You've never been to a carnival after dark before. Maybe that's why everything looks so strange. You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering as you walk through the maze of rides and games and huge curtained tents. There are lights everywhere, blinding in their intensity, so you can't understand why everything is so dark. Music drifts from somewhere, the strange, warped notes of the calliope skirling around you and tangling you in their threads. Far overhead, you can hear the ticking of a ride travelling slowly skyward, followed by a rush of air and terrified screaming. You've never understood that. If rides are supposed to be fun, why are people always screaming?
In the shadows of a tent nearby, a clown lifts his head and grins at you. Politely, you smile back, but you're already moving away as fast as you can. Clowns are supposed to be funny, but he's not doing anything. Sans is funnier than that when he's just sitting and having breakfast. The clown should take lessons from him.
You turn quickly, aiming for another alleyway between tents, and collide with a shadow in the dark. Reeling, you stagger back, and a clawed hand closes over your shoulder. You turn to look, but whoever or whatever this monster is, you don't recognize it. The hand on your shoulder is actually its foot; it stands balanced on the other spindly leg, gazing down at you across a beak curved like a scythe. The belted robe it wears seems somewhat strange given the feathered wings protruding from the sleeves, surely making it harder for the monster to fly, but it doesn't seem bothered by it.
It clicks its beak a few times, close enough to your face that you can't help but lean away, and then it blinks at you. "Ah! I know why you have come!" The harsh voice, like the cawing of a dozen angry birds, grates against your ears.
"You do?" you ask.
"Yes! Come, come, what you seek is inside!"
You glance around you, hoping for some sign of anyone that you know, but nothing around here is familiar. Still, you've always been able to trust monsters, and Mom and Dad have told you that if you're ever lost, you should go to a monster rather than a human for help. Reluctantly, you nod and let the strange monster usher you inside the tent.
The air inside is thick and hot. It smells of dust, and damp, and other things you can't identify, but something about it makes your skin crawl, aching for a bath. Uncertainty sends a shiver down your spine, and you tug against the clawed foot wrapped around your wrist. "I'm sorry," you tell the monster, "but I need to go home now."
"Yes, yes," it insists, fluttering its wings in dismay at your attempts to pull away. "That is what I am saying. Look! Is this not home?"
Frowning, you squint into the gloom at the centre of the tent. There's something there, a dark shape against the central pole, and suddenly you really don't want to see what it is. You dig in your heels, but the monster continues to draw you forward. Though you yank hard, the talons just dig into your skin, and you pound against them with your other fist. "Stop! I don't like this. Let me go!"
"...Katie?"
The voice from the darkness freezes you in your tracks, and you stare at that dark shape in disbelief. Your hand goes limp in the monster's grasp, and you look up at it in confusion. "I don't understand. Why is my aunt here?"
It drops your hand so it can do an excited little hop. "You were looking for this, yes? This is home."
"No…" You lower your voice, not wanting your aunt to hear. Despite everything that happened, you don't want to hurt her feelings. "She's not… that's not home any more."
"Ahhh, I see, I see! Then you are in the right place."
You turn, but the birdlike monster is gone. In its place is a tall figure in dark robes, their face lost in the shadows of their hood. They look a little like the river person, but this new creature doesn't feel nearly as warm and welcoming as she does (or he, or whatever they feel like being that day). This new thing doesn't feel much like a monster at all.
"You have come." The creature's voice skitters down your spine like a hundred angry whispers. "Good. It is time to repay this woman what she is owed."
"What she…" You peer into the shadows, wondering why your aunt hasn't come toward you. None of this makes any sense. "I don't understand."
The creature raises an arm, and light floods the tent. You realize now why your aunt hasn't moved - she's bound fast to the tentpole. A little table stands in front of you, and your eyes widen at the sight of the gun on it. You back away quickly, but you can't go far. Your feet freeze, locked in place as though bolted to the floor.
"Let go!" You strain with all your strength, but your feet won't budge.
The creature just shakes its head. "This woman hurt you. This woman drove you up the mountain. Is that not so?"
You stop tugging at your feet to glance at your aunt. Her head bows beneath the weight of the creature's accusations, and you can't deny the truth in them. "Yes… but it's not as simple as that!"
"Then you must give her what she deserves. Had the flowers not broken your fall, she would have cost you your life. You must take hers in turn."
"No! Why would I do a thing like that?"
"It is only fair."
