To Live

by clockwork_demon (Clockwork_Demon)

Summary:

Every time you die, your friends forget you a little more.

---

A week before Undyne's promotion to Captain of the Royal Guard, Asgore and her have breakfast together and quarrel over the meaning of the words "day off." The following day, Asgore and her have breakfast together and quarrel over the meaning of the words "day off." The following day, Asgore and her have breakfast together and quarrel over the meaning of the words "day off." The following day

(Written for kill a character bingo 2024.)

Chapter 1: Prologue: Once Upon A Time

Notes:

Hello and welcome! Thanks so much for clicking on this fic, I hope it's worth your time ^^

This fanfic has been written for the Kill a character bingo 2024 writing event. The basic premise is to kill the same character (Undyne in my case) in 25 different ways based on the prompts given in the bingo card. I'll be posting what prompt each chapter was based on in the end notes to avoid spoilers. Thank you very much for your time, I hope you can enjoy.

(And to anyone clicking on this to check if any of my old works are abandoned - they're not! I was just running out of 2024 for this 2024-based challenge, so it's taken precedence. Thank you for your patience.)

The throne room was always Asriel's favourite.

 

There were many reasons for it. Like the warm shade of yellow covering the walls, or how shiny and glossy the tiled orange marble floor was kept. If he looked down he could see his reflection smiling back at him as clearly as he would in a mirror, but in a soothing, homey hue.

 

The stained glass windows puzzled him when he, mom and dad first moved in. All light in the Underground is electric; why would they want windows? The only times he'd seen the Sun back then were in Home. Little warm dots he'd try to catch in his hands, or trap against mom's soft fur when she held him tight.

 

Oh his surprise when he first saw the throne room during the day. More sunlight poured into than he'd ever seen. Through the openings up top and the windows he'd been confused by, it set the walls and floor ablaze. It cut cleanly through the stained glass, drawing the shape of the Delta Rune on each window and projecting its inky shadow across the floor, stretching and shrinking depending on the Sun's position in the sky.

 

It was that warmth, that proximity to the Surface, which always wound up luring him, and later Chara, to the throne room. The round patches of sunlight filtering from above, warm, illuminating every corner of the throne room slid across the floor from morning to night as the Sun snaked across the sky. Chara and Asriel picked a spot each day and, provided mom and dad didn't need the throne room, followed the trail it would etch across the floor. Playing, studying, or perhaps simply talking. About anything and everything, just the two of them and the Sun for hours on end.

 

That day, the sunspot the siblings had picked's path was cut off by mom and dad's thrones. The imposing gold-gilded seats reflected little dapples of sunlight through the shadows across the ceiling, columns and walls. Chara and Asriel sat below the thrones. Their speck of sunlight was close to passing over them and leaving both siblings in shadow. Until that moment, though, the two of them sat back to back on the floor, warm, working on crowns of roses for mom and dad.

 

"It's almost the anniversary of when dad was kinged," Chara had proposed the previous night before going to bed. "I think we should make him and mom our own crowns!"

 

And so it was decided. After breakfast, when they managed to evade mom and dad's relentless attempts at keeping them longer in the house with temptations of snuggles and helping mom bake some pie, they'd taken as many flowers from the multiple pots around the house as they could and run down to the throne room.

 

Their sunlit splotch was near the entrance when they began working on their respective crowns. They were harder to make than it seemed. For Asriel anyway; Chara excelled at them as they did everything they put themself to. He was going to do dad's crown originally, but his head being bigger than mom's, and having to account for his horns it became too daunting a task, so he had to swap with Chara.

 

Chara always did a good job at everything. Asriel was lucky to have them.

 

The promise of warm, recently made buttersotch pie at their return, hearing dad's soft baritone humming gently from time to time when he went down to the Hall of Judgement, the soft warmth of Chara's back against Asriel's enhanced by that of the Sun from above...

 

Asriel sighed, content, continuing to link the supple flowers between his fingers. Mom and dad would love--

 

"Are you good, Az?"

 

Good? Heavens, the word didn't do the feeling in Asriel's chest justice. He tilted his head back, resting it on Chara's shoulder. "I'm more than good. We're having a great day, don't you think?"

 

Though his neck was strained and the sunlight pouring directly into his eyes forced him to close them, Asriel could hardly feel any better. Chara hummed, pensive, before leaning their head into his.

 

"Yeah, I do. This is more fun than I thought. I hope mom and dad like them."

 

The little pause in their work was filled with nothing but their breathing and the warmth emanating from more than just the sunlight. Asriel rubbed his head into Chara's shoulder affectionately. They returned in kind.

 

There weren't enough words in his vocabulary for all the emotions bubbling in his heart. Softness, joy, warmth, happiness, love... Who knew it was possible to feel so much? A simple morning doing nothing but spending time with his sibling in the sunlit throne room, enjoying each other's company. With every passing day, Asriel was more thankful to have found Chara, to have them as his best friend. His family was the best part of everything, always.

 

It was a beautiful day. Asriel would have liked nothing more than to stop time and stay there, feeling so much indefinitely.

 

Forever.

Notes:

This was just the prologue, it's not based on a prompt, so none apply. The prologue and the epilogue aren't part of the bingo proper. It's the 25 chapters in between that will contain the deaths and murders, so see you on the other side! ^^

Chapter 2: Good Riddance

Notes:

This is where the fun begins! Hopefully, at least.

Update schedule is first 10 chapters this week to get on track to finish this fic before 2025, and from next week onwards just two a week.

"I presume you understand the meaning of 'day off', correct?"

 

With an irritated sigh, Undyne rolls her eye, flipping her pony tail over her back. The sliver of cold, electric light it reflects slides up and down her hair in a fluid motion as it flies over her shoulder and settles behind the back of her chair.

 

She leans forwards on the kitchen table, arms crossed and glaring at him over her mostly untouched pancakes. The white wood groans under the weight of her muscled torso. "We've already been over this. I don't need any time off, alright?"

 

The bite in her voice is far more fierce than the one her sharp teeth could ever produce. A warning sign to drop it and enjoy breakfast.

 

If she did not look as dreadful as she does, if her eye weren't sunken with exhaustion and she had settled for golden flower tea instead of coffee, as she normally does, Asgore would not hesitate to comply. Arguing with her brings nothing good. She is by and large far too stubborn to listen, and time to spend with loved ones is too limited to waste on petty quarrels.

 

"Dad, help! Asriel won't stop--!"

 

...But as it is, his soon-to-be Captain of the Royal Guard needs to take a break. And if she is incapable of caring for herself, he will need to be more persuasive.

 

Asgore takes a long sip of his tea. Sublime; by now it is colder than the off-white of his house's walls and furniture. Caffeine and exhaustion are doing numbers on Undyne. Her right hand fiddles with the golden chain tucked beneath her sweater. She wraps and unwraps it absent-mindedly around her index and middle fingers. Her eye is trained on the clock to her left, leaving her most recent injury visible.

 

Yet another sparring session taken too far. A red mark crossing from the corner of her eye to her hairline. It will not scar, but still...

 

"Your Majesty, about her eye--"

 

He sets his mug down. "If it must come to this, so be it." Until she turns to look at him, resting her head in the palm of her hand, unamused expression and eyebrow raised, he doesn't continue.

 

"You do not wish to hear it, but you need a break. You are not invulnerable, and acting otherwise..."

 

...Is dangerous. And it is. But if he says anything which makes her believe he also thinks--

 

"The seamstress' orphan as the new Captain? The King has gone ins--"

 

With a half smile, Undyne stands up. She smooths out the wrinkles in her white sweater and stares into his eyes. Her gaze is sharper than the spears she's so proficient at. "Says the man who hasn't taken a day off in his life."

 

As the last syllable leaves her mouth, she bends over to pick up the bag she haphazardly dropped besides her chair when they sat down half an hour ago. Before Asgore had the audacity to ask what she would do with the one day she has to herself and their morning soured more than the coffee she drank so she can continue functioning a few hours before collapsing in exhaustion.

 

She is destroying herself. It is Asgore's fault it always is. He is the one who...

 

"Excuse me. Do you want to know how to beat me?"

 

"Undyne..."

 

Halfway through turning around and heading down the corridor and out the door she stops moving, head tilted in his direction. For a moment, for a split second, the observable half of her expression softens a little. Asgore's chest is tight, his heart pounds, beating strong but not fast, hoping she will sit back down and agree with him: she needs to rest.

 

She looks down at the spotless hardwood floor, furrowing her brow once more. Her grasp on her bag's handle tightens.

 

"Do you know...?"

 

She slings her bag over her shoulder. "Do you know how close we are?"

 

...Of course he knows. How could he not? He was the one who promised war over his children's resting spot. The one who held Chara's cold, lifeless hand and promised them to kill every last person who--

 

It is he whose responsibility it is to free everyone. The weight of the hopes and dreams of the Underground crushes his shoulders. He will lead everyone to...

 

"Every last man, woman and child. It is the final time humanity takes--"

 

...To freedom. He must, no matter the price. He has no other choice. Any day could be the day now.

 

If only he'd never entangled her in it.

 

"Do you want to know how to--?"

 

...Wishful thinking will not save anybody. Nothing will.

 

Her expression is dead set when she turns to face him and looks again. The determined glare she sports is the same one she held ten years ago when he first met her. The one which has not left her even in the darkest of moments, that has carried her through intensive training. Everyone who gives her the time of day finds it inspiring, the sign of a good leader.

 

To Asgore it looks like an early death sentence. One crafted by hims--

 

"I have to be ready when the time comes." Her voice is uncharacteristically quiet, an absence. "I need to be prepared to lead everyone's hopes and dreams up to the Surface, Asgore. How can you expect me to rest when a new human could come down at any moment?"

 

...If he told her how he truly feels about taking souls, going to war again, killing humans just like...

 

"Hey, dad!! Asriel, mom and I were thinking maybe you could--"

 

If he ever told her... She just might...

 

...

 

Hope, the hope she speaks of, shines through her determined expression. A warm glint in her eye, the fire burning within her that pushes her to give her all and do her best every day. To work overtime, to be an overachiever, to lay her life and soul down for her cause. Her desire to see the Surface, be free and share it with every monster who, like her, has known no different than the claustrophobic depths of the Underground has doomed her shaped the very core of her being.

 

...If Asgore ever told her, she would hate him. Hopefully.

 

"The world will not end if you care for yourself just once, you know?"

 

She shakes her head, offering him a small, toothless grin. "I'll take care when we're free." She drops the smile in sync with the warmth in her eye amplifying, warping into the searing flames of ire and hatred scorching her heart. "Only then."

 

The flames Asgore himself fanned.

 

"But you are here, now."

 

"Unfortunately." She turns around, her shoes' heels clacking holes through the silence as she marches towards the entrance. Off to work herself to the grave once more.

 

He should stop her. Should he? He should. But would that not be worse? She... She is not his responsibility. She is not his--

 

"And again," she says, turning her head over her shoulder, "you're not one to talk, old timer." She smiles wide. "I can't remember a single time you did anything for yourself. Go ahead and take a break, will you?"

 

She turns the key. It scrapes and whines against the lock. The hinges complain in the same high pitch when she pulls the door open.

 

"When I see you take a breather I'll start thinking about it myself." She crosses the door and rests her hand on the handle. "Have a nice day, Asgore. I'll see you for dinner tonight."

 

The door shuts with a dull thud.

 

...A break, she says?

 

Asgore clears the table and begins working on the dishes. The shiny faucet creaks as he turns its handle and the rushing water beats away the never-ending, shrieking silence.

 

...What would he need a break for? He is the one whose responsibility is to ensure the safety of his people. The one who must lead them all to the blinding light of the Surface, only to forsake his mortal form and purge it of...

 

"Dad! That tickles!! Your beard's all scratchy!"

 

There are no breaks for him. He would not have anything to do on his own, either way. The house enshrouds him in the loudest of silences if...

 

…

 

His morning routine goes by. The dishes, the laundry, then dusting. Removing any spec of strew from the dresser behind the table, from every picture frame, from the flower pots, the books and the shelves lining the living room walls. The only sound in this house is his and its own. His footsteps, his breath, the white and grey furniture he moves as he cleans, the rustling of sheets as he makes his cold bed. The rasping of hinges, the slamming of cupboards, the washing machine's grinding.

 

Once upon a time silence was a commodity, not a commonality. Before, when--

 

"Young man, young liege! Listen to your mother, please. You two best not be sneaking down to the kitchen ag--"

 

Heavens, it is getting late. A minute behind schedule, if the hands on the alarm clock on his bed-side table are reliable. Getting lost in memories is unproductive, it will not resolve any of the problems plaguing the Underground. These are merely the silly thoughts of a pathetic, old fool.

 

"Dad, Chara says--!"

 

The floor careens closer to him as the room tilts violently upwards. Closing his eyes, Asgore catches himself of his wardrobe's corner, digging it into the palm of his hand.

 

"Oh Gorey, you're always so clumsy. Here, let me help you, you handsome--"

 

He is a bit... light-headed, that... that is all. Otherwise he is fine. Such things happen with age. He is fine.

