It's been some time.
Asgore didn't know how much, the days being dull and empty after that sunset and the vision of the dust nearby the displaced human body, spreading unknown seeds across the garden. It was soon found out those were of the same kind of flowers the human body asked as last wish to be laid on, a kind completely foreign to the Underground. He managed to grow the plants, but, as the first flower blossomed, he had realized the human corpse and his wife disappeared sometime without notice, the coffin still open. Now only flowers were keeping him some sort of company.
He wandered in the castle, waiting for Death to come. The throne room was getting dark, the golden flowers closing, his muscles aching, all indicating it was time to call it a day. He started his trek toward the stairs for the house.
He eyed the calendar, still hunging on the wall; the numbers couldn't match the many months spent in this utter solitude.
It's been a mere year, few decades or even centuries?
He didn't know when everyone left or when he killed those six children for freedom's sake, for the monsterkind's sake.
He knew he couldn't manage this loneliness any longer, though.
He missed everyone and everything terribly, and it wasn't rare he asked himself why it did have to happen to him, what he had done to deserve such pain, if there were always solutions available.
In those moments normally he would just go to the kitchen, attempting to prepare any type of pie, ending up destroying it carelessly and having to throw it in the bin. In the far everyday life, seeing such a scene always had caused his sons to laugh heartily, amused by his sorry face at the ruined pastry.
He shoved off the memory, too exhausted to try to prepare more unwanted organic trash. Yes, he had to call it a day. He approached his bedroom, the hallway haunting silence, lifeless. At least the golden flowers gave colour to the environment, right? Not like the water sausages.
Finally he reached the mattress, the covers cold, bare and pointless. He lay completely on the king-sized bed, the lack of the Queen making his rest colder and shorter. He stared on the ceiling, almost hoping some stars were going to display his future, but there were not. He stretched the arm on his left, but there was not the fur he was looking for comforting him.
...
He missed her.
He missed her kisses and caresses. It was always good knowing that, despite all his responsibilities and difficulties, there was someone close ready to listen and understand and provide a solution.
He missed her stillness. It was strange to see a big man like him being the sensitive one of the pair, and yet she was the support of the king, being his great advisor and closest confident regarding the management of the kingdom and the family. Sometimes this was even a flaw, but he couldn't help but admire her stubbornness.
He missed all her random facts about snails and her exquisite pies. He and the children had always followed her tutorials about such an art like the one of the pastry-making. Any of hers were delicious and mouth-watering.
He hasn't already found out what's the secret behind those dough: he tried using the same ingredients: that buttercups' pie made by the kids was toxic and kicked him out for some days, but otherwise it would've been pretty good, right? He had already tried following perfectly the recipe, going back to Waterfall to find that snail-farm she'd always frequented. The results were a mixture impossible to describe and analyse.
He had even tried using the same templates she'd preferred. Still nothing.
What about fire magic? She had always used that in order to warm up the oven. All its insides were burned. It didn't matter the efforts and tries and will, the pastry was too raw or burnt, bitter or of a sickening saccharine.
Maybe... another ingredient he was unaware about?
But the smell coming from the bin reminded his stomach that this wasn't a good idea. No, there was no way he would've been capable to reach her.
Right, her puns weren't the best, some were even preposterous, however he couldn't help but smile and laugh at them. It wasn't for pity. It wasn't for making fun of her, neither. Golly, it wasn't for her desperate desire to hear enjoyment to her words.
It was just thanks to her perfect voice, completely suitable for any word, they were gold-plated by her mouth.
He realized he was being ridiculous: he missed his wife more than his own children. He tried to laugh the idea off, the mirthless sound bouncing back in his ears, shaking the soul in a suffocating grip, ripping tears from his eyes.
He really missed them and their mirth, innocence and their kind SOULs, always ready to lift even the heaviest of the spirits. Chara and Asriel were the hope of a new world of harmony and forgiveness. But other than throwing his fur out and grieving, there was something else he could have done? Chara's illness couldn't have been helped, Asriel's sorrow neither. Yes, he should had stopped Asriel before taking the sibling's request to heart, but what else? He couldn't fathom how to cope such a loss yet, but he was sure he would've eventually found a way: nothing could've brought them back, life goes on, fate befalls any living being, burying even the flesh of a long-wished dream, ready to grow, ready to die young, under the same Underground, making it almost impossible to reach.
Definitely impossible if being alone, though.
And without Toriel, he wasn't that sure anymore. She was still alive and she decided to leave in order to distance herself from a broken man like him. That disgust she'd displayed him last was completely his doing, he said with his words that speech in retaliation against humankind, driven by shock.
He would've wanted to say he was lying. He would've wanted to say those words were necessary to soothe the citizens' growing hatred. He would've wanted to say that was necessary.
...Yes, it was ridiculous, because he knew those were just poor excuses.
He tensed, realizing tears were flowing. He sat on the corner of the whole bed, of the entire room, where all the hope that was left was gathered. He wept, covering his eyes with the same paws that once'd embraced his children. The same paws that were going to brandish the scarlet trident and claim the last SOUL that was keeping them all away from freedom.
There is no war with no victims.
He stood up, trying to focus on the dark path for the kitchen, walking through the living room, the armchair a stop for the shadows cast from the windows. The chimney was off, a grey swarm danced in the wind. His foot placed mindlessly on the dark floor, it wasn't like he could've stepped on some toys left behind by the kids...
Shadows were casting frames. He's been watched.
He stopped and snapped, flames in his paws ready to extinguish, eyes gazing on the nothingness. Nobody was behind him anymore. Good. He grabbed the kettle and filled it with cold water. The sudden movements spilt some drops, merely watering his exposed fur, but not sparing him from the dirt. Nothing could forgive him. He placed the pot on the fire, preparing himself for the deafening scream of the boiling water.
He approached the counter, several teacups of different shapes exposed. He smiled at seeing them, a memento mori of who left long ago. He used watching the singular clay forms, remembering how the star cup had always been ready to be filled with boiling water, his brim shining at each sip, or how the yellow flowered one avoided tea and preferred instead a darker, denser and sweeter liquid, or else the white and round one that had favoured coffee.
The too-known yell was starting to increase of volume. He hurried and took the pot away from the heat. He served himself taking a home-made bag of golden flowers. He checked for a cup to use. His eyes fell on the blank deformed teacup, the surface labelling the childish writing "happy bday king dad". He stared at the last cup.
It was a family tradition of his to exchange teacups as a special family present, so he was the one to prepare the most suitable teacup. That one still had those beaming smiles meant for him.
Dread was crawling on his back. He filled an ordinary cup instead. He sipped the glowing steaming liquid. It burned a lot, but it was a reminder of the consequences he was going to face.