You scowl, yanking hard at your boots. "That's not fair! That's just… Just…"
Pretty dang awful.
"...awful!"
The creature sighs, a sound like the wind in the trees in winter. "Then you must pay with your life instead. A life is owed. A life must be taken. You must choose."
"I will not!" You pull out of your shoes and tumble headlong into the table. Cold metal brushes against your hand, and everything in you recoils. You will not be forced into this. Not this time. You've been told before that there was no way out but to kill, but you were never very good at doing what you're told.
What your hand finally closes over isn't the same gun that was on the table you crashed into. It's smaller, and lighter, and made of plastic. Struggling to your knees, you bring the toy to bear, and aim it at the hooded creature. "Let us go. Now!"
The creature tilts its head, and you can feel the weight of its stare from the depths of its hood. "Interesting. But it will not save you." It turns to look at your aunt. "I will do it myself, then."
"No you won't! " As the creature moves toward your aunt, you pull the trigger. Nothing leaves the gun, but the creature staggers anyway, rocked by the force of your will.
Strong hands close over yours, tugging the toy gun away from you. That won't stop it long, darlin'. You go fetch your aunt. I'll take care of this.
"Thank you," you breathe, more gratitude in those two words than there is water in the ocean. The girl crouched next to you smiles, her green eyes bright above the freckles dusting her cheeks, and she touches the brim of her hat.
You know I got your back. Now get.
You don't need to be told again. Ducking the creature's reaching arm, you bolt toward the pole where your aunt is tied. A crack behind you heralds another shot, and you wince. That was way, way too close. Skidding to a halt in front of your aunt, you grab the ropes, your hands fumbling at the knots, but they're tied so tightly you can't get a grip on them.
"Katie? What's happening? I'm scared, Katie."
"Don't…" You grunt, yanking at the ropes. "...call me Katie. And it'll be okay. I'll get you out-"
Your hands slip on the ropes and sink into your aunt's arm, tearing through it like it's paper. And much like paper, it scores your skin in stinging, razor cuts. You recoil, clutching your hands to your chest, and back straight into someone else. As you cry out, a warm hand takes yours, squeezing reassurance, and you fall silent as you cling fiercely to it.
I got us some breathing room, but we're not out of the woods yet. That thing's hopping mad, and I think it's just mustering for another round. You done yet?
"No!" You tighten your hold on the girl's hand, and she looks down at you in alarm. "I didn't… Something happened. I didn't mean to, but…" You gesture at your aunt's arm. This whole time, your aunt has said nothing more. Just stared at the hole in her arm with a calm sort of bemusement.
Sighing, the girl gets down on her knees, holstering the toy gun, and takes your hands. Well, seems to me you got a choice now. This lady had a lot to do with a bunch of the holes in that heart of yours, and your new friends may be good at patching, but that don't make it right.
"She didn't mean to…" you whisper.
No, I don't reckon she did. But she did it all the same. So what do you do now? You could leave her.
Even the thought of being left behind in this awful place is enough to send a violent shudder through you, and though it was the girl's suggestion, she smiles at that. Thought not. You don't run for that kind of justice, do you? She rises to her feet again and tousles your hair. So what are you waiting for? Go do your thing.
You nod, and close the distance between you and your aunt. Your hands are shaking, but the girl is right. This situation may not be fair, but leaving your aunt here isn't fair either. "It hurts," you say, glancing back over your shoulder.
The right thing often does, the girl replies. Don't mean it ain't worth doing.
Nodding again, you grip the ragged edges of the hole in your aunt's arm and pull. With a sickening tear, it gives beneath your grasp, the hole spreading beneath the ropes and pulling wider apart. Something small and white spills from the gaping wound, and a warm, buttery smell hits you a moment later. For an instant, you pause, looking in confusion at the popcorn pooling around your feet. Then, you redouble your efforts. You plunge your hands into the ragged edges of your aunt, biting your lip as they slice through your skin, and dig through the popcorn and around the ropes until your grasping hands encounter something solid. Seizing it with all your strength, you pull, and slowly drag a small child free of the popcorn. She stares at you, blinking in the sudden light, and throws her arms around you, clinging tightly. Staggering only a little under her weight, you turn back to the other girl. Before you can get a word out, a terrible wind rips through the tent, flinging back the canvas at the opening. In the darkness beyond, the shadows begin to seethe and roil.
It's back, and it ain't alone. She pulls her hat off, jamming it down over your curls, and jerks her head toward the other end of the tent. Go. I got us covered.