 

"It squealed like a pig wh--"

 

He is fine.

 

"King Asgore, I don't want to fight you again. I only want to go home; I can see the Barrier from here. If only you'd let me--"

 

He is fine.

 

Asgore finishes setting his golden shoulder guards and looks in the mirror. A blood-soaked murderer stares back. He could do with some grooming, his beard is growing all over the place. But he is so busy there is no time left for that, nor anyone to complain about it left.

 

He makes a mental note to shave at some point before heading out. The kingdom will not run itself, and he has already taken too long.

 

-

 

Menial paperwork is what he finds himself trapped by today. On the mahogany desk of his equally pannelled, brightly lit, stuffy coffin of an office, papers gather like dust in the nooks and crannies cleaning staff cannot reach.

 

A considerable portion of it are letters from the families of the monsters Dr. Alphys used for the experiments. He sets those aside to forward to her later on. He would have expected some form of progress by now, but he will not rush her. She seems to be doing rather poorly as of late, she could do with some slack. Another sizeable chunk of his workload is related to the budget for the Music Hall reparations. Every time it seems to be making progress something else goes amiss with the project. Perhaps tearing it down and rebuilding it as a whole would be cheaper at this point.

 

His hand moves so automatically over the papers, and their ink is so familiar -filled with complaints, taxes, congratulation letters for Gerson's retirement, the occasional appreciation letter for Asgore himself, a couple new laws,- that his mind wanders as he signs them all. Part of him is present, taking care of the affairs of his people. But most of him is...

 

Up on the Surface with Toriel, watching the Sun set, their domestic peace disturbed by the omnipresent rumours of impending war. In the aftermath of a battle, watching his generals turn to dust around him, particles of them, of his friends, getting stuck in his eyes and nostrils. In the shame of exile, surrounded by the anguished screams of his people. In Home, cradling baby Asriel. In New Home, playing catch with him and Chara. That single, bloodied blue eye piercing into his soul, unseeing. In Waterfall, teaching Undyne about wishing stars during a break from teaching her to kill--

 

...Scattered. A bit here and a bit there, all over the place. The concern which settled deep when he saw Undyne's dishevelled state as she told him she had no intention to take her day off to rest hasn't quite left. Instead it keeps on turning, scrambling his insides and thoughts alike, making him read the same sentences twice. If only he had insisted... Alas such responsibility is not his. She had a family, one he would not dare replace.

 

She can take care of herself. She will be alright.

 

Right?

 

At least she will be coming over for dinner. At least he can make sure tonight she eats properly and, if she is too tired to go back to her own place, she can use the guest bedroom he set up for her and wake up to warm, proper breakfast in the morning.

 

That is more than she usually has. She avoids inviting him over to prevent him from seeing how devoid of proper food her kitchen is and how disorganized her empty house is. It is surprising, how messy a home as barren as a prison cell can get.

 

But on the few occasions he has gone to her place, generally by surprise and uninvited, he has been met by the same scene. She may insist to hell and back it is mere coincidence, that he came just as she was about to do the shopping, or that it is laundry day, hence why the living room is a mess, but she always says that looking up at the ceiling. Undyne only ever evades his gaze in that direction when she lies.

 

He never calls her out on it, though. He nods along and offers to help her cook, or clean up, or do anything to turn her living space from an inhospitable penitentiary into something more akin to a home.

 

The mess in Undyne's speaks more clearly of her than she ever could. The turmoil within imposed by her desire for freedom, the itch within her to feel sunlight and see the wonders the Surface has to offer, manifests in piles of dirty clothes, an empty fridge and hollow rooms. Her time is consumed by her devotion to the cause, to always being ready for the arrival of the final victim soul.

 

And her devotion consumes her to the bone.

 

The little hand on the black and gold mantel clock glides over the digits behind it with the same ease Asgore's pen does on the mountain of paperwork it covers in black ink. All of his days pass by with the same ease and dull nothingness. They blend in with each other, becoming an indistinguishable paste which often leaves Asgore wondering what day it is at all. The only thing that brings any type of joy or variety to Asgore's vacant routine is Undyne. If anything happened to her--

 

Thick liquid runs down his hand.

 

Asgore did not as much sign this letter his secretary wrote for the denizens of Snowdin as he tore his name through it. The pen cracked between his fingers. Ink flows between them dark and thick as Chara's blood once--, clotting in his fur.

 

"It hurts, dad. It really--"

 

He sighs, cleaning up the mess himself and pulling a new pen from the chest of drawers to his right. He ought to pay more attention.

 

If she is in danger's way it is his fault.

 

He is running a kingdom over here, not playing catch.

 

He should have played catch with her instead of--

 

A king cannot allow himself to be so careless.

 

He carelessly played with her life when he taught her to--

 

The weight of the world is on his shoulders, after all.

 

He never wanted to share this load with her. He--

 

...

 

The desk and the sheets of paper on it become fuzzy for a moment. Curses, not again. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and the dizzy spell is gone when he opens them anew.

 

He steadied himself on the edge of his desk with his ink-stained hand. How wonderful. Now he will have to deal with that, too.

 

...The paperwork is affecting his head. At least... At least he will be finished soon. Yes, there are barely any sheets left in the stack he has yet to read. It will not take too long to get through them after he finishes cleaning himself up. Then he will have lunch and in the afternoon his activities will be much more engaging.

 

Talking to people, listening to their problems, soothing them with promises of blood-soaked turmoil and conflict. It is the same script with different words every time: overcrowding, lack of sunlight, children growing up without having known freedom, adoration for war and battle born from naive people who have never stepped foot in a battlefield, longing for the annihilation of all humans innocent or otherwise, loss of hope just like--

 

"It's your fault. You lost the--"

 

…

 

Asgore likes listening to his people. Being there for them is the minimum he can do for the time being. At least if he gives them the time of day, a fragment of hope returns to them. For what would be worse than their laments to be swallowed up by the jagged confines of the Underground, unheard?

 

...Perhaps he should pay heed to Undyne's advice and take a little break. Sleeping so little is beginning to warp his cognition.

 

-

 

He cannot attribute this unrest to tiredness anymore.

 

The ball of tension swirling within him has only grown larger throughout the day. At lunch he texted Undyne, asking her to at least have the kindness to call him when she went on her own lunch break. Asgore was done with his soup before his phone rang with a reply. He spent the rest of the day hoping to hear that chime only to be haunted by suffocating silence amidst the voices of the people he was supposed to listen to.

 

When he asked her during breakfast, before they got almost caught up in an argument, she said she was going to take her day off-duty to train in the morning. A jog and a climb, among other things. Weapons training too. It sounded like a lot to Asgore, but she can handle that and more. With whatever time she had free afterwards she was going to run some personal errands she has no time for throughout the week and then she would come here.

 

He made spaghetti for her. She knew that, he told her. Undyne is never late in general, but the spaghetti is frozen cold on the table. She would never be late for her favourite meal. If something delays her she always calls him.

 

Something is not right.

 

Asgore's heartbeat echoes in his ears, beating away the silence broken solely by his breaths. He leans on the table, staring at the door in the far end of the hallway ahead, waiting for the moment she knocks with such force the hinges and wood groan.

 

...

 

...

 

...Surely there is a reason for this. Perhaps she injured herself because she was tired and she is trying to skirt a scolding. Chances are she will call him in the morning with some poorly stitched together excuse, like when she lost her eye. She was doubled over in pain, the only sign of weakness Asgore had seen in her since the funeral, and she insisted to hell and back it was nothing, just a little accident. Hearing the agony in her taut voice--

 

She will be fine. She will be fine; she has to be. She barely turned twenty last month, her life is ahead of her.

 

A life doomed to be swallowed up by war. By the screams of her men in the battlefield, drenched in the blood her spear digs up from the bodies of her enemies, buried in the dust of her people, the cries of parents whose children--

 

He should have never agreed to teach her how to fight. He let his anger get the best of him. She was hardly ten when she practically demanded to learn. She was a child. She was angry at the injustice she had grown up in, at the misery permeating every aspect of her existence as insistently as moisture covers every surface of Waterfall. She was irate at growing up in a prison and what that had done to--, in the shadow of a war which wore down monsterkind and sullied all of them with apathy and hopelessness.

 

At the time, in teaching her to fight, Asgore was convinced he was doing her a favour. His hatred for humans, for the beings who had struck his people and decimated them, who had put them all under the earth in hopes they would die off, who had killed--

 

"Asriel? Asriel, where did you go? Why did you take--? What happened? My son--"

 

...Back then, his rage ran so deep that bringing war to humanity's doorstep felt like the only fair consequence to the massacre they had conducted on his kind. The violence returning to humans was nothing more than a natural reaction to the course of action they deliberately and coldly chose when they elected to unleash genocide on a people who had never lifted a finger to hurt them.

 

In doing so, of course, Asgore only fed Undyne's rage. The flame that burns within Undyne is precious, but it should have only ever been fuelled by her desire for justice, her determination and will to live, rather than the hatred which lead her to covet war.

 

"Do you know how many times you've killed me? Why can't you let me go home? I haven't hurt anyone, why--?"

 

It is hard to breathe. It is so hard to breathe; why is it so hard to breathe?

 

Asgore is bound and tethered to said struggle, but Undyne did not have to become a part of it. She could have grown up to be a civilian, someone to be protected rather than a protector. Asgore would give anything to go back in time and slap some sense into himself before agreeing to teach a child the ways of conflict. To teach her how to reap a life to conserve her own. How to look people in the eye and tell them not all of them will be returning home to their families at night, that some will die an honourable death to protect the hopes and dreams of monster children who have known nothing but the shadowy recesses of their imprisonment under the earth.

 

He was the one who imprinted that onto her. He was the one who saw a recently orphaned child angry at the unfair world around her and kindled those flames instead of putting them out. He gave her thirst for vengeance instead of solace. He is the one to blame for any pain that comes to her life from the battlefield or the training for it.

 

He could have taught her anything, given her any other means to cope. Yet he taught her how to claim lives while endangering her own.

 

He saw his son and his child in her, she was only two years younger than them. He saw--

 

...He only wanted her to be safe. He only strived to protect her. But he failed. Just like he always does. Every time there is a child before him--

 

Nonsense; this is all nonsense. He... He is being a chronic worrier, as she always accuses him of. Every time she trips on something he acts like it is the end of the world, much to her annoyance. Every little accident training, every minuscule, meaningless injury. It scares him because he cannot lose her, but objectively it is always nothing, correct? She always stands back up again, she is strong. The strongest person he knows, she must be fine.

 

He cannot lose her, too. Not again. Certainly fate cannot be so cruel so as to strip him of his third--

 

No.

 

Asgore stands. The silverware rattles against the table and plates. If anything happened to her it is his fault. Most likely nothing did; he trusts her with his life.

 

That said, he does not trust her with her own. Every child he loves ends up--

 

Accidents happen, and today Undyne was not at her best. As he said, she is not invulnerable. If her voice never returns, if she leaves behind a silence as profound as a wound like Asr--

 

...She will not. She is probably fine; she has to be. This fear tainting Asgore's soul is nothing but the doings of his old mind projecting past losses onto her. He will not lose her, he is merely paranoid. She always says he is, and seldom is she wrong about anything. She is much smarter and more capable than anyone gives her credit for, but Asgore knows better. She has been in his life for the past decade, he knows her. She is always fine.

 

Yet if she isn't, if anything has happened to her, if she is in any capacity hurt, her pain will be his to blame. Like her eye, like Ch--

 

He walks to the door. He runs to it, steps thundering, and grabs his jacket. He has to find her. He has to go to her house and see her sheepish grin as she comes up with a ridiculous tale explaining away her broken arm, or cut leg, or whatever she did to herself in her ceaseless, exhausted pursuit of freedom.

 

She should have taken the day off. She should have listened to him. If she is in pain--

 

As his hand closes around the doorknob, two sharp knocks rattle against the door.

 

Thank goodness.

 

Devoid of the adrenaline serving as his motor, Asgore's legs falter beneath him. Thank goodness she was merely running late. Finding his footing again, Asgore pushes the key into the lock-- His hands are trembling; the key scrapes against the lock and wood. He tries again and turns the key successfully, pulling the door open so harshly the hinges fuss louder than ever.

 

"Und—"

 

A thin canine soldier with a cinnamon coat stands as tall as he can, back painfully straight, saluting Asgore with a serious expression. "Your Highness, I have come here to report..."

 

...No.

 

"...dust, in Waterfall..."

 

...No no no no no.

 

"...at the bottom of..."

 

"This is all your fault! You said you were going to make everyone free but we're still stuck down here!! And now my--"

 

"...So you'll teach me?"

 

"How do I do that?! How do I conjure a trident like yours??"

 

"...Spears? That's what I get? You get tridents and I get this? For real?"

 

"Do you play piano? Can you teach me, too?"

 

"Hey, hey! Look at this! I did it!!"

 

"Asgore... are you alright?"

