doesn't lead a pleasant existence. Toriel's face fell more to sadness as he listed off. But he wasn't done. He looked around the room, and kept going. "No home… no name." He put his hand over his Darksign, right on the center of the sigil. "Have... no soul, hollow. Not human. Undead." He could tell she was distressed, but the part involving souls caught her attention.

She pointed to his chest with a finger, her other arm wrapping around herself. "But you have a soul, I saw it when I healed you. It is powerful, unlike any other."

He looked up at the ceiling and laid his head back. "Not… wholly hollow. Not... wholly... human, in-between… at least...until… I die… more." She healed him? That must have been the first time he felt the warmth. He had to give her thanks for all she's done. But before he could speak, she did.

"You have died before? How is that possible?"

He let out a thoughtful groan at that. He knew humanity, bonfires, and the Darksign had something to do with it, but not much else than what all other undead know. "The bonfires… rebirth, after death… as undead. I have… died… hundred… two hundred times? Not sure." Toriel turned away and shook her head at that, he saw a tear roll down before she was turned around all the way. While turned, she choked out her next sentence, a simple one.

One the undead had not heard in what felt like a thousand years.

"I… I am sorry." She confused him with the apology.

"...Why?"

She faced him again after wiping her face with her sleeve. "I… I do not know. What has become of your world? The surface? How... why has this happened to you?"

This was a difficult question. "Surface…? Dead. Gray. Kingdom... fallen. Everyone... undead, hollowed, or… gone." Toriel looked like she needed to sit, so she fell back in her chair. She rested her head on her hand, propping herself up.

"I… cannot believe it. The entire surface world… is dead?"

He gave her a simple nod.

"How… how could this have happened? How long?"

"Not sure, time is… wrong, convoluted. Everlasting day. Hundreds of years." He could feel his throat and voice getting much better with the restarted use, this was good.

She shook her head again and leaned into her chair. She looked like she couldn't take that anymore. "I am sorry, but… I cannot listen to that anymore…"

"It is… alright." The undead was feeling able now, so he sat up on the edge of the bed, cloth-wrapped feet planted on the homely wooden floorboards. He needed to say something, anything, to show his gratitude.

"...Thank you."

This drew Toriel's attention again, and she looked to him. Seeing this, he kept going. "Thank you for saving me, healing me…" For some reason, he could not look at her directly. He knew she was staring, but he couldn't bring himself to look back.

A slight smile came back to her. "Oh, it is my job to look after the humans who fall down here… or… it used to be. I always wondered why no one ever fell down for such a long time after the last one, and now I know. I suppose that means my being here on my own is almost pointless now…"

The undead finally managed to look up at Toriel. "Almost?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. I still have you to look after. Unless you think any others-"

"No. No... others... will come. They are all fighting or staying where they are, many have given up. But I explore, move around."

She looked a little surprised at the brevity and clarity in which he made sure to speak. "I… will have to take your word on it. Oh! I just remembered, I made you something while you were unconscious…" The undead watched as she went to the table at the foot of the bed and retrieved a plate. She huffed, before looking at him apologetically.

"Ah, just a moment. It went cold, let me reheat it…"

The undead watched in wonder as she summoned up small fireballs and moved them around whatever was on the plate. He had never seen someone control fire as well as her, pyromancy was notoriously dangerous thanks to its ties to Chaos and Demons, yet Toriel controlled it like it was second nature.

"Aaaand… done. Here you go, one now-piping-hot slice of my favorite dish… snail pie!" She handed it to the undead, who took the plate and fork and examined the four slices. It looked just fine, but he had not eaten in centuries, not that he ever had the urge to.

He continued to eye the dish. The most he'd "eaten" in recent years were some select few herbs and mosses that could heal open wounds or enhance stamina when chewed, he'd not actually swallowed anything and had no idea what would happen to the food once it was in his shut-down stomach. Toriel was watching him, sporting an expectant smile.

He decided to voice his concerns. "I… have not eaten in quite a long time, I have not needed to..."

"Do not worry, it is monster-made food. As soon as you eat it, it absorbs into you, unlike human food, which has to go through your body to get absorbed in. Give it a try, please? I do not believe being that thin is good for you, even if you may have no need to eat."

He gave in to her polite request easily. "...Alright."

Using the fork, he cut a piece of the pie and, for the first time in hundreds of years, ate something. To most, the taste wouldn't be anything special or terrible, but it did have a flavor to it, and that was enough to pique his interest. Once he chewed the piece, he reflexively attempted to swallow it, and was surprised when the piece seemed to dissipate inside his mouth and flow into him from every direction. The feeling he got from eating the strange magic pie was indescribable, but he knew one thing for certain.