You pull the child more closely to you, and run. Behind you, the wind screams as the tiny pops of the toy gun tear into it. You press the child's head against you, covering her ears as best you can, and you plunge through the side of the tent. The rough canvas scrapes over you like wire mesh, tearing strips into you, but after a moment of pushing, you're free. You keep running, twisting and ducking through the alleys between rides and game stands, until you come to a battered wooden fence. Dropping to your knees, you push through a crack in a broken board, and find yourself on a small patch of grass in the darkness. The sounds of the wind have stopped for now. Panting, you lean your head back against the fence, and do your best to console the terrified child buried against you.
Who-ee. The girl drops down next to you, tipping her hat back on your head so she can examine your scratched face properly. Those are some nasty pieces of work. How you holdin' up, darlin'? Not wanting to say anything in front of the child, you just stare miserably over the child's head. The girl winces and runs a hand through her short, red hair. They sure did a number on you. Hold up, I think I got something that can help.
She crouches down, running her hands through the grass, muttering quietly until she sits back with a crow of delight. Bingo! All we needed was a little luck.Grinning, she holds up a clover. Taking her hat back from you, she nestles the clover in your hair, just above your ear. Immediately, a golden wave of warmth runs through you, bathing your hurts in light and leaving only a dull ache in their wake.
That settled, she crosses her legs, and raises a brow. So. Who's the kid?
"My aunt… I think?" You pet the child's dark hair gently, but she still refuses to look up.
Huh. She doesn't take care of you proper, and now you have to take care of her? That don't seem fair.
"That's not it, I don't think," you say slowly. The child in your arms shudders, and you pull her closer. Something about the whole strange situation nags at you, demanding that you look at it again. Then, your gaze snaps upward to meet that of the other girl. "She was young."
Still is, darlin.' Hasn't been that long since you pulled her out.
"No, I mean my aunt. My grown-up aunt. She was… She was young." You frown. "I guess I never really thought about it before. She was always just a grown-up."
So what changed?
"Some of my new grown-ups are a few centuries old."
Yeah, that'd do it. Pulling another clover out of the grass, the girl scoots closer to you and sets it next to the first before putting her arm around you. As you lean into her, the light within you intensifies until all you can feel is the warmth. So what's it mean?
"I think… I wonder if maybe she wasn't ready to have kids. She was always my mom's baby sister. She didn't have anyone else, and then my parents had me and couldn't help her with my cousin, and then my parents…" You shudder, and the girl makes a soft, consoling sound as she kisses your hair. Drawing strength from it, you press on. "Then she had two kids she wasn't ready for. And my cousin…"
Is a real piece of work. Yeah, I got that. Sighing, she rests her cheek against your head. Still don't make it right.
"No, it doesn't," you say. "But it makes it understandable."
And that helps?
"Yeah," you say. The child finally looks up, and you wipe the tears from her wide brown eyes. "Because now it's easier to believe it wasn't me. "
The other girl smiles at you, but there's pity in it. Those are some wise words, for sure, but you know it ain't gonna be that easy to get over after everything that happened.
"No," you say, and hug the child tightly. "But it's a start."
The other girl laughs, holding you close, and you're happy to let her shoulder part of your load. You rest your head against her chest, your eyes lingering on the shiny star pinned to her shirt, watching the light glint off it as she breathes. Ah, darlin' you always did have funny ideas about what's right. But I can't say as it hasn't worked out for you. If you really want to take on that rugrat there, I'll do what I can to help.
"I know you will," you say, with a small, smug grin. "It's only fair."
She gives you a playful cuff on the back of the head. Hey, now don't you start that. I-
A wind picks up, rushing around you, and both of you tighten your grips on the respective others you're holding. "What's that?" you whisper.
She doesn't look happy, her eyes narrowing as she glares at the fence. All this talk of fair and we took our eyes off that big fair behind us. And I don't think this fair is a particularly fun one. The faraway screams from the midway emphasize her point, and she bolts to her feet, dragging you with her. They're coming, Frisk. You go. Run.
With a crack, the fence shatters, and a tide of twisted, misshapen figures pours through the breach. While they might have been human or monster once, the things that surge toward you are neither, so twisted that they are barely recognizable, smearing together in a blur of sawdust and greasepaint. The child screams, and you draw her close to you and flee. Behind you, the toy gun pops, buying you just enough time to pull ahead of the crowd and their grasping claws.