 

"I mean, I still have another eye. This is nothing, don't worry!"

 

"...I won? Did I really...? You're not playing with me? I beat you?"

 

"Happy birthday, old timer."

 

"Pffff. You are SUCH a sap."

 

"Checkmate!"

 

"I'm going to be the head of the Royal Guard one day. Just you wait!"

 

The soldier before him... Sounds so, so far away. He still... His mouth is moving. He is saying things. But Asgore...

 

...He didn't quite "Is my stance good?" understand how it happened "What piece are you playing?? Understanding is very hard right now "We should play a duet sometime!!" He asks the soldier to repeat, but cannot hear his own voice "I won't be a simple soldier; I'm gonna be the Captain!" The young man mentions a large fall "I think I'm ready to start with more advanced training, don't you?" One not even her magic shield could break "We're going to save everyone. Together." He says more, adds more context, but it is almost like he is under water.

 

"You won't be doing this alone, old timer. Not on my watch."

 

She was far too tired for all she wanted to do. Too tired and too stubborn and too desperate for the freedom humanity robbed them of. And the cave walls in Waterfall are too wet. Bad combination. Her desire to fulfill Asgore's blood-filled dreams of war pushed her over the edge in a sense more literal than he would have ever thought.

 

"I... kind of got you a gift? Don't get all mushy on me now, it's just a clock. Merry Christmas."

 

Although the soldier keeps on speaking there is nothing left to say. He is asking something about Asgore's well-being. He shuts the door on the recruit. His well-being?

 

"I can't wait for the day we get to see the Sun and breathe real air."

 

He is at the piano, sitting at the stool he will never share with her again, resting fingers on the keys that will remain silent for the rest of its existence. How did he get here? Irrelevant.

 

After... After Ch... After they and Asr... After both of them... After that, there was no reason for music. Every key was little more than a bloody reminder of the night... So he did not. Asgore did not play for years, fingers growing clumsy as the strings went out of tune. But then she came along, and after so long... She revived something in him, she...

 

She was not them. She was not them, but she was her, and that was more than sufficient. Asgore did not know he still had a heart beating in his chest, and not a block of ice, until she became part of his world. Everything he thought he could not do since that night, every emotion he believed to have been buried alongside them, the concept of love as a whole... She brought it all back by no virtue than being herself. So precious, so full of life, it was unsurprising how she even brought music back to his house.

 

And now... Now it is gone again. Now it is a return to the prison of clamouring silence it was before her. The piano is going to go out of tune again, because the only person who Asgore could stomach to play it with...

 

"I really like that song you play all the time. Can I play it, too?"

 

The first sob to break free from Asgore's throat is so violent, comes from so deep within, it is more a roar of pain than sadness. His fist smashes into the keyboard, fending off the oppressive silence with the violence and hurt of a wounded animal shrieking in dissonant notes rather than growls.

 

His daught-- Undyne is dead. She is dead and he never even told her what she meant to him. She is gone and he never had the courage to tell her out loud that, in his eyes, she-- ...she meant the world to him. Their last conversation was one wrong sentence away from an argument.

 

The tears get caught in his fur as thousands of memories clog up his heart. His breathing is so ragged his shoulders are shaking.

 

His little girl

Notes:

Prompt: falling

Chapter 3: Take Two

"I presume you understand the meaning of 'day off', correct?

 

God, he's irritating when he wants to be. Undyne leans forwards on the kitchen table, arms crossed. It groans under her weight.

 

"We've already been over this. I don't need any time off, alright?"

 

How many times does he want her to say this? Her tone is a bit aggressive, perhaps. But what outcome was he expecting when he's been pushing her buttons for the past ten minutes? She's an adult, she can take care of herself. It's not like he's her fath--

 

"That girl the King wants to make Captain is a calamity. I remember when she--"

 

...Of course not. He's her boss, and she's more than proven herself; it's why he chose her to be beside him at the time of truth. He can trust her.

 

What would she even do if she didn't dedicate today to improving herself for the upcoming battle and ensuing war? Go to the Librarby and read a book? Watch a movie? Practice piano...?

 

...

 

...Nonsense. There's... There's no time for that. Not while everyone's trapped down here.

 

Asgore gives her a long stare before taking an equally long sip of tea. A gentle frown crowns his expression. The willpower to avoid rolling her eye into the back of her skull is almost more than Undyne has. What is his problem? Normally he's very chill about letting her handle herself. He doesn't stick his nose in her business and just lets her do whatever she sees fit. But today it feels like he's still talking down to her as he did a decade ago when he met her at the funeral.

 

"I am profoundly sorry for your loss, child. I--"

 

Really, she's fine. Asgore is making a mountain out of a molehill like the chronic worrier he is. There are many things to do and not enough time for all of them. As future Captain of the Royal Guard, there are just as many privileges Undyne has to let go of, and one of them is taking time for herself.

 

"Do you like this embroidery, sweethea--?"

 

As long as she moves forwards she'll be okay.

 

Asgore sets his mug down, brow still tense. "You do not wish to hear it, but you need a break. You are not invulnerable, and acting otherwise..."

 

...Of course she's not invulnerable. Nobody is, everyone has a breaking point. Fact he should know she is more than personally acquainted with. "For my sweeth--". And still, a select few must make a sacrifice so the majority of people never know conflict and battle. Because none of them are invulnerable, someone has to face evil head on so innocent civilians are spared the pain of--

 

"Smile for the camera, sweet--"

 

Alright, this conversation's going nowhere. They're just sitting here, in the middle of Asgore's sterile-white living room, half-arguing half-pretending not to over a white vase of golden flowers and the remains of breakfast. He wanted her to come over and she did. Seeing him was nice as well, but they'll continue this conversation when he can see with both his eyes how she's still alive and in one piece tonight.

 

She smiles at him. As best she can, anyway. "Says the man who hasn't taken a day off in his life."

 

She bends over to pick up her bag, sliding the straps onto her shoulders. Time to get out of here. She doesn't often have a full day to organize as she sees fit and she isn't about to spend it arguing with him and listening to probing questions. She turns towards the door--

 

"Undyne..."

 

Great, just fantastic. What does he want now? Another lecture on why she's incompetent? Then maybe he shouldn't have chosen her for the job; it's not like he was forced to. She looks at him over her shoulder--

 

He's frowning, and his eyes are doing that thing where they look like all the sadness in the world is trapped behind him. He looks so... tired. Almost defeated.

 

To a degree, he always does. The weight of the future and protection of monsters is not an easy one to carry. It's heavy and cumbersome. He never complains, never utters a lament. Like the great leader and even greater person he is, he braves it all with his back straight and facing his responsibilities and people directly.

 

That's precisely why Undyne has to help him, why she can't afford the comfort of wasting even a day. The freedom of their people is too much for one single soul to deadlift, and most of the Underground seems perfectly content dumping all that responsibility onto Asgore alone.

 

Not Undyne, though. She can't do anything to spare him the future he has in store, but there's nothing she'll stop at to alleviate it.

 

"Do you know...?"

 

...She can't say that. That would put her on the same level of sappiness he resides in and she occasionally pokes fun at. Besides, it's unbecoming of a future Captain to get all emotional with her boss; it'd be inappropriate. And even if it weren't, there's no reason her "support" would bring him any comfort, she's not arrogant enough to think that.

 

The only meaningful way she can help him is out in the battlefield.

 

She slings her bag over her shoulder. "Do you know how close we are?"

 

That grief-stricken expression again. The one Undyne can't remedy despite how much he's done for her. He saved her life and all she can do to return in kind is wait around until the seventh human comes to make his burden just the slightest bit easier on him. She can't save him from having to forgo his physical body and becoming a god; all she can do is be prepared to help. It's almost like she really is as usel--

 

"Did you hear about the girl our King appointed--?"

 

And boy, prepared she will be. Everyone will see. If waiting for the seventh soul's all she can do for Asgore and monsterkind alike, she'll make every last second of it count.

 

"I have to be ready when the time comes." Nothing else would be acceptable. "I need to be prepared to lead everyone's hopes and dreams up to the Surface, Asgore. How can you expect me to rest when another human could come down at any moment?"

 

Her job's playing a waiting game at the moment. Better make the most of it. When that seventh human steps foot in the Underground she'll make sure it is the final step of their life.

 

Asgore closes his eyes, sorrow increasing. Why? Why is it always the best people who hurt the most?

 

It's behind her.

 

What the hell?

 

"The world will not end if you care for yourself just once, you know?"

 

The world? Probably not. Her?

 

In the air behind h--

 

Not again. Not here. She has to get out.

 

She offers him another smile. The most uplifting one she has. "I'll take care when we're free." When every monster is unchained from this prison cell, when every child has felt sunlight on their skin. When humanity's paid their due for all the pain and suffering they've caused.

 

"Happy fifth birthday, my sweethea--"

 

For every life they claimed during the war, and after it. "Only then."

 

She makes her way to the door.

 

"But you are here, now."

 

...

 

"For my sweeth--"

 

As if she could ever forget. "Unfortunately."

 

"I brought you some flowers. And I drew this for you in class. And--!"

 

"And again-" she turns her head over her shoulder. He still looks miserable, "-you're not one to talk, old timer. I can't remember a single time you did anything for yourself. Go ahead and take a break, will you?"

 

He needs one tenfold more than her. For her, movement is life; she's more than fine like this. For him, he could probably do with a nap. Those bags under his eyes get uglier with every passing day.

 

She unlocks and opens the door. As the hinges Asgore refuses to oil complain in a high-pitched whine, the doorway inhales all the cool air outside. It isn't cold, per se, but it's definitely warmer indoors.

 

"When I see you take a breather I'll start thinking about it myself." She crosses the door and rests her hand on the handle. "Have a nice day, Asgore. I'll see you for dinner tonight."

 

When she closes the door a bit of the warmth from inside washes over her. As if the house itself had sighed in relief to be free of her presence.

 

Undyne has to get going if she wants to get everything done before dinner. She walks down the streets of New Home en route to the Riverperson. New Home is always so predictable. Monsters going to and fro, bumping shoulders and narrowly avoiding collisions because of overpopulation. Impenetrable darkness hanging over all of them, barring them from freedom. White houses around them, as if painting the capital white would fend off the blackness they're encased in.

 

Familiar faces of fellow prisoners trying to make the most of their incarceration and call it “living.” Some monsters are on their commute, taking the kids to school, while others tend to their gardens and some merely sit outside, waving at their neighbours like convicts might greet a friend through the bars of their cell.

 

All gardens are fake, filled with plant life imported from Snowdin and Waterfall. Nothing can grow here, so far from the light. Gardens that die off in time and need to be replaced, but give the impression of life while they last. Everything in the Underground is designed to cast a fake sense of normalcy over their abnormal lives. It's the only way to survive.

 

The upper circle of New Home is truly beautiful despite it. Every lamp post, every bench, every stone fence cornering off a parcel of their human-imposed penal institution, is ornate and decorated. Adorned with metal flowers, or engraved with Delta Runes. Little filigrees embellish every last corner of this forsaken place.

 

Isn't it beautiful? When prisoners make cozy little homes behind their bars?

 

Decorating the Underground serves the same purpose as doing makeup on a corpse. Asgore told her humans do it. Unsurprising that creatures such of them would be macabre enough to apply paint to the remains of a person in hopes of making the lifeless carcass look a bit more lively. And still, that is the same principle as making a visual show of the Underground.

 

Are people expected to get so caught up in the marvel of their jail's infrastructure so as to forget they're imprisoned at all?

 

The Underground is a coffin for all of them. For all their hopes and dreams, for their lives. The darkness above them is siphoning the life out of them day by day. If filigrees and nice, pointless patterns bring people some peace of mind, good for them.

 

The only solace for Undyne is knowing one day they'll leave this beautiful, breathtaking casket behind. And far from waiting for it to happen, she'll be right there with Asgore bringing their freedom to life.

 

...He isn't doing well. As much as he got under her skin, it's impossible to stay mad at him for caring about her even if he can get overbearing occasionally. He needs a break, and the pursuit of that final soul isn't giving him any.

 

Alright, alright. Undyne will try to be at his house a bit early today. Perhaps if she rushes through things she'll get to distract him from monsterkind's bleak future just for one night.

 

One night of peace is all she's useful for right now. Alright then. Onwards.

 

-

 

Okay. There's something decidedly wrong with her. It's happening again.

 

"For--"

 

Catching her breath, Undyne takes a seat near the navy blue cliff side. Climbing its luminous, bejeweled surface is all she has left before she can go back to her house to get a change of clothes, do some groceries for once, get rid of the top layer of laundry, and head back to Asgore's place half an hour early if she gets a move on. She knows this, she's planned her entire day around this dinner date. She's given up on doing cleaning or actually cooking something with the groceries. She's in a hurry.

 

And yet the moment she put her hand against the familiar stones of the cliff behind her house, her heart started racing.

 

Above her--

 

...Why? There's... There's nothing different about this place today. Or ever. Comes with the territory of always being stuck in the same hole; things don't change. She didn't even have the nightmare that usually causes...

