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When she was little, Toriel wanted to be a ballerina. When she was very little. (Don’t laugh. It’s silly – it seems so silly now, but – don’t laugh).
There weren’t any ballerinas in the underground – they were a thing in old books that came down from the human world, and they were magic to her. She knew monsters who could breathe fire, monsters whose touch turned things to ice, but those girls in those floofy pink skirts, their delicate ankles, their perfectly bent wrists… They were foreign and lovely. It didn’t matter that the covers of the books were torn and the illustrations smeared from their travels, those girls shone out, perfect and neat and beautiful and so small.
But then she grew up and realised there were no ballerinas who looked like her, and that she had two left feet besides.
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Bookmark Notes:
crying in late may reading about toriel and the love and grief of growing up but still always staying the same 😭😭😭
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☆ You should get a new dress for it! Frisk signs, clambering back onto Tori’s lap. Tori holds her arms open to receive them, and laughs and laughs. Sans doesn’t have a camera to hand, but he takes a picture all the same – just a little one, in his head, to remember. ☆
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