Your stagger, your bare feet slipping in the damp grass, but strong hands steady you and push you on ahead. She's running next to you, firing back over her shoulder, but her face tells you all you need to know. "We're not going to make it, are we?" you call.
Never say never, darlin'. We make it over this hill, they might start to think it's too much trouble. She frowns, firing twice in quick succession. You'll be faster if you put her down.
In answer, you just scowl and hold the child closer. "We'll find another way."
Suit yourself. You know she wouldn't do the same for you.
"I know," you whisper, the words bitter in your mouth. The child looks up at you, guilt and pain writ large in her eyes, but she doesn't deny it. You just shake your head. Your human family may be a mess, but it's still your family, and you've buried enough of them already. You're not going to give up any more.
"Little one." The voice of a thousand whispers swirls around you, and you glance back. The shadow figure looms above the crowd, arms spread wide. "Little one. You know what you must do. Help us, and we will reward you. We will give you what you deserve."
It's then that you realize that the poisoned whispers aren't meant for you. "No!" you cry. "It doesn't mean what you think!" By then, it's too late. The child's spindly legs tangle with yours, and you stumble, your grip slipping. The other girl screams, the toy gun cracking as she realizes you've fallen behind, and you reach for the child, determined to forgive her once more for her selfishness.
But there's nothing left to forgive. You catch one glimpse of terrified brown eyes before the earth closes above them, and you're left staring at a featureless brown crater sitting like a scar in the green. Screaming, you dig your hands into the dirt, your fingers scrabbling at the packed soil until your nails tear and bleed, but no matter how far or how fast you dig, there's nothing there. The child is gone. They've taken her, and you're not fast enough, not strong enough to get her back.
"She got what she deserved," the whispers slide across your skin. "But if you wish, you may join her."
Frisk, leave it! We have to go!
Her arms are around you, tugging you away, but you refuse to get to your feet. The horde is closing in, but you can't leave now. Crying your aunt's name, you plunge your hands back into the soil, and it begins to swallow you as well.
Fine. You're gonna be an idiot? Her arms latch tightly around your waist. Then I'm coming too.
There's no time for a reply. With no further warning, the earth catches hold and drags you down into darkness.
You bolt upright, your breath coming in ragged gasps and your throat raw from screaming. You barely have a chance to register that you're not outside, but safe and warm in your bed, before the door bursts open, and the sight of the looming shadow bearing a huge, wicked trident makes you scream again, clutching your blankets close.
But the voice that demands, "What is it? What's wrong?" is rich, and warm, and familiar, and nothing like the skittering whispers, and you remember where you are.
Blushing deep with mortification, you draw the blankets up to your nose. "Sorry, Dad."
He follows your gaze to the trident in his hand, and gives a soft, "oh!" before it vanishes with a quick twist of his wrist. The weapon was the only piece of his royal paraphernalia on him; the crown only ever comes out for official state functions any more, and his "Rad Dad" pyjamas stand in place of his armour. But there's still a quiet authority to him as he slowly approaches your bed, cautious, and wary of frightening you further. He holds out a hand, offering, but not demanding. "There's nothing to be sorry about, young one. Bad dreams again?"
You nod, freeing a hand from the tangle of blankets to reach for him. Your hand is nearly lost in his as his clawed fingers fold around yours, but the heat of his lightly-furred palm is enough to banish some of the chill and the fear in your heart, and you shiver in relief as he sits next to you. He freezes then, his face twisted with uncertainty as he tries to figure out the cause of the shiver, and you can't take the ache of being alone any longer. Unwilling to wait for him to figure it out, you pull your hand from his and crawl into his lap instead.
Immediately, his arms close around you, and he's so big he can practically hold you in one hand, but his size isn't as scary as it used to be, for you know it's only ever used these days to hold you close and keep you safe. Your fingers knot in his pyjamas as you bury your face against his shoulder. He turns to you, his whiskers tickling your cheeks as he gently nuzzles you with his nose.
"There, there," he soothes, softly stroking your back until you stop shaking, and some of the painful tension begins to loosen its hold on you. "It's over. I'm here." His hand stills, and you raise your head, and both of you know exactly what he's thinking, for it's written all over his face. Unless I'm the nightmare… So you snuggle closer, resting your head against him, and he resumes his soothing care. There is a lot you need to talk about, but it can wait until morning. Right now, you need him here to banish the shadows and the whispers in the dark; adding to them isn't going to help either of you.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks after some time, and you shake your head. He hesitates, and then asks, "...do you need me to call your mother?"