 

The shadow--

 

It doesn't matter. She can't give herself the privilege of slacking off like this. The last human could come at any moment. Monster kind is so close to freedom. Once Asgore has all seven souls he'll sacrifice himself and become a god to destroy anyone who dares threaten to harm a single scale on a monster again. Monsters will no longer have to live in fear, walled in like cattle, left to rot in the bowels of the earth.

 

But he can't do everything alone, he needs help acquiring that crucial soul. That's where the Royal Guard comes in. Undyne's role is instrumental in Asgore's ascension; she made sure of it. He needs her to lead his soldiers into battle when the time comes to face the heartless killer whose soul will right every wrong their kind inflicted on monsters. To stop now, to take this little pause for no reason, is failing him and every monster Undyne swore to protect. What is wrong with her?

 

"Sweetheart, I made us panc--"

 

As far back as she can remember, Undyne has wanted to take down the enemy. Well, there was a past before that, maybe. But she never looks so far behind. What's hiding there she can't fix.

 

"Please please please, just get out of b--"

 

Not anymore.

 

Humans were the ones who put everyone in the Underground. They were the ones who slaughtered hundreds of innocents until the remainders could be shoved out of sight into hell. They are the ones to blame for every problem brewing under the earth. If it weren't for them--

 

"For my--"

 

Undyne takes a deep breath, retying her pony tail to pin down some strands that freed themselves a while back. It's fine, really. She's here now, all she can do is move forwards. Whatever the heck is wrong with her, causing this simultaneously hot and cold dread to flood her at the sight of her own back yard, will have to shut up.

 

"Aww, sweeth--"

 

She stands up. Staying still could kill her; she's like a shark.

 

...Nothing grows in all this rock. Be it Snowdin, Waterfall or Hotland, it's inhospitable all the same. The fauna and flora in the Underground are laughably stagnant compared to what they have on the Surface. Sunlight, multiple sources of water, diverse biomes and weather systems allow for life to flourish in a way it never will down here. Like the lacking plant life and diversity, monsters' hopes and dreams are as caged and limited down here as their souls are. They need room and air to breathe and develop. Someone has to do the hard work of taking everyone up to a Surface that will accommodate them whether humans want to or not.

 

Undyne disagrees with conflict by and large, but what other choice has humanity left? They've had centuries to change their minds about the crimes they carried out and free monsters, break the Barrier, send a diplomatic party, anything. They haven't simply because they don't want to. They don't care. Monsters were sent to this dark pit to die off quietly where they wouldn't bother anyone. Where humans wouldn't even have to bother cleaning up the dust of their dead bodies. And that makes Undyne's rage burn brighter than the Sun humans so selfishly hoard for themselves.

 

What did her people do wrong? What did her ancestors do to humans to justify this genocide? Slow, drawn out, allowed to suffer for generations, cursing children into the lives of prisoners. Beating the hope out of them and dissolving their dreams with hopelessness as asphyxiating as the tiny space the Underground has to offer.

 

Monsters did nothing. Absolutely nothing. There's no reason for which this should be happening. Humans are selfish, disgusting bugs who must be squashed with the same force they tried to extinguish the lives of monsters. They laid down the rules of the game. If they hadn't employed senseless violence none of this would be happening. Whichever carnage happens on their grounds when monsters break free is entirely their fault.

 

There's no such thing as an innocent human. Every last one of them is complicit in the suffering of monsters. Unfortunately for them, the hopes and dreams of monster kind are much stronger and sturdier than the cage they were forced into. Many have turned to dust without knowing freedom, without feeling fresh air or sunlight on their bodies. All their dreams turned to dust with them, rotted away. It's Undyne's responsibility to do justice to them by freeing their descendants. Their souls have lived on in the hearts of their loved ones and families. All efforts must be devoted to bringing justice and respect to them.

 

Many couldn't handle it and lost it over time.

 

"For my--"

 

...What... the hell? Why today? Why so persistent? Why not just a passing thought she can ignore? It's been two years since she last dealt with this crap; what gives?

 

The vow Undyne took when she more or less demanded Asgore begin training her isn't one she can back out of or take a break from. Not that she would want to, either. If she has time it must be devoted to the cause. Otherwise she's no better than the humans oppressing her. Every last breath she takes until her dust becomes one with the earth she stands on must be well-spent, and the only valid goal in her life is to protect the lives of others.

 

Especially children.

 

"Sweetheart, why don't you show mo--?"

 

So succumbing to a dumb sensation like this is meaningless. Vague dread has been a part of her existence since...

 

"For my--"

 

...Since she decided to fight for freedom until her body stopped working. The day Undyne lost her eye was a painful one. Many things changed in her life. She had a long, long process of readjustment to go through. And not for a second did she neglect her duty to her people. Today will be no exception.

 

Whether she be tired, sad, lonely angry or sick, Undyne cannot allow herself to take a step back. She hasn't dedicated her entire life to being the protector of all monsters to slack off.

 

Humans falling down have been odd occurrences. They come few and far between. Whenever they do it's anyone's guess what skills and weapons they'll have; their technology evolves at a speed the Underground could never keep up with, with their limited resources. So being ready for any scenario is a necessity for those tasked with taking them down.

 

Undyne's never liked relying on anything but her own body for survival. Magic and weapons are fine, but there are no guarantees humanity won't come up with a way to nullify those in time. Her training is considered intense by many, but there's no telling what could happen out in the battlefield. The only way to be truly prepared for the moment of glory is to ensure she requires nothing but her presence to kill her enemy and take their soul.

 

Doing that is all she needs to save them all. It's also all she can do to repay Asgore but a fraction of the kindness and patience he's bestowed upon her throughout the years.

 

So Undyne stands up, faces the wall, grabs the first rock that juts out of the cliff before he and pulls up.

 

Up towards--

 

Once she reaches the top and completes her training, only then, will she go back to the house. This weird feeling can rot.

 

-

 

There have been very few times in which Undyne's felt like such a massive failure.

 

The frustration brewing under her scales is sufficient to power the dumb MTT hotel before her. All the yellow lights casting long, vapoury shadows over the black cobblestone street and dusty red mat before the glass door entrance could draw their energy from her instead of the CORE. She's just standing still before the black building and its many windows; surely channelling her exasperation shouldn't be too hard?

 

She made it to the top of the cliff in the end. With the BPM of a fugitive attempting to avoid execution, but she made it. Breathing heavy and all she succeeded. With every foot ascended the disquieting sensation became stronger, louder, took more and more hold of her thoughts, but she shrugged it off. After her small victory she took a seat to catch her breath and intended to return to her place, take a shower, handle groceries and laundry, and dash over to Asgore's to try giving him one night of mental quietude.

 

And yet she's standing here, the edge of the hotel's lights dipping the tips of her boots and nothing else, like the damn idiot she is.

 

The second she stood up after reaching the top of the cliff her legs gave out. The exhaustion coursing through every inch of her body claimed them and she plummeted to the ground a bit over an inch away from the drop.

 

That drop is too high for even her shield to protect her. It's why she sticks to that specific cliff: it's tall and provides a longer workout, and she knows it like the back of her hand to prevent stupid accidents like that one from happening. She was a bit too close to becoming a headline in tomorrow's paper for comfort.

 

Falling is fine, a part of learning. During her first training sessions she couldn't handle the thought of tripping or messing up in any capacity, especially in front of Asgore. She would lash out at him and herself every time she made a mistake, but growing up she lost that juvenile behaviour. True learning comes from errors; the only way to improve is to screw up first. The faster one can fail the better for their eventual success.

 

That isn't the problem here. The problem is how her body just had to go ahead and fall to exhaustion. That's shameful. If this'd happened out in the battlefield she would've failed; and she isn't any use to anyone if she's dead.

 

"I'm alright, sweethe--"

 

Such weakness is not tolerable. Not from her. She can never be useless again.

 

So what if she hasn't slept more than six hours at a time in a while? Who cares if she hasn't had time to prepare a proper meal since... whenever she last ate something that wasn't pre-heated? She's been doing far more important things than worrying about herself. She's been working on being in top condition for the moment of truth. She doesn't have time to stop and smell the flowers. In the end, trying to make a life down here would only--

 

"I painted the living room orange, sw--"

 

...Maybe Asgore was right this morning. Maybe an exhausted soldier is as good as a dead one. Heck, maybe everyone is right and she isn't...

 

"In law enforcement?! The King's insane. Didn't she have to do community service when--?"

 

No they're not. What the hell would anyone know? Asgore chose her.

 

She had lunch at the house and took a short nap, then forewent the groceries and focused solely on what she could do around the house. Asgore texted her to check up on her as if he had a sixth sense for when he's right about things and felt the imperious urge to humiliate her for her failure. For only taking care of her agility and strength and not everything else. That wasn't his intention, certainly, but Undyne's face flushed with a mixture of anger and shame when she was reminded to take care right after having failed at it so stupidly.

 

"The girl Asgore wants to make Captain after Gerson won't save us from--"

 

...Asgore's always looking out for her. From the instant he laid eyes on her he's been caring and gentle. He received immature anger from a petulant child and returned nothing but encouragement and compassion from the start. It's why arguing with him is so hard even when he kind of earns it.

 

It's not the exhaustion Undyne's so mortified by. It's the fact that she allowed it to happen. She should know to take better care of herself. She should know what happens when one isn't at their prime. Being in this sorry state if the human were to arrive would have been a failure that would've doomed not just her, but the entire Underground. And why? Because Undyne's a hot-headed failure who can't pace herself.

 

Sometimes...

 

"It's like he's promoting her to ensure we never see the Surf--"

 

...Sometimes she still feels like the ten year-old trying to punch Asgore with all her force when he showed up to the funeral.

 

"We are gathered here today to spread the dust of--"

 

Ever since Asgore informed her she'd be promoted last week, her sense of responsibility has increased. Tripled, quadrupled, she can't even measure it. The pressure that comes with being in charge of saving her kind and supporting Asgore is one she knows as well as she once did a piano's keys under her fingers. And much like rehearsing a new piece, seeing the dream of becoming the head of the Royal Guard switch from a potential future to her immediate reality, the shift knocked her off balance.

 

In the same way that practicing a new score grants mastery, Undyne will find a way to cope with this pressure that isn't working herself to exhaustion and rendering herself useless. Taking basic care of herself isn't on par with the foolishness of trying to make a true life down here.

 

Beating herself up over this failure won't bring about anything good or productive. Like all the mistakes that came before, some as dire as to maim herself, this is something to learn from and move on. She has to channel her entire soul into doing and being at her best. One without the other is pointless.

 

Tending to her mortal needs isn't the same as slacking off, or trying to find joy down here in hell. She has to listen to her body a bit more. It's all she has to save monsterkind and help Asgore.

 

...If Asgore asks and she has to admit he was right, though, it won't be easy. Disappointing him in any capacity never has been, but...

 

Undyne kicks a pebble out of the shadows and into the bright lights of MTT's hotel. It makes a nice sound, at least.

 

She preferred when this goliath of a building lined by alleys darker than sin wasn't standing between her and Asgore's place, but being wistful about the past is a waste of time. It's not like she can turn back the clock.

 

The freaking battle toaster isn't even a huge celebrity or anything, his show aired for the first time a few weeks ago. The Underground's just so desperate for any form of entertainment that the lamest clown can make it big. Their expectations have been downsized to fit the confines of their cage.

 

...Disappointing Asgore before her promotion was different, that's all. Less painful. Before, disappointing him was as bad as disappointing her f-- ...a respected mentor. Now that she'll soon be the captain, it's unacceptable to fail her boss.

 

Undyne doesn't have much in life. She lost her father so young she has no memories of him, and mom--

 

"For my swe--"

 

She hasn't been around for a decade. After that, Undyne was left with nothing but hopes and dreams of a better future to hold onto. The bitter disappointment of life in the Underground would have ground both of those into the same dust she spread over her mother's beloved locket at the funeral. Asgore was the one who held her by the hand at her most vulnerable and helped her grow and become the person she is. Without him, Undyne would rather not even consider where she would have ended up. Some of the other orphans...

 

...

 

The promotion's getting to her head; it's stirring things best lest undisturbed. Ever since she was instructed to "invite friends and family" to her rank up ceremony she's been thinking of--

 

"Oh, sweetheart. That's such a beautiful drawing! What is it? A sewing kit? Let's put it on the frid--"

 

Through being close to Asgore, through him offering more than tutelage, she's been able to catch a glimpse of all the pain rooted in his soul. Of how taxing it is to be the person responsible for the safety and well-being of so many. To be the one who must commit the ultimate sacrifice and leave mortal existence behind in order to save everyone. After the queen decided to be a coward and abandon her people, after she abandoned Asgore, he was left alone to carry that weight.

 

Asgore gave Undyne everything. Solid dreams to hold onto, a safe space to express herself, the trust nobody else in the world would have placed in the hands of the resident problem child. He's encouraged and believed in her since always. Nothing Undyne ever does for him will come close to compensating all he's given her. Hope, safety, the gift of music, his company and trust...

