My child

***

      The magic is bubbling in her hands, hot and ductile as magma. Bright as the half-forgotten Sun.       No matter how heartbreaking it is to send one bright fiery death ball after another to the child, she burns and burns and burns.       The child is in front of her, tearful and timid and meek, and her clothes burnt and dusted. The child talks to her. Tries to calm her down and put down the fire inside of the monster-lady.       Toriel, first time in millennia, raises her head in pride.       Her child, her new baby, new hope, learns so fast!       Asriel was just as smart.       Toriel allows a spark of a tear run down her cheek. In front of her the shy and soft features of Asriel.       Her son. Her joy. — Mommy! — The blooded lips of the child tremble. — Mommy, it hurts..       It hurts her too. It pains her, tortures her, mutilates her. She aches as much as this child, aches more than them. Her attacks turn from bright hot plasma to smoking embers. Her breathing turns to heaving and pieces of her soul roll down her cheeks. She hates herself so much, she hates herself for this weakness and stupidity.       The despair downs on her.       Frisk has one health point left. Just. One. Pathetic. Point.       Frisk is as good as dead.       The child loses their will a second before Toriel does. A second and the ember hits Frisk, and the child flares up like a little match. The heat covers their tiny body and the red heart, their whole being and soul, breaks in half. — N-no! — Something between a wail and a whisper breaks out of her throat and fills the serenity of the purple ruins. She couldn’t help but cover her ears.       She killed this child. Not Asgor or Flowey, her! She did it. She. She She.       She strained the tiny body to her heart and whispered “Frisk”.       But the dead mother’s heart lamented “Asriel”.