"No," you say at once, meaning it. It's not that Toriel isn't a comfort and light when the bad dreams are after you, but Asgore is just as good, for all that he's afraid that he isn't. The trident startled you - when you're not ready for it, it has a way of calling up flashes of memory that never happened and hurts that exist only as shadowy aches in your bones on cold days - but the fact that he was here, half-asleep but ready to fight off whatever had made you cry out, and the certain knowledge that had anything real been threatening you, it would have met a very swift and untimely end… Both of these things fill you with determination.
Dad's house is a small one. He lives at the Embassy suite when you're not staying with him, you suspect because he's really not comfortable living anywhere that doesn't have a family in it, so he never felt the need to get a house with enough room for your entire adopted family like the Big House. His little house in town isn't quite as fun as Alphys' and Undyne's, or as cozy as Sans' and Papyrus' house. But Asgore's house is big enough to have a bedroom for you, and space for your pictures on the walls, and a little garden in the back, because Asgore is physically incapable of living anywhere for any length of time and not having a garden grow up around him. It's enough. And right now, you honestly don't want to be anywhere else.
"No," you say again. "I'm happy here."
"Are you?" he asks. "Really?" There's something in his voice that makes you look up, and there's a question stirring in the warm depths of his brown eyes. You know a thing or two about questions you're afraid to ask, and it draws a smile from you. You reach up to pet his cheek, your hand very small against his face, but it's enough to make him mirror your expression. It's a smile full of a strange mix of hope and sadness, but you understand that feeling too.
"Yes," you say, and settle yourself against him. "I am."
Like so many things in your life, it's a statement full of cracks, and scuffs, and chips. But it's real, and it's healing, and it's enough for now, and he holds you, keeping you warm and safe as you drift back to sleep. It doesn't make up for all the things that left the shadows in both of your hearts, but it's something he can do, and it's a beginning. You've both been planting the seeds of this since the day you led him out of the Underground, and that's the thing about seeds… They grow.
The crisp wind teases the edge of your scarf, and you draw it more tightly around you, trying to form enough layers to cover the holes. It may not be the best-made scarf in the world, but Undyne was fiercely proud when she gave it to you, and you love it just as fiercely.
The wind stops suddenly, and you glance up to find Asgore standing behind you, shielding you from the breeze. You grin as he sits next to you and eagerly grab the thermos he offers. You take a quick sip, but like all his tea, it's the perfect temperature, warm enough to heat you through to the tips of your toes, but never hot enough to hurt. He's sweetened it just the way you like it, and you sigh happily. Your reaction to his tea never fails to get a smile or a laugh from him, and he ruffles your hair for good measure.
Reluctantly setting your thermos aside, you pick up the basket that sits between you and peer at the little bulbs inside. "I thought you were supposed to plant stuff in spring," you say.
"Most plants like that," he answers, plucking one of the little bulbs from the basket. It's so small that he has to hold it between his claws, but he does so with the ease of long practice. "But the spring flowers are different. They like to have a good long sleep before they come out."
"Like a groundhog?" you ask.
He laughs. "I reckon so."
"And that's why we're planting these in fall?" You tilt the basket, though you're careful not to bruise the bulbs. "What are these, anyway?"
"Snowdrops," he says, placing the bulb he's holding back with the others. "They'll be up before any of their brothers and sisters come spring."
"In the snow?" You stare at the plain little round things in amazement. You've never seen a flower in the snow before. Not even…
"Sometimes," Asgore says, blithely unaware of your train of thought. "Though most times around these parts, they do wait until the snow is off the ground." He hands you a small gardening fork just your size and takes the basket in return. "Now then. Where shall we plant these little ones?"
Dad's garden is a lot smaller than the other ones he tends to, and it's already overflowing with flowers, but there has to be somewhere left for these ones. Your roving gaze stops, and you point at the big oak tree at the bottom of the garden. "There," you say. "Right at the bottom."
"The tree it is! Upsa-daisy!" Even though it's only a few steps away, he scoops you into his arms, unleashing a stream of giggles from you as he carts you over to the tree.