 

...He's the reason she wanted to be not a soldier, but the Captain. A soldier in and of itself would've been honourable, but it wasn't enough for Undyne. She had to be the only person who could come close to helping Asgore in his journey. With all he's provided for her she's more than obligated to share the burden with him. The responsibility will still be his in the end, she can't save him, but if there's one person who can ease the strain that comes with such a load it's the Captain.

 

Maybe fighting for freedom and justice was what impulsed Undyne to begin her military career, but it was her gratitude for the man she owes everything to, the one who's the reason for her success, who gave her the undying motivation, to carry the burden beside him. It's the only thing she can do to help him, even if it isn't much.

 

That's why she's still rotting here instead of joining him and getting him to take a rest already, perhaps. As eager as she is to spend time with him, going to his place feels cumbersome tonight, a weight in her chest.

 

She doesn't want to admit she's already failed him before her official promotion. The purpose of coming this far, of not being content with solely being a soldier, of taking on such responsibility, was giving him a hand in the only way that matters. Her kindness might make him smile, but it does nothing to ease his responsibilities. If he can rely on her in the hardest area of his life, that might be able to make a tangible difference for him. If she isn't foolproof, the best... He...

 

"When will the king realize giving the likes of her such a high rank is remarkably stup--?"

 

Undyne wants to thank him in a meaningful way for having given wings to her hopes and dreams in the most barren wasteland of all. For having trusted her and believed in her, for having seen something in her nobody else does.

 

There's nobody looking out for him. The people care about him, think he is a great king. And they're not wrong. But the way they think of Asgore is almost... deified, more than seeing what he is: a normal man. To Undyne's knowledge, not a single citizen of the Underground has ever thanked him for sacrifice he will make. In their eyes he's a sad but necessary scapegoat. And, to an extent, Undyne agrees. Regardless of anyone's personal feelings, there must be a sacrificial lamb to obtain freedom.

 

But Asgore's still an ordinary man. One who's not as excited as civilians are about his impending ascension.

 

Then again, civilians don't know him. It's not them who've seen his eyes get misty when he thinks of the past or anything reminds him of the traitor queen and the two children whose names never leave his mouth. It isn't any of them who see the way his gaze grows distant when talk of the seventh soul arises. It isn't any of them who've ever heard Asgore voice that he's afraid of what he'll become when he transcends his mortal form. Only Undyne's had the privilege to be there with him at the most vulnerable he allows himself to be. And so, only she can provide a fraction of the respite he always gives her.

 

It has to be her. It... It's only fair.

 

She can't stand equal to him, but she'll do her best to get as close to that ideal as she can. She can't afford to fail him when there's nobody else who's remotely aware of the pressure he lives under. For all he does for his people and all he's done for her, Undyne can't allow herself to fail again. Now that she's finally reached her goal of sitting beside him and sharing his burden, burning herself out like she has today isn't an option.

 

She's going to save them all and bust out of this blighted place. It's the most serious and only important matter in her life. Both to be of use to Asgore and to fulfill her duty to monsterkind, she has to do better. Today was the first and final time she's so headstrong and irresponsible.

 

Standing here still as a street lamp and being late for dinner won't help anyone. It'll only make Asgore worry for her, and he has enough concerns as is. So even if it entails facing his disappointed "I told you so" expression that makes her burn up with ignominy, she really needs to keep herself together and reach New Home already.

 

Her emotions aren't that important. Not as long as she's down here.

 

"Sweetheart, do you want to see the--?"

 

Alright, enough loitering around. Motion is life, remaining immobile--

 

Click.

 

From the alleyway to her right the noise repeats. It's a dark, toothless maw of a street without a light to lessen its glum. Who--?

 

Crash!

 

A spear materializes into her hand humming with energy. Chances are it's a stray animal or Tem pushing over a dumpster's cover and she's overreacting, but--

 

"Help me!!"

 

Shit. Undyne runs. That was a child's voice. What in tarnation is a child doing in there? It's late, they should be home, sleeping. Where are their parents?

 

Not all children have them.

 

The alleyway is as pitch black as it appeared from the outside save for a window on the top floor whose pale white light isn't enough to cut through the darkness. Everything within the limited glow Undyne's spear emits is cast in a saturated turquoise light. The supernatural appearance it grants the decrepit alleyway doesn't help in the slightest with the anticipation seeping in through every one of Undyne's muscles. With every step she takes, the spear's shine slides over and under new shapes, unveiling dumpsters, rotting furniture and putrid bags of garbage while casting shadows deeper and more inscrutable than hell. Her light reveals everything except the child who called for help.

 

...It doesn't have to be an active threat. It could be anything. Maybe they simply got their foot stuck in the sewer exhaling the reek covering every last inch of this dump.

 

But if there is something Undyne should see, if there's something in the shadows, she's making herself an easy target by holding the sole source of light herself. She can command the spear at a distance, so she lets it hover a few feet ahead of her, guiding her through the dark, without putting herself at unnecessary risk. She's already fucked up enough for one day.

 

She walks slowly, avoiding shards of broken bottles and puddles of mystery fluids in order to be quiet. She's not bathed in the spear's glow; the potential enemy doesn't know where she's standing unless they have better night vision than her. Her right hand is holding air, ready to materialize another spear into it if necessary while her left palm, extended, keeps the levitating spear moving at a consistent pace through the alley.

 

"What's-What's that light?! ...Is there anyone there? Can you help me?" Up ahead, the same voice. "It left me all alone."

 

...'It?'

 

...Probably a pet of sorts. Maybe a human? Unlikely. A human would've had to make it through Snowdin, Waterfall and Hotland unnoticed to be here.

 

Alright then. Undyne can't lower her guard to be safe, but it's probably nothing to worry about.

 

"Where are you, kid?"

 

As the words resonate in the narrow alleyway, her spear's light reaches a small, armless child. They're wearing a sweater from which a tail pops out of. Their wide eyes are huge around their tiny, scared, slitted pupils.

 

"Who-Who are you? Where are you?"

 

Undyne steps into the light, smiling with her lips closed. Her jagged teeth will most likely not be relaxing to the child.

 

"I am Undyne of the Royal Guard," she says in the most soothing way she can. "I'm here to help."

 

At the mention of the Royal Guard the kid's eyes light up. "Yo! That's so cool!"

 

There's something warm and gentle about being regarded with utter adoration by little kids that never gets old to Undyne. She summons two more spears to her sides to light up more of the alleyway, making the child gasp in awe, and gestures for the kid to follow her. "Come on, I'll get you home."

 

Wherever that is for them. She'll have to call Asgore if the kid lives far away so he doesn't worry even more.

 

On the way out the kid explains how a new friend of theirs, decidedly a monster, had dared them to climb out of their window and come here tonight. However, promptly after arriving, the friend vanished. A mean prank, but all kids are a little mean sometimes. They don't really grasp the consequences of--

 

A sharp pain in her neck forces a hiss through her teeth. What the...? She turns her head to the right, where the stinging ache came from. It's a solid wall. No doorway, no windows, no dumpsters to hide in. All the bricks are supernatural turquoise, while the grainy textures and spaces between them are pitch black.

 

Did... Did she imagine it?

 

Better safe than sorry. She grasps the kid's shoulder and pushes them forwards. They're asking questions, saying something, but Undyne has to be ready to conjure a new spear with her free hand. It--

 

In the blink of an eye, a black tendril breaks free from the shadows and pokes a hole through Undyne's hand.

 

The tentacle retreats faster than it takes the spear to clatter to the ground and vanish. There's a halo of aquamarine light shining through Undyne's hand.

 

That's-- That's her hand. There's a hole in it. It's--

 

Panic later; get the child out now. She picks them up and slings them over her shoulder. Their tone is frantic as they writhe, wrapping their tail around her arm. Whatever, she'll explain later. It's time to run.

 

Explain what though? What kind of creature--?

 

Strong, barbed coils wrap around her ankles and pull down hard. The sudden stop sends the child flying off her shoulder. They scream. Their piercing wails still echo off the narrow walls as Undyne's head hits the moist cobblestones.

 

She pushes herself to her knees and summons a spear to each hand. The left one clatters against the cobblestones and fizzles away. What? Why?! She flexes her fingers again--

 

They don't bend. That thing must have severed something when it put a hole through her. She's down to one hand.

 

It'll have to do.

 

"Kid, run. Find the nearest Guard outpost and tell them to come here immediately."

 

As they say something else and dash towards the hotel's light, becoming a shadow consumed by it, Undyne turns towards her ankles. The snarls tangling them--

 

They're coming from the ground? How?! Two brambly tendrils protrude from solid stone directly underneath her the way flowers burst through concrete. She can't-- This doesn't make sense. She has to sever them, but there's not enough distance between the stones they jut from and her ankles. She'll skewer herself to break free. And if she cuts through her tendons and her feet end up as useless as her hand she'll be screwed all the same.

 

This has to be a human. Alright, she can't stay here to wait and see what happens. She--

 

From above and beneath her, through the walls and the ground, an ocean of winding, snapping vines pierce her skin, slither under her scales, and creep into her body.

 

It's a storm of sharp, inescapable pain. Her eye. Her remaining eye; she can't see. Damn it! The world around her has become one large, turquoise blur sheathed in darkness.

 

It's here again.

 

No. No no no, no way. It doesn't end here; not like this. She just has to hold on until support arrives. Undyne pushes herself upwards. Her body won't budge, her arms are numb, tingly. She won't give up. She tries again--

 

A second surge of limbs snake across her smeared sight. Her ears ring violently as more and more little pinpricks of pain cover her body in swift, relentless waves.

 

They're piercing her body with the same ease they cut through the formless light.

 

She can't breathe. Her breathing is wispy and ragged, too fast. She's not getting enough air. She can't help it, she can't breathe. Her bones are splintering inside her, shards being pushed through her flesh by more and more tentacles. They swirl inside her, carving passages and holes in her flesh, hollowing her out.

 

As they tear out of her, cold, clammy particles spray in the air and fall on her. The remains of her own muscles and sinew.

 

She screams. She coughs up bile instead of her voice.

 

She's not going to die here. Not like this, not today, not yet. She's not, she's going to hold on. And then she'll be fine. She'll be just--

 

In the darkness of this alleyway, her sight erupts into blinding white. One final explosion of light before going out.

 

There are tentacles within her, sifting through her lungs, tickling her heart chambers, digging paths through her bones. Her body doesn't respond; the left side is entirely numb. Even if help comes...

 

Shit. She can't... Not-Not yet, not like this. It's too soon. It--

 

She's standing behind Undyne, staring into the back of her skull. She's still sway--

 

...No... No, no. She can't-- This can't--

 

Undyne moves. She pushes upwards, gives her body the order over, and over, and over. It doesn't obey, and the tentacles won't stop coming.

 

She can barely feel them. Are her legs still attached to her torso?

 

There's a hand. A cold hand on her hair, brushing it. She's--

 

...It can't end like this... Right? Undyne refuses to die.

 

She pushes herself up. She can't move. Is she paralyzed? Is she worthless now?

 

She's is here, calling out to Undyne. Around her neck--

 

She can't... She can't. Undyne can't. She just can't. It's not fair. It's--

 

...Who would have known that darkness is so sharp? Her abdomen. Her neck. Her face. Pulling and tearing... Is that her arm coming off?

 

She can't die. She cannot; she has to help Asgore. She can't leave him, too. The hopes and dreams of monsterkind. If she doesn't get up...

 

She's coming closer.

 

...Undyne won't give up.

 

Not until she's sure every last monster will see the light of day. Not until she's made everyone's dreams a reality like Asgore did for her. Not until she can be certain little children will grow up in safety and blissful innocence instead of wishing for freedom on gems they call stars.

 

Her responsibility's too large for her to give in. It hurts. It hurts so badly where it still can hurt, but she cannot let them win. Who will this creature hurt after they're done with her?

 

...It... It stopped. Did it stop? Or has she lost all feeling?

 

She can flex the fingers in her right hand still. Alright, she has one arm, at least. The shoulder is most likely dislocated, but still attached to her body. If she can feel her fingers bending her sense of touch isn't completely lost, and there is no pain in her right now. She's just unbearably numb, that's all.

 

She summons a sp--

 

A swarm of writhing tentacles focus on her abdomen. They bury as deep as they can, through her spine, and pull up and down.

 

If her legs weren't torn off before, there's no way the lower half of her body is still there after this.

 

Undyne... didn't know such pain... was possible.

 

"Sweetheart, I'm home."

 

No! She doesn't get to be here after she--

 

Another wave comes. Then another. Then another. It feels like nothing now. Probably because she hardly has nerves left to feel.

 

"Did you miss me? I was only gone a few hours, silly girl. Come here, my little sweetheart."

 

...It's not... It's not fair. Undyne still has so much... So, so much... to do. That... That woman can't claim her now, damnit. She lost the right to ten years ago!!

 

Undyne wanted to... see the Sun. Make sure everyone... was safe. ...Play more... duets with... Asgore. Learn his... recipes, or... Find a... wife, and...

