Asgore is walking through a field of flowers when another monster comes running toward him. He is animated, grinning, beaming on a perplexing face, and he is talking his lips are moving his hands move animatedly, but Asgore cannot hear him. He is certain the other is saying things, but no noise reaches his ears.
He looks familiar. Asgore does not know him.
"I do not know you," he says, and the stranger's face drops. His hands drop. The whole of his body seems to drop and is he melting and he is melting he is smiling he reaches for Asgore and Asgore takes his hand only for it to melt through his fingers. Asgore reaches for him, tries desperately to pull him up, to put him back together.
Asgore does not notice the hum. Asgore does not notice the flowers are changing.
He cannot put the stranger back together. He is elbow deep in the stranger and he cannot put the stranger back together. The stranger slips through his hands, melting away, and he thinks he can hear the stranger say something, but the strangers voice is soft soft soft and he cannot hear it.
The stranger is a puddle of black sludge on the ground, and Asgore hears the hum. He turns around, but it is too late. The field of flowers is a field of reaching hands, alabaster digits in black sleeves, the flowers are changing faster still, he tries to back away, to run, but they close in around him. The hum grows loud, louder, yet louder; it is voices, a cacophony of voices calling yelling crying, they are deafening and he cannot understand them.
He tries to back away, but hands sprout from the sludge of the stranger and grab hold of his ankle. They pull him hard to the ground and keep pulling; the hands have closed around him; they grab at his clothes at his limbs at his fur, and they pull him down down down until he sinks in their grasp below the surface of the earth. He looks up to catch his last glimpse of light, then it is dark.
Dark.
Dark.
Asgore is crying when he wakes, but he has already forgotten the dream.