As soon as he sets you down, you begin to dig into the dirt, carefully carving out a new home for the little snowdrops without damaging the tree's roots. Asgore kneels next to you, his claws tearing up the grass surrounding the tree. As he works, he peers closely at the tufts of grass, looking for new seeds too tiny to notice straight away. It's an old habit with him, but even so, you startle a little as he lets out a soft cry, digging his claws into the tuft in his hand.
"Look!" He holds out his triumphant discovery to you, and you cup your hands carefully around the tiny four-leafed clover. "These are very lucky, you know," he says as you look down on it with a wistful smile.
"I know," you say, and tuck it into your hair. "What do you think?"
"Very nice," he says. There's a note of sadness in his his voice, but he pats your head, careful not to disturb the little clover. "I knew another child once who was very partial to these." His gaze grows distant, and there's a roughness to his voice that causes an echoing pang in your heart.
"She just wanted so badly to make things fair and right," you whisper, placing a snowdrop bulb in the hole you've made for it. When you look up, Asgore is staring at you, shock and something worse written on his face, and you have to look away. This is why you can't talk about these things. You don't want him to hurt any more than he already does.
"Frisk," he says in a harsh whisper. "How do you know that?"
You try to answer, but you can't find the words. Slowly, you plant another snowdrop.
"Little one," he says, and you have to look up. It's not often that he talks like Mom, and he usually saves it for when he's serious. But the pain is gone from his face. No… not gone, but hidden, buried deep for your sake. It's there if you know what to look for, but he doesn't want you to see. He's still worried, that much is plain, but he smiles, and his voice is gentle when he speaks. "Please. Talk to me."
"I don't know how." One of the snowdrops is upside down, and you fix it so that it can grow the right way.
One of the biggest differences between your parents is that Dad has always been content to wait until you've thought about what you need to say and you're ready to talk. He's quiet for a while, and you concentrate on what you're doing, taking comfort in his warmth as you work together, his big hands moving next to yours as you empty the basket. Finally, you look up at him, wrapping yours arms around yourself. "Do you remember what happened the day I met you?" you ask.
So strange that it was only one day. It seems like so much longer. So much happened on the day when you found him in his garden. When you fought him. No… when Toriel stopped you from ever fighting him. When you became his child.
His eyes are shadowed as he answers you. "Not, I think, as much as you. I remember a light. And then the souls were gone, but so was the Barrier, and there you were to lead us out." His eyes widen in alarm, and he reaches out to take your hands. "Frisk… The souls were gone. Did… Did you…?"
You shake your head. "No. They helped, but they're free now."
"Then how…?"
You shrug, patting the last of the dirt back into place above the snowdrops. "I'm not sure," you say. "It's like they left…" You frown. This is another reason why you hate talking about this. It's really hard to find the words to explain a thing you don't really understand. "Not echoes. That's not right. Echoes get quieter the more they talk. These get louder."
"Seeds," he says slowly. "They planted seeds."
And seeds grow. You raise a hand to your chest, looking down at it. You haven't felt it in a while, but you still remember what it feels like to have your soul pulled from you, branding you with your humanity and your determination for everyone to see. The other souls all brushed against it that day. Maybe, like the seeds of the yellow flowers, they left something behind. "Yeah. So sometimes I know things. What they'd think. Or feel. Or say." There's more than that. Things you know that you should have no way of knowing, like how one of them feels about a friend of yours they never met. But that's further than you're ready to go, and Asgore is upset enough already.
He's turned in on himself, staring at the hands in his lap as though he doesn't recognize them. Slowly, you inch over to him and place one of your hands on his. He startles, and blinks as he looks at you, and you would almost believe the smile he turns on you if you hadn't seen the expression that came just before it. "Do not worry about me, little one," he says.
"Someone has to take care of these flowers," you finish, quietly. He's looking at you strangely again, and you scoot close enough to curl up against his side. Your hand is still on his, and you play lightly with his claws as you think about what to say. "It's okay," you say. "I know you're upset. You don't have to pretend you're not just for me."
He sighs, and the hand you're not holding draws you closer, keeping you warm. "I should be saying that to you, sweetie. I am saying it to you. You have been through so much already, and I am your father. It is my job to take care of you, not the other way 'round. I am here for you."
You raise a hand to scrub away the tears stinging your eyes. "I know. Really, I know. I just… I can't talk about it, Dad. I can't."
"Very well," he says reluctantly. "But promise me that if you need to, you will talk to someone. It does not have to be me."