 

...She wanted to live, goddamnit. To do more than... fight... and fight... and...

 

...

 

*

 

She should have taken the day off. She should have listened to him. If she is in pain--

 

As Asgore's hand closes around the doorknob, two sharp knocks rattle against the door.

 

Thank goodness.

 

Devoid of the adrenaline serving as his motor, Asgore's legs falter beneath him. Thank goodness she was merely running late. Finding his footing again, Asgore pushes the key into the lock-- His hands are trembling; the key scrapes against the lock and wood. He tries again and turns the key successfully, pulling the door open so harshly the hinges fuss louder than ever.

 

"Und—"

 

A thin canine soldier with a cinnamon coat stands as tall as he can, back painfully straight, saluting Asgore with a serious expression. "Your Highness, I have come here to report..."

 

...No.

 

"...dust, in Hotland..."

 

...No no no no no.

 

The young man speaks, explains, but his words only register as blurry ideas in Asgore's head. An alleyway... A child... Stab wounds... Dismembered before death, multiple dust piles...

 

Dismembered. Torn apart. She...

 

"You're a softy deep down, aren't you old timer?"

 

"Alright, hear me out: pancakes, but you ignore the recipe and put as much chocolate in as your heart desires. It's not like anyone's gonna stop you, you're the King."

 

"I'm gonna lift that boulder; be right back."

 

"Hypothetically... If someone who's only been conjuring spears for only a week so far had summoned one indoors and accidentally -and I really mean accidentally- split your coffaccentee table in half... How angry would you be?"

 

"Lighten up. One day there won't be anymore complaints because we'll all be free. We're going to save them, you and I."

 

"You don't get it. She's the cutest girl in class. And I can't do Maths for shit; she's gonna fail this project because of me and think I'm lame."

 

...It must have hurt. It must have hurt so much. Just what is strong enough to take down Undyne? How alone did she feel? What did she think about in her last moments? Was she scared? Did she even know...?

 

"...Your Highness? Can you hear--?"

 

Asgore shuts the door on the recruit. He has heard enough.

 

"You're such a nerd!! You didn't have to get me a birthday gift! ...But thank you."

 

He's at the piano, sitting at the stool he will never share with her again, resting fingers on the keys that will remain silent for the rest of its existence. The only person who Asgore could stomach to play it with...

 

Dismembered. Tortured to death. All his fault. Just like--

 

"Asriel? Asriel, where did you go? Why did you take--? What happened?"

 

The first sob to break free from Asgore's throat is so violent, comes from so deep within, it is more a roar of pain than of sadness. His fist smashes into the keyboard

Notes:

Prompt: stabbing

Chapter 4: What...?

"I don't need any time off, alright? You don't need to worry so much."

 

Asgore gives her a long stare before taking an equally long sip of tea. A gentle frown crowns his expression. The willpower to avoid rolling her eye into the back of her skull again is almost more than Undyne has. What is his prob--?

 

Asgore sets his mug down forcefully. "I am ordering you to take a day off."

 

Ordering...

 

...Ah. So that's how it is.

 

Alright.

 

"I've heard the King doesn't really care about--"

 

He hasn't given her an order in his life. Until now, that is. There's a first for everything. He always says the formalities between them are only from the door outwards, protocol and whatnot; but that indoors, away from society's peering glances, there are no hierarchies between them. They're friends, he says. That he's the King is merely incidental, an anecdote about him, and not something she needs to factor in when interacting with him in private. Same goes about her getting promoted to Captain next week.

 

He can't give her an order in here, of all places. The same living room where he taught her to play piano, where they held so many conversations and blurred the line between their personal and professional lives so often it was eventually erased. On the same floor where they assembled puzzles when she was younger, on the same damn chairs where he braided her hair for her graduation ceremony. He's listened to her yap about girls in class, her frustration during her first days in the Guard, the wishes she'd make in the wishing room, they've celebrated birthday parties and Christmases alike, and--

 

Undyne thought he and she were really as close as...

 

"Political propaganda against his detractors, little else. That girl--"

 

...Never mind. She really did think that someone like her, who couldn't even...

 

"For my s--"

 

Never mind.

 

She stands up, smoothing out the wrinkles in her white sweater. It's time to get out of here. "It's my day off, remember?" She avoids looking at him; she would only glare. "You can't order me to do anything today."

 

This is the equivalent to a toddler throwing a tantrum. Internally. At least she's having the decency to not let her petty, childish emotions show. How did she ever think someone like her was truly an equal to him?

 

He's the kindest person ever, strong enough to make the ultimate sacrifice for his people. She's the orphan who's mother preferred--

 

"For my sw--"

 

She turns around so quickly she slams her knee into the chair. Damn it, that's going to sting for a while. She had a feeling it was gonna end like this. She already woke up with the sensation they weren't going to have a pleasant morning, considered skipping altogether. She should have followed her instinct. At least then she wouldn't have heard--

 

"Undyne—"

 

She raises her hand. He doesn't have to explain himself. She's severely miscalculated their closeness. At the end of the day he's just her boss. This is her problem, it's entirely on her. It happens almost every time she makes the mistake of believing someone like her will ever...

 

It's fine. It's not like it matters. Her life is waiting for her on the Surface, there's nothing for her down here. Only darkness and suffocation. That wouldn't be a life, anyway. There's nothing from down here she would want.

 

"I'll see you later."

 

Will she? Maybe. Probably not. Most likely not.

 

"Listen to me--"

 

Again? For another order? No. She takes off down the white corridor. Probably rude, but whatever. He's the one who always said being her boss came secondary to being her friend. And he orders her around on her day off?

 

Everyone's right. He says they're not, but the evidence stands on its own.

 

"Undyne—"

 

"It's alright." Her hand's already on the key. Instead of turning to face him, she turns it in the lock. What does Asgore have against oiling these things? "See you later."

 

He calls out for her again, but she opens the door and slams it shut behind her, dashing down the packed streets of New Home towards the Riverperson's pier.

 

He can't... He can't give her an order, except he can. After all, they don't stand on equal grounds, and they never will. Her job is to assist him in becoming a god. She'll never be an equal to him. Asgore is nice. A kind man who tries to seem as accessible and down to earth as he can with his people. He's more of a friend to the Underground than their ruler. And despite his proximity and familiarity with them all, they obey him. They heed his decrees. They'll follow him into battle when the time comes.

 

The equality between Asgore and the people he rules over is smoke and mirrors. His care for them is genuine, of course, but there's a reason he's the supreme ruler of the Underground and everyone else is not. There's no motive to be this distraught over a normal conversation between a boss and his underling.

 

Because at the end of the day, that's what they are. A bit closer than the average boss-employee duo, but it was ridiculous of her to genuinely believe he'd waste his time on her.

 

"He can't be that bad of a King if he's doing charity work with--"

 

Boss and employee, that's all. And that's fine.

 

Undyne doesn't need to find reasons to stay tethered to this cage. She'll worry about building bridges when she's somewhere sunny, safe and free.

 

"I'll be heading out with the girls from the knitting club for tea. Do you want to come with--?"

 

Until then nothing matters.

 

-

 

Undyne's a bloody idiot.

 

The Riverperson's boat lurches as it hugs the curves of the dark, serrated cavern they're rowing in, splashing droplets of water onto Undyne's sweater. The rushing water is deafening, and considering their proximity to Holand it's hot to boot.

 

It still beats actually crossing Hotland by foot, though. There's no force in the Underground capable of getting Undyne to do that.

 

...Why the hell did she snap at Asgore? She didn't openly say anything horrible, but she was standoff-ish and it was so uncalled for. So what if he gave her an order?

 

It's his right to, in the end. There's no reason he shouldn't treat her like another person under his command; she isn't special. And it's not like it negates all the good things he's done for her.

 

This disappointment is so irritatingly juvenile. Asgore's been the only consistent presence in her life since the... since he started training her a decade back. But that's kind of Undyne's problem. It's not his fault that her talent for making friends is limited, or how her training hours don't give her too much time for that sort of thing anyway. Even if she had it she wouldn't want to, either.

 

"Sweetheart, come say hi. Our neigh--"

 

Wanting to make a life down here is pointless. This saw-edged hole in the planet is doomed to kill anyone who tries to live. Nothing grows behind bars, far from freedom, entombed in rock.

 

Besides, it's not like Asgore doesn't care about her. He does, he cares about everyone. It's sort of his whole deal. Him exerting his birthright on her isn't a good enough reason to make him feel bad, as the five unanswered texts in her inbox attest to. He has nothing to apologize for. Undyne didn't have the right to make it look like he did, Asgore already has enough on his plate to have to deal with this, too.

 

It's not like he's obligated to care about her, anyway. So far as he likes her enough to be comfortable working with her, to trust her, as long as he doesn't hate her, it's alright. Everything else is an extra he gives of his own volition. She's not entitled to anything from him.

 

“Maybe later, sw--”

 

She isn't entitled to anything from anyone. She learnt that lesson a while ago.

 

She'll never repay for all he's done and all he'll sacrifice for her freedom, along with everyone else's. The least she can do is not add to that burden. Wasn't the entire point of becoming the Captain to be of proper use to Asgore to begin with? To guilt him like that is only giving credence to everyone who thinks she's not qualified to be Captain. If he changes his mind she won't even blame him.

 

Asgore is a busy man. He's always going from one spot to another, tending to paperwork and listening to his people, making sure they know they aren't alone and someone cares about their woes and concerns. And out of all of them, it's just her he makes time for. It's her he invites over, it's her house he visits unannounced because he thinks the formality's unnecessary between them. The amount of rejection and almost betrayal Undyne felt back during breakfast was disproportionate and improper. She doesn't think like this anymore.

 

...And still a bit of it has followed her. A silent co-passenger in the Riverperson's boat, sitting beside her.

 

It's ridiculous. Undyne's ridiculous; she stopped letting herself think like this five years ago, what gives? Asgore helped her turn her dreams into a reality. When Undyne was beyond pissed at him for being, in her childish eyes, the reason--

 

"For my s--"

 

...A wuss who lost the war and doomed everyone, far from hurt or annoyed, he saw her anger and helped her twist it into potential. Beside him, the vague dreams of her wrath raining down on humans were shaped into a plausible future. He's the reason she still has a modicum of hope left within her, and this is how she behaves?

 

She took too much for granted, took his words a bit too literally. But that's on her; especially considering she isn't the easiest person to love.

 

"Mom... Are you alri--?"

 

The time and dedication he's given her are more than enough. She'll have to apologize for being a massive jackass during dinner tonight. Even if she doesn't want to see him right now, he made time in his agenda for her. She doesn't get to bail for something as childish as meaningless emotions. She'll go there, have dinner and behave like the adult she is.

 

No wonder certain people think she isn't fit for...

 

Undyne generally finds trips with the Riverperson to be calming, but their haunting melody over the rushing water as their boat cuts through its surface isn't doing it for her today. Nothing is. What the hell is wrong with her?!

 

Asgore's done nothing but believe in her, support her, and have her back since he began training her. He didn't deserve to be attacked in his own house, damn it.

 

Undyne's temper continues to be her folly. It's always been. From community service in that forsaken office, to--

 

The sloshing of water is louder, coming from two directions.

 

"...We have company," the Riverperson mutters. "I do not know who else has a boat in the Underground, tra la la."

 

Huh. Undyne can't see anything amidst the cave's perpetual twilight. Looks like the Riverperson's night vision is even better than her own.

 

So someone got a new river faring hobby. Good for them. They must have made their own vessel, since there aren't any shipwrights in the Underground. That Undyne knows of, anyway. For a place so small, so static, it's surprising how many--

 

"It appears to be speeding up."

 

...Sounds about right. There's still nothing to see in the impenetrable black up ahead, but the flowing is faster than before.

 

Maybe there should be official water transport regulations if there are more people besides the Riverperson traversing the Underground's single artery. Asgore'll get to it as soon as he can when he hears of this.

 

The Riverperson sways to the left to avoid the upcoming ship.

 

...Who are they going to consult for this, though? There aren't any travel experts in the Underground. Trains, busy highways, ships... That's for somewhere as spacious as the Surface; not for monsters.

 

As long as they don't improvise the regulations and later learn from the inevitable errors, like they did with the--

 

The Riverperson swerves again, more brusquely, humming their echoing, eerie song faster, higher, with more anxiety bleeding into their voice.

 

"What's going on?"

 

"...It's following us. The other boat. It's headed towards us."

 

Undyne stands-- The force of the water beneath them swivels the boat. Undyne catches herself before it knocks her off-balance and into the water. How the hell does the Riverperson make standing here look so effortless?

 

Arms extended to help with equilibrium, Undyne squints.

 

There's a small patch of darkness slowly breaking free from the main body. A little dot in the horizon which, indeed, tails the Riverperson's every move. It bcomes larger and larger as the rushing water grows louder.

 

Wherever Riverperson goes, whichever side of the canal they take, the boat ahead of them does as well, blocking their path head on. The Riverperson can't shake them off, their song becoming more and more desperate, every note more shrill than the last.

