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A golden, otherworldly light fills the throne room. But Asgore cannot be fooled by such things. He knows that there are only a few minutes left until midnight, and the moon has been hanging over the mountain for a long time. The king of the monsters makes himself more comfortable on his throne and waits. They'll be here soon.
The ringing birdsong grows quieter, as if someone is turning on an invisible volume control.
The first to appear is a girl with a ribbon woven into her hair. The moment of her arrival, as always, remains a mystery. Asgore only notes the shadow standing to his right and averts his gaze.
The second, to his left and further away, appears a boy with a bandanna tied around his neck.
The monster feels his fingers begin to stick with blood. It's hot, as if it spilled seconds ago.
Asgore closes his eyes. He doesn't need to look to know that a girl in a ballet tutu will appear next to these two.
Blood rises from his fingers to his wrists, soaking the dirty white fur like a sponge.
Then the boy, clutching an old notebook torn at one edge to his chest like something invaluable, usually comes. Glasses with dirty lenses stand out clearly on his face, even though it's shrouded in some ghostly haze that makes it hard to see even his general features.
None of these kids have a face to be seen, really. For that, he is grateful.
The next to arrive is a girl in an apron with spots and a boy in an unusual hat. The semicircle near the throne closes. The gradually fading sounds suddenly disappear completely. And the throne room seems to be covered with an impenetrable dome. Asgore feels a sickening warm moisture creep up to his elbows.
He knows that in reality there is no blood there. Asgore did not personally kill any of the children. But he was the one who gave the order, the verdict, that doomed those who got lost in this huge, but so cramped cave in advance. The one who preemptively judged children for things they did not do. The one who wanted to buy freedom from this prison by paying for it with other people's lives.
And his hands are dirtier than the hands of any of the monsters in the Underground.
Small bodies with bowed heads were simply brought to him, and Asgore would silently open the vault with SOULs. And then he would carry the useless shells into the basement, where they would remain in dark silence forever.
That's what he thought at first.
However, every night the dead children leave their coffins to pay a visit to the king. Their faces are not visible, there are black holes in their chests. But they do not stretch out their hands demanding their SOULs back, they do not utter reproachful speeches. They just stand and stare all night, completely motionless. Wherever Asgore is, no matter how many doors and locks separate him from the ill-fated basement. Because of this, he stopped sleeping in his bed a long time ago. Sleep still doesn't come when they're around.
The monster covers his face with his hands, as if his closed eyelids weren’t enough. He would gladly cover his ears, but he knows that it is useless.
In his head, as of now, the noise of a war long past, the rattle of weapons and howls. Whether human or monster, he can no longer tell.
In his head, as of now, the joyful laughter of children from a happier time. And if he tries very, very hard, he can imagine that, just like before, these two children are running around the garden.
"Demon, show yourself! I, Asriel, command you!" a fluffy white monster says loudly, wrapped in some colored rags over a green sweater — he has two black stripes on his muzzle, crookedly painted with paint over his fur — and plops down on the floor in fright when a girl in exactly the same sweater jumps out at him. Her pink cheeks are painted too, but it's more spread out, making the mock "war paint" something creepier. "Coward," she chuckles contentedly, scratching her pale nose, strewn with freckles, and smearing the black color on it as well.
In his head, as of now, was the terrible cry of his wife, who fell to her knees into the gray dust scattered throughout this very hall. Never before and never since had he heard anything like it.
At first, Asgore thought about how strange it was to be surrounded by such silence, yet to have his head filled with internal noise. Now he doesn't care anymore.
He doesn't open his eyes. It is not necessary. None of the uninvited guests will move until morning, so there is no point in checking. Six children whom he does not want to see come to him every night. And the perky and sometimes overly harsh girl, with whom he has been dreaming of at least one meeting for many years, is never among them. Sometimes it seems like it's because her SOUL isn't in the vault. Other times, however, it seems that she simply has no desire to see him.
The first thought makes him feel as good as the second thought makes him feel bad.
The pain, which once cut worse than a knife, has long been dulled, turning into an aching emptiness inside. Asgore lost his desire to see the sun again a long time ago. He no longer has a son, to whom he wants to show the fathomless blue of the sky. No wife and daughter to whom he wants to give that sky back.
And the desire for revenge no longer burns from the inside as it used to. No, it hasn’t gone away, but now it looks more like the ghost of an old dream. A dirty, vile dream.
It's too late to change anything, though. Asgore still has people who, by some misunderstanding, simply adore their king, as if not noticing or realizing what he has done. Adores and believes in him. As much as they believe in their imminent release.
And Asgore, by inertia, continues what he once started. And if he gives up everything now, it means that innocent children died absolutely in vain.
He opens his eyes and looks up. And for a moment it seemed that the children were silently looking at each other until being seen. This can only mean one thing: another person has fallen into the Ruins.
And something tells him that this time they'll most likely come to the king in person. Each new child progresses a little further through the Underground than his predecessor. And the last one didn't get very far to the throne room.
Asgore sighs barely audibly and, after waiting for the ghosts to disappear, rises from the throne. The moment of their departure is as imperceptible as their appearance. One has only to blink, and the big horned monster is left alone again.
The sounds return, covering like an avalanche. The chirping of birds seems deafening.
The king looks around the garden, the most beautiful and most terrible place in the Underground, in which there is not a trace of uninvited guests. And he thinks that he will still have time to water the flowers. And he will have time to be a sweet, good-natured man, almost the same as he once was.
Before becoming a monster again.