Asgore
His footsteps echoed down the hallway, each step heavier than the last. As he descended the great staircase, the shadows played tricks on him., reaching with skeletal hands to grab him, laughing at him, looking disgusted. He sighed, slowly lowering the child into the cold, grey coffin. On top of the body lay a small bouquet of golden flowers from his garden. So peaceful. He lifted the lid gently onto the top of the coffin, closing his eyes as the child slowly drifted from view behind it. When the lid was secure, he would pull a slip of paper from his pocket, the child's name written so neatly upon it, and would set to engraving. He would always know the name, there was never a doubt in his mind about that. Monsters would know, one of them would always know, and if they didn't, he would create one for them. He knew he was never the best at naming things, but he could always try.
Sometimes he would go and visit them. He would talk to them. He would tell them about how his garden was growing, about the affairs of the underground, the people's concerns. Their hopes, their dreams.
As if it all made up for it.
As if it made up for every tear. As if it made up for every cry of pain that he had elicited. As if it made up for every look of terror, or slowly fading brightness in their eyes. As if it made up for their weight as he carried them back to New Home.
But it never did.
A dark hole ripped at his stomach. "What comes next?". When the next human falls, what happens afterwards? The come, they meet, they die. Then what? When the barrier is open, will that make anything better? Was he leading his people to their deaths?
These thoughts clung to his mind, eating away at his conscience, a malignant tumour, as painful as it was taunting.
He would sit on his throne, in the centre of his garden, and lose whole days. When a visitor came upon him, he would greet them, put on his best smile. They were his people, they needed him, they didn't need to know any more than what they saw. They didn't ever need to know that he shed a tear for each human, that he still talked to them, that he still felt each of their weights in his arms, that a chill crawled down his back each time he walked past the long staircase.
That he still visited the spots where they had died.
He finished the engraving, wiping sweat from his forehead. There was still a single coffin empty, the lid resting beside it. It had no engraving, no history, no body.
But that was a matter for another day.
Slowly, Asgore stood. He grimly climbed the stairs, the shadows silent for the first time. He looked upon his garden, his throne, heard the distant chirping of birds. His trident rested against it, his crown sitting on top of it. He sighed, sitting down heavily upon the chair. From the hallway he heard the soft clacking of footsteps, and painted a smile upon his face as best he could.
For at the end of the day, that's all he could really do.