 

The enemy ship is nothing but a piece of crude woodwork with no ornaments or decorations. Chilling. In a prison where everything pays at least a small tribute to beauty, the absence of embellishment is disquieting.

 

Undyne shivers. This isn't normal.

 

"Can you see who's manning that ship?"

 

Underground denizens tend to get bored. Be it pent up frustration or creativity with no proper outlets, the Royal Guard sees a number of monsters in their office every week. Usually harmless, unintentional misdemeanour. A prank taken too far, or a poorly thought-out experiment. Seldom does something with genuine malice happen down here; the inmates here are usually friendly. This is probably something like that too, right?

 

"It's empty."

 

...That... That can't be. Undyne definitely makes out no shape nor outline within the shrouded bowels of the hollowed out tree trunk ahead. If the Riverperson can't, either...

 

Alright, this isn't normal. Better to overreact than regret it; Undyne's travelling with a civilian. What do they do now? They've waited too long to consider stopping, and even if they did the other boat would crash into them regardless. There's no room in this circumscribed passage to turn tail and sail back to where they came from, either.

 

Destroying the boat with spears? Doable, but monsters come in all shapes and sizes. If there happens to be a particularly short civilian in there, Undyne can't attack them unless it's a life or death situation. Is it? Feels like it, but she can't discard it isn't. They're living in a place rigged with deadly spikes in the name of tradition; sometimes monsters lose perspective of how dangerous certain things are. She can't risk an offence a week before getting promoted; she'd disappoint Asgore.

 

They're going to crash.

 

"Riverperson, we need to jump." Undyne takes slow steps towards them. If she rushes she's going to fall overboard. "Right now."

 

"I can't swim," they confess in a strained, scared tone. "I can't--"

 

A wave sends Undyne flying forwards the rest of the way, straight into Riverperson's back. The gasp in surprise as Undyne wraps her arms around them.

 

"I can. Take a deep breath."

 

The other boat is only a few feet away from them when Undyne breaks the surface of the water. She falls to the river's bed without letting go of her charge. Above them, distorted by the water, a deafening crash is followed by wood groaning and splintering.

 

If there was anyone in there they'll be in the water now, potentially injured. She has to get up there swiftly but carefully. It'll be full of debris, and she can't let the Riverperson get hurt.

 

They writhe in terror, clawing at Undyne's back and arms as she tenses her legs to propel herself upwards, wasting a lot of air on screams that become incomprehensible bubbles. She holds them tighter as they move--

 

Something got tangled around her ankles.

 

Undyne looks down, tugging hard with her leg. It's pitch black. Whatever has her doesn't budge.

 

Riverperson squirms more and more. They're wasting energy; that won't help them conserve air. She has to get them to the surface. Right now.

 

Undyne pulls with her leg, using all her strength. Futile; she's going to have to summon a spear with an unpredictable, thrashing civilian in range. The Riverperson's robes float all around them, clinging to her face. She can breath underwater, but not through soaked fabric. She lets go of them with one arm to push it out of her face--

 

The tendrils around her ankle tug on her, sinking small spikes into her leg. They're sharp, cutting through scales, skin and muscle effortlessly. Undyne inhales sharply. She gets a mouthfull of robe.

 

It's behind her again. Down here, sway--

 

No.

 

Spearhead pointed down, Undyne summons a spear. She's getting the Riverperson out now. Her spear glows with the intensity of a setting sun in the cold darkness of the water. It burns her eye, forcing her to blink until it adjusts. She--

 

The coils around her ankles tighten more, burrowing themselves in her flesh, hugging her bones tight. Undyne grits her teeth to keep from crying out.

 

It's getting closer and cl--

 

A second pair of constraints latch around her knees, drilling into the surrounding tissue as they clamp down harder than before. They pull Undyne to her knees.

 

Something soft flutters against her face as she sinks, floating up as she goes down.

 

The Riverperson. She's not holding them anymore. No. No no no, she let go of them. When?! Undyne claws upwards towards where their robes glided by her, reaching as high up as she can. Her fingers close around water.

 

Damn it. Alright. Alright alright, she's here now; she can't afford to lose her head. What to do?

 

Hot and cold. Freezing and burning. Just like--

 

She summons a spear with each of her now free hands hollows out the darkness enveloping her. The culprit for her imprisonment and the only things standing between her and rescuing the Riverperson aren't tentacles or anything she would expect to find down here. She can't say for sure in this light, but they look more like roots and vines.

 

...What? Those aren't from any water flora she knows of. How did they get here?

 

The vines are flush against her legs, but she's already got nasty injuries to tend to regardless. She can't stay down here and let the Riverperson drown. A single deep breath is all Undyne allows herself before slashing herself open in order to break free. Her body tenses at the pain, tearing a scream from her only manifesting in the form of turquoise-bathed bubbles floating far above her. She's trembling, her arms refuse to undo the final tethers around her ankles as the survival instinct kicks in, but what choice does she have?

 

She closes her eye and strikes below her. Another set of bubbles flow from her mouth as her concentration breaks and her spears fizzle out.

 

She did it. She did it, she's free. There are strips of exposed muscle hanging from her knees and ankles, and the water rushing through the wounds, parting the skin and tissue even more, popping loose scales off, is making her nauseous. All she has to do is not think about that and she'll be fine. Just move forwards and everything with be alright.

 

Undyne kicks off again, conjuring a spear to tear through the dark. Even with that it's still glum, she's immured by impenetrable water. She could just go up, but there's no guarantees the Riverperson made it to the surface. Undyne listens. There's nothing but eerie silence laced with death--

 

There. Overhead and to the right the water moves. Undyne swims in that direction. She can't kick her legs, but her arms suffice once she does away with her spears. She can't swim with her hands full. The splashing gets louder, she's on the right track. Wait... That's not splashing. Shit. That's--

 

Whatever impacts against Undyne's chest is big, much bigger than the Riverperson, and sharp as the reaper's scythe. She doesn't feel the wound, she can't feel anything, but the impact is pushing her back down. No matter which limb she moves, none obey.

 

She's paralyzed. It went through her spine. How did wood scraps from the crash--?

 

Her back slams into the riverbed. All the air in her lungs floats out of her on impact. Her ears fill the silence with hellish ringing conjured by her concussion.

 

She... Her hands, she can move them. Just barely, but water sifts between her fingers if she stretches them. Alright, not paralyzed. Not from the neck down. Undyne tenses her fingers, willing a spear to materialize between them. It does not.

 

She's here.

 

...It doesn't matter, Undyne has to keep on trying. She has a lot to do... for monster kind and herself... And especially Asg--

 

Finally a spear forms in her hand. Cast in vibrant turquoise with shadows deeper than hell, a serrated chunk of wood protrudes from her abdomen. It's keeping her pinned to the river's rock floor.

 

With every heartbeat her vision blurs. It's blurring quite fast.

 

"For m--"

 

...She can't... No, it can't end here. She hasn't had the chance to live yet. She has... She can't give up; she refuses. Undyne... still... has...

 

It's coming closer. She's coming cl--

 

...She will not... She... The Riverperson...

 

...Asgore...

 

*

 

Menial paperwork is what he finds himself caught up in today. A considerable portion of it are letters from the families of the monsters Dr. Alphys used for the experiments. He sets those aside to forward to her later on.

 

He cannot focus on anything. Ever since this morning his unease has only grown. When not only was he unable to find Undyne in her usual training spots nor her house at lunch time, but confirmed with a few Waterfall residents that none of them have seen her all day long, his stress became such he had to forgo lunch altogether.

 

The fact that she isn't picking up the phone is not helping. He can only pray she is too cross at him to speak right now.

 

And still, there is something... off, about today.

 

"Let me go home. We don't have to fight. Please? I just want to go--"

 

...It would be impossible for a human to make it to Waterfall unnoticed. Surely they would have been spotted by the Guard in Snowdin...?

 

He would have heard about a human. The tightness in his chest he woke up with, this undying combination of anticipation, dejà vu, grief and instinct, made him lash out at her. Is it so bad that he wants her to be safe?

 

Asgore takes a deep breath through the knot of tension constraining his lungs. It does not loosen in the slightest. He mortified himself all morning long thinking about the human, about what that would entail, having to kill--

 

"Every last man, woman and ch--"

 

Such ruminations lead him to issuing an order to Undyne on her day off, more than comprehensively angering her. He should have never done that. Not to her; it was out of place. There is no hierarchy between them. He told her that, then he broke his word. She has every right to be hurt now. He will keep a cool head from now on and wait for confirmation of his fears before losing his grip around his actions again. It isn't like pondering will save him from delivering on his word.

 

Above all, he cannot lose her. Not to a human, but not to himself, either. At all.

 

He called her. She had not replied to any of his messages, but it did not matter. Ever since she left his house in a justified yet quiet rage she has been stuck in his thoughts. Why did he give her an order? She was being irresponsible, correct, but parents do not--

 

...Not that he is her parent, of course. He let that ship sail on purpose. She already had a mother and father, he would not dream of daring to replace them. Not with his track record, it would only cause her harm. But still, even among friends, commanding people is inappropriate.

 

He was scared, though. Something about hearing what she intended to do with her single day off embedded fear in his soul. He did not want her to go through the door and lose sight of her lest it be the last time he... Disproportionate for someone he trusts with his life. It became such an overwhelming feeling it clouded his judgement, and now he cannot get through to her.

 

When she did not answer his calls he left her a sixth message. He told her he does not mind at all if she is angry at him right now, or if she hates him, even. All he wants is to know she is okay. Even if she only responds with a curse word, he will take it.

 

He should not have let his feelings get the best of him. Not with her. Alas, thinking until a headache develops will not manifest a response from her. Where was he...?

 

...There are many reasons she could be absent. One of them, of course, being that something happened. But is that not catastrophizing again? He does not need to assume the worst. Had a human arrived in the Underground he would have heard of them by now. He has asked every member of the Guard to keep an extra keen eye out for suspicious activity today. There are no reports of a human in the Underground. Hopefully Undyne is merely ignoring him out of spite?

 

"Your Highness, we found one. The first human since--"

 

Asgore did not as much sign whichever paper is under his pen right now as much as he tore his name through it. The pen cracked between his fingers. Ink flows between them dark and thick as Ch--, clotting in his fur.

 

...He has been like this for hours now. He would give anything to have some news from her. Anything to--

 

Someone knocks on the door. His heart races.

 

She... is fine. This is probably not even about her.

 

He stands up and swallows something thick in the back of his throat. It persists.

 

"Come in." His voice is little more than a thread. He clears his throat and speaks again, louder. He needs to get a grip. There is no reason--

 

The door swings open silently, revealing a strong feline soldier on the other side saluting Asgore with a serious expression. "Your Highness. I have been instructed to report..."

 

...If Asgore had to explain why tears brim over before that sentence is over, he would not be able to. He just knows. Before the soldier is done speaking he already knows his final conversation with his dau-- with her, was an argument where

Notes:

Prompt: car crash

Chapter 5: Why?!

...Fifteen minutes without news. This does not bode well.

 

Asgore blinks, his eyes are warm. Even with the custom-sized phone Dr. Alphys made for him, Asgore's large thumbs fumble with the buttons on the bottom half of his cellphone. The four vertical bars in the top right corner of the screen insist he has signal, but if so, why has he not heard from the Royal Guard yet?

 

This feeling within him, this... cross between anticipation, dejà vu, instinct and grief... He has felt it before. Most of the time it means nothing. It is simply the way brains operate coupled with the regrets and ghosts lurking in his mind. Having the sensation of having lived through something before happens to everyone, it is normal. Especially considering life in the Underground is a dull repetition of scenery and routine; days often blend into one another.

 

Yet there have been times where the vague feeling of having met someone previously, having done something before, having felt something, having certain knowledge without recalling where it was learnt, were indicative of something much more dangerous than a little blip in his mind. Six times, to be precise.

 

"I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill you for killing me first. I just wanted to go back home. You're a despicable--"

 

It does not have to be a human, of course. It could be his old mind playing tricks on him. Sometimes it makes time perception a bit hazy. The past and future intrude upon his present, making him expect to hear footsteps other than his own in this house; or planting him firmly on the Surface, blinded by the Sun he has not seen in so long, his body twisted beyond recognition and soaked in the blood of innocent people like--

 

"Dad... Are you there? It hurts. I--"

 

"Asgore!!"

 

Undyne, right. He invited her over for breakfast. Correct. His head... His head is not present. It is pounding lightly, even. Monsters do not get sick the way humans do. The only time Asgore felt remotely like this was when he ingested buttercups. Back when...

 

"Dad, we're sorry. We read the recipe wrong. We didn't mean to--"

 

Undyne is sitting across from him, frowning lightly and toying with her mother's locket's chain again. She is worried. He made her worry. He did not intend to, there is no need to concern her. It could be nothing, and even if it were not...

 

"I'll bring you the seventh soul if it's the last thing I do. I promise."