"This is great…"

He heartily dug into the pie and was all the more unaware as Toriel happily watched on before she collected her book from the floor and then sat back in her chair. She was glad he was eating, he really looked like he needed the nutrition, even if he was an "undead."

He had devoured the pie like he was truly feeling his hunger now, and the plate sat empty in his lap, the fork having experienced its most intense battle with food in quite a while. As the human stood to place the plate back on the table, he noticed something piled in the corner of the room opposite to him.

His armor and all his gear. After spending as long as he had been wearing it, he immediately noticed he was not wearing it when he awoke, however, he hadn't noticed the mountain of armor until now. After placing his plate next to Toriel's, he saw her looking up at him. He felt a bit uncomfortable, not having his steel. The feeling was akin to being naked, and the vulnerability disturbed him greatly.

"...May I put my armor back on? I feel…" As he looked into the pile again, something seemed amiss.

'Wait, where is my…' He gave her an inquisitive look, now that he noticed something was missing from the pile. "...Sword?"

There was definitely a distinct lack of his favorite blade in the pile of gear. The grass-crested shield was also missing, but his claymore was his biggest concern, after all, he did have to fight an angry drake over it to obtain it.

A sudden look of recollection overcame Toriel. "Oh! Your weapons! I left them back by where the flower was. I had to carry you all the way here, and the sword and shield would have been a bit too much to carry along with you… I am sorry. And yes, if you would like to wear your armor, you do not have to ask my permission, I just needed to be able to heal you." She looked apologetic to him, and he could tell she was honest.

He gave her a nod. "Thank you. I would like to go retrieve my blade and shield after I re-armor, I had to go through quite a bit to get that sword in particular."

With an understanding smile, Toriel stood to leave the room, setting her book on her table, next to her diary. She then took the dishware and empty pie tin. As she passed by him, the undead noticed he was well over a head taller than her in height. He wondered if he intimidated Toriel. If he did, she didn't show it.

As she left, he pondered more on the minor observations he'd been making since he awoke. He wasn't quite used to being able to make small, benign observations about others like that, he was more used to searching for a weakness or exploitable flaw mid-fight, and at most recognizing ill intent before it broke out.

He felt different, almost like his very soul itself was cleaner, and that the fogginess that had long muddled and limited his mind was lifting. What had she done to heal him? it must have been something drastic if it unlocked his mind so well. Before he got to his armor, he gave the room another look over, his unshackled mind perceiving things with new clarity and freedom he hadn't felt in far longer than he'd care to admit.

He saw a strange, potted plant next to the bed, and next to that, a bookshelf crammed with volumes and a dresser with a mirror above it.

He approached the dresser and saw himself in the wide mirror. For a few moments, the person staring back at him was a complete stranger, it had been that long since he'd seen his own reflection, let alone without his armor and mask on. A mess of semi-long unkempt dark brown hair sat atop his head, and he caught his own steely-gray gaze for a few moments before his attention drifted to his torso, where he saw a hint of the Darksign through a hole in his shirt. It was an ever-present reminder of the curse mankind bears, appearing on the bodies of all undead in the exact same spot.

Other than the accursed mark, he found that he was overall gaunt, pale, thin, and muscular. Despite the glaring unhealthy characteristics, he knew the strength his body contained was rather considerable, thanks to ages of soul reinforcement. Turning away, he brought his attention to the armor and gear. He knew this armor inside and out, except for…

'My mask… I have not seen its face either…' He picked up the face-down piece of steel and turned it over. The mask's unsettling visage stared back, and he began to question why he chose to wear it all those years ago. If he recalled correctly, it was magical in nature, granting him the energy of a younger person. He began to wonder if it was worth it, trodding about wearing something so ghastly.

He looked to his favorite steel armor and began to question it too. Its large and imposing frame, incredibly thick plates, large shoulder pieces… if creatures down here were as avid in magic as he was being led to believe, with that flower incapacitating him serving as a perfect example, he'd need considerably more magic resistant equipment.

And if his now clearer memory served him right, he believed he had a set in his box that fulfilled the less cumbersome armor style and greater magical protection he now wanted.

He pieced the steel armor set back together then shoved it, the mask, and the chainmail into the box. Reaching back in, he grasped a long, gray cloak and hood…

(04)