You think of eyes dark with the shadows of the not-quite-memories that you both share, the soul behind them already burdened enough that you can't hurt it any more than fate already has, and you nod. "I promise." But there's one more thing you need to ask, and the weight of it scares you. "Dad?" you say softly.
"Yes?"
"...why did you do it?"
He freezes, then tries to let go of you, but you cling to his hands, desperately afraid that if you create this distance between you now, it will never close again. After a moment, he seems to realize that you're not asking because you're afraid, and he relents, tucking you more securely beneath his arm. He sighs as you burrow against him, shivering, and he shifts you just enough that he can wrap his jacket around you.
"I wish I had an answer that made it all right," he says at last, "but I don't. I was angry, and frightened, and heartbroken, and then I was trapped. I knew of no other way out, for myself or for my people, and after a time, I stopped believing that there was a way out. I could not bring myself to do what your mother wished me to do, but I could not abandon my decree either. Not without condemning all of those who looked to me for hope and dooming them to despair instead. And so I carry the weight of those six souls with me, and regret."
You shudder, not from the cold, but from the thoughts you usually bury deep that rise in response to his words. "You weren't the only one."
"No," he says, gentle and sad. "But I am the king, and what was done in my name was my responsibility. This is one of the burdens of leadership that you must learn, my little Ambassador." He must have noticed the look on your face at that, for he strokes your hair and passes you your forgotten tea, which you gulp greedily in hopes of banishing the chill creeping through you. "Don't be afraid, young one. There are any number of monsters around you who will do everything in our power to make sure you never have make the decisions we did." His quiet laugh is sad, but his eyes are warm as he looks down on you. "Though you do have an alarming habit of being presented with two paths and breaking down a wall to make a third."
You make a face. "Sometimes the choices people give me are stupid."
That makes him laugh again, sounding much more like Dad this time. "Too true, my wise child. The truth is, I had long since given up hope that there was any other way than that which I had chosen." He cups your chin, being careful with his claws. "I am very, very grateful that you turned up and showed me that I was wrong. I may not know what you did, exactly. But I am thankful each and every day that you did it."
His hand falls away from your face, and you strain your arms to hug as much of him as you can reach. The feeling in your heart is too big for words, though 'grateful' is definitely a part of it. Despite everything that happened to you, despite all the nightmares, you never dreamed of finding a family that loved you as much as the one that you had lost. What you have now, though very different, is better than anything you ever could have hoped for. You love them all so much that it scares you sometimes, and you're starting to realize just how much they love you back. There's really only one other person you know who understands just how scary it can be to feel so much love when you felt nothing for so long, and you can't exactly go have a chat with him whenever the feelings are too big. All you can do is hold fast to the nearest member of your family and ride out the storm. Fortunately, Asgore is very good at that part.
"You're not sorry for any of it?" you ask at last.
"For anything you did, no," he says. "I regret that whatever it was gave you these dreams that you cannot talk about, but no part of me can be sorry that you are in our lives." He bows his head, and there are tears shining in his eyes. "But I am sorry each and every day for those other six. I only wish there was something I could do."
You blink, something stirring yellow and bright within you. "Do you really?" you ask. "Really truly?"
He nods solemnly. "Really truly."
You frown, tightening your hold on him beneath the shelter of his jacket as you try to make sense of the confusion of thoughts swirling within you. They're trying to take shape, but it's a very big shape, and you're still a very small kid, and you're not sure there's room within you for everything they're trying to become. But Asgore is a very big monster. Surely, there's room enough in him.
"You know that weird place in the Embassy? The one that kind of showed up even though nobody actually meant to build it?"
"The Sanctuary?" Asgore asks, raising a brow.
You nod. "I think… I think maybe I have an idea."
His breath hitches, but he smiles as he rises to his feet, scooping you up with a speed that leaves you giggling. "Well then," he says. "Let us go inside where it's warm and make some more tea, and you can tell me about this idea of yours."
You wrap your arms around his neck and nod your agreement, but your eyes fall on the little patch of bare soil beneath the tree, and you tug on his beard. He stops, and looks at where you're pointing. "Will they grow?" you ask.
"Ah, Frisk," he says, and nuzzles your nose, making you laugh again. "If you had a hand in it, I don't imagine they would dare do anything else."
He carries you back into the warmth of the little house, and you look over his shoulder, resting your chin against it as he walks. The tree stands tall, keeping watch over the little patch of bare ground where the snowdrops wait, dreaming beneath the earth until the time comes for them to break into the light once more.