 

...No, no no. He cannot lose her. Humanity's physical capabilities far exceed what the average monster can counter; even her. Sending her to battle was his idea, he was the one who complied with her whims of vengeance born out of grief. In retrospect, now that there very well may be a human in their midst, it was a dreadful idea. There were countless things to do for a mourning ten year-old. Placing a weapon between her hands and giving her a taste for blood should not have been options. Asgore always hurts his--

 

She is not his daughter, nor is she his responsibility. He is merely her mentor as he so chose to be, and he has attempted to remain within those margins for ten years now. Yet going to her funeral is not something Asgore would recover from.

 

He already mourns two.

 

In this past decade Asgore has consistently failed at staying out of her personal life, as much as he has tried to foster distance between them. He has garnered proximity and trust instead. He does not regret it, or at least he did not until he woke up with this blighted emotion embedded in his chest this morning. Suddenly, having the sort of bond where he can command her to stay away from conflict and she would obey felt alluring.

 

Then again, if their link were such, she would not be here today. He would not have witnessed all her growth and milestones, he would have never unearthed her bizarre sense of humor nor felt her distant, aloof care for him. Would it truly be better, then? Something about her calls out to him in a painfully familiar way.

 

"Dad, Chara and I--"

 

"Dad, we made you a sweater. Happy birthday!"

 

"Hey, dad! Help us convince mom--?"

 

...It isn't the same. Not with Undyne. She was not born to him, and he did not take any responsibility for her. He did it right this time, he stayed away from her and therefore saved her from...

 

"Friends and loved--"

 

He cannot demand she stay put, if this truly is a human and not his mind toying with him. If this is a genuine feeling and not one crafted from melancholy and nightmares, the day might be today, this instant.

 

...She will not be facing a human no matter the consequence. She is mentally stronger than them, more determined, but she is as weak compared to them as any monster. Even someone as vulnerable as a human child can kill dozens of monsters in their wake. What was Asgore thinking when he agreed to train--?

 

"...Asgore, are you here? You're freaking me out. What's wrong?"

 

Heavens, he needs to get a grip. Until news arrives of a human it could all be a fabrication of his frail mind. This headache is affecting him, he is catastrophizing.

 

...Is it even a real headache? Or a ghost of the past? Is he truly ill? Did he have nightmares again last night? Is this yet another bad dream slipping into his waking hours?

 

The unseeing blue eye--

 

Then again, his fear is valid irrespective of the presence of a human currently in his kingdom; her life is on the line. It always has been, but always in some theoretical, distant future. Today it might be in the present, right away.

 

She was expecting an answer, was she not? Curses.

 

Asgore points at his phone. "This... This fangled thing." Between his temples. That is where it stings. "I am expecting a call from the CORE's engineers, and I cannot say for sure whether I have signal."

 

Undyne turns her head a bit away from him, giving him the incredulous side-eye she saves specifically for when she can tell Asgore is lying to her. How see-through is he to her, exactly?

 

"...You're this scattered because of a little malfunction in the CORE?"

 

Little? Undyne's hair resembles a spooked cat's coat, the humidity is through the roof. Clouds are gathering outside, topping the capital with menacing grey instead of darkness for a change.

 

"All of New Home is cooking. It is affecting the weather. We had to instruct all civilians to stay indoors if possible until it passes due to the risk of a thunderstorm. Yes, I am "scattered," as you put it. Today I cannot be unreachable."

 

...It is true enough. It is better than lying.

 

Undyne arches an eyebrow and twists in her seat as she pulls her phone out of her jeans. It cannot be comfortable, to wear something so tight. She flips her red, scratched and battered phone open and presses some buttons on it. They beep with every stroke--

 

Winter Wind; his ringtone. It is--

 

Undyne. Undyne is calling him. She snaps her phone shut and the music ceases. She smirks.

 

"Your signal's fine. I guess you'll relax now, right?"

 

She is smart, brilliant, and so obnoxiously observant at times. Asgore has not gotten away with fooling her in any capacity since her twelfth birthday. But she never brags about being able to read him better than she can certain words, nor does she say anything. The twinkle in her eye, the way her mouth puckers as she tries to contain a grin, do all the talking her voice does not.

 

She is brighter than the Sun she tirelessly pursues. Her life cannot be lost to the violence of battle.

 

Not anyone's, in an ideal world. But especially hers.

 

He nods. "I suppose... I suppose I will. Thank you, Undyne."

 

She finishes her coffee in one swig. "No problem, old timer. One day you'll catch up with the times, I believe in you."

 

No Captain would ever reasonably tell their King that. Yet nothing would make Asgore happier than to be with her on these unorthodox terms. She is not his, he is solely her mentor.

 

He cannot lose her.

 

If she goes off and does... what did she say she was going to do on her day off? Shopping and upkeep? There was something else; Asgore wasn't listening as deeply as he should have, blighted headache. If she leaves, she might be closer to the human than he is here in New Home and engage them in battle before news arrives to him. Provided there is a human, of course. There is no need to exaggerate without confirmation, and still. If there were, if these feelings were more than projections of his old timer mind...

 

He should get her to take a break whether she desires it or not. But would doing so not place her in Waterfall all the same, provided it went over well?

 

...This is overly dramatic. Surely she would be fine. Her job is to confront humans. It is what she has trained and prepared for for a decade now. There is nobody in the world Asgore trusts more than her. She is passionate and fierce, yet she keeps a surprisingly cool head in battle. She was capable of defeating him, for crying out loud. There is nobody better equipped for this battle. To bar her from it would be to do her a disservice.

 

And still, what is he supposed to do? Watch her go and pray for the best? Do nothing when a human might as well--?

 

"Alright. I have to get going." She stands, smoothing the folds out of her sweater. "Thanks for having me ov--"

 

"Today I will work from home."

 

One hand frozen in mid-air adjusting one of her backpack's straps and the other trapped under her frizzy hair, pushing it behind her, she looks at him with the same disbelieving stare as before. "You're working from home?"

 

He nods. She stops fiddling with her backpack and frowns. "Are... Are you feeling well? There's nothing wrong with working from home, but you?"

 

...He has no follow-up for this. Lying, making things up on the spot, such things have never been his forte. He had no intention to work from home. What was he planning to achieve by saying that? Does he follow through with his own statement? What would that accomplish?

 

She will not stay just because he does. This old head of his, it becomes more and more foolish with each passing day. The pain is not making it any easier to think. Every thought more resembles trudging through murky rapids than the simple act of thinking.

 

...It isn't just his memories playing with him, is it? The time has finally come in which he will be obligated to fulfill his promise to senselessly slaughter--

 

"Asgore—"

 

He stands up; she should go. Nothing he is considering makes sense under scrutiny. It sounds reasonable one moment but not the next. He most likely isn't even feeling the distinct déjà vu of human children playing with time as they would a game of catch.

 

"Can I go home now, Mr. King? I heard the way back home is--"

 

The living room blurs. The plates on the table rattle. What...?

 

"Asgore!"

 

...He's... He is leaning against the table, bent over. He must have stood up too quickly, that is all. It happens some times.

 

Yet when last he felt like this...

 

"We're sorry. We didn't mean to hurt you. Chara and I--"

 

...No, that is impossible. He... He poured himself golden flower tea. The... The blend he keeps in the back of the cupboard for... emergencies... It is so far from the golden flower tea it is unlikely he mixed them up.

 

...Right?

 

"Asgore... I-I'm going to call the doctor."

 

Curses. She is standing beside him, eye wider than when she finally managed to defeat him during a sparring session. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and fumbles to open it. Undyne, one of the most talented pianists he has had the honour of raising, whose minute motor functions are enviably precise, who can keep her wits about herself under the stress of battle, is struggling to do something as simple as opening her phone because he made her worry.

 

"Worry not, Undyne. I believe... I believe I simply mixed up the contents of my tea."

 

She laughs nervously, shaking her head. "With what? Arsenic?"

 

...Close. So close.

 

"Asgore, come quick! Chara is bleeding from the mouth. They ate some--"

 

"I... I have other blends, not just golden flower tea. Some can be... harmful, when combined. I believe I... I believe I had a lapse in attention this morning." He smiles at her. It feels like a grimace. "Good thing you wanted coffee."

 

She nods, punching numbers into her phone once more. "Sure, great. I'm calling the doctor regardl--"

 

He pulls the phone from her grasp.

 

"Hey!!"

 

"I am sorry I worried you. But I can assure you I do not need a doctor. This..."

 

"Dad... Dad, we didn't mean to--"

 

"...This has happened before."

 

He needs considerably more in his system to fall severely ill. The doctor is not someone Asgore will be facing today, nor ever, nor any medical professional from the hospital in New Home if he can avoid it. Short of Undyne losing her other eye, nothing could force him to engage with the medical system again.

 

"All we can do is wait and see how your child progresses, your Maj--"

 

Undyne crosses her arms. "I don't care if it's happened before, you're not okay." She shakes her head. "Stop being stubborn and let me call them."

 

...Sweet girl. Asgore does not deserve her company.

 

"Dad... Dad, I'm scared. They're not opening their eyes anymore. Ch--"

 

"Can I go home now, your Majesty? Please--"

 

"Every last man, woman and child."

 

"You are the future of humans and mons--"

 

He does not deserve anything at all.

 

"Even if you were to bring them here I would not open the door. Do not bother, Undyne. I will be alright after resting."

 

Doctors do not save anyone in the end. It is futile to go to them for anything which does not require an extraction, or something along such lines. They are good for hacking and sawing, for opening and removing eyes. For healing, for curing poisoning--

 

She drops her arms to her sides, fists balled. "Stubborn. What if you get worse?"

 

"I will do whatever needs to be done."

 

And visiting the doctor is decidedly not it. Then again, he knows how many buttercups he must ingest to be in danger. The contents of this tea will ruin his morning and little else. He will have to work from home, after all. At least for the first half of the day.

 

"Right, sure you will." Undyne rolls her eye. "Alright, change of plans. I'm staying with you."

 

She takes her bag off and hangs it from the chair she was sat upon for breakfast. "No other way to make sure you'll actually take care."

 

"Undyne, you do not have to--"

 

"But I'm gonna." She points at the door over her shoulder. "Or are you gonna kick me out?"

 

*

 

Little droplets of water drum gently against the kitchen's divided window.

 

...Asgore had no chores to do today. Everything he mentioned he needed help with was minimal. There's hardly any dust in this house, the laundry's always up to date, as are the dishes. Undyne entertained him, of course. And in turn, him giving her something to do was him humoring her as well. She wanted to be useful, he provided imaginary tasks.

 

He did the same when she lost her eye. Incapable of keeping bed rest, he gave her a list of things to do around the house just to keep her distracted and feeling helpful, while also keeping her too busy to consider sneaking off to train or attempting to summon any more spears.

 

She fell for it all the same despite being nine years older, didn't she?

 

Undyne puts the final plate in the cupboard. That every piece of porcelain survived bar a few dents and bent cutlery is a miracle that required all her concentration. Considering how some of her glasses and cutlery usually end up she might need to start believing Asgore when he insists Undyne isn't aware of the extent of her strength.

 

When she shuts the cupboard its hinges whine. She offered to oil pretty much every drawer, window and door in this house while she's here, but Asgore says they're fine as is. What he gets out of insufferable noise every time he needs to interact with a piece of furniture is a mystery, but seeing how run-down he looks Undyne didn't push the issue further. His hinges, his hearing, his problem.

 

Last night she went to bed excited about seeing him today. They haven't spent much quality time together in a while; she really wanted to be with him. All their get-togethers are shoehorned in between her training and his meetings, stuck in a schedule as claustrophobic as the Underground is. But when she woke up her excitement turned into a vague feeling their morning wouldn't be as pleasant as she'd anticipated.

 

She would've preferred an argument over him being sick, though. Not even that, he's just being so weird today.

 

He gave in way too easily to her staying with him. Not even when he's been doing worse than today, like when he went through that bout of insomnia two years ago, has he relented so effortlessly to her insistence to take care of him. Even when he does he only allows her to order take-out for him before sending her on her way.

 

He didn't complain when she told him to sit down, he hasn't stood up once since to help her, nor has he tried to talk her into moving on with her day. He gave her a series of tasks he needed done and allowed her to call his secretary and ask her to deliver paperwork to his house, since he wasn't feeling well, and he's been working on it since it arrived.

 

Though Undyne can make educated guesses, she can't be sure why it is he insists so much on always driving himself to the extreme. Undyne bears no doubt within herself that, much like her, Asgore is aware of the imposing battles to come and wants to be in peak condition. On top of that she's a first-hand witness to the responsibility he feels towards his people. Asgore works hard for the sake of others because he's kind and caring, and because he understands there can be no more generations of monsters growing up under the crushing weight of the mountain standing between them and their freedom.

 

But she's always had the impression that there's more. Something else behind his drive besides his dedication to the well-being of monsters. If Undyne is pushing herself towards a goal, permanently running towards it, she has the sensation that a significant portion of the driving force in Asgore's impeccable work ethic is running from something.

 

Be if from his memories of the War of Humans and monsters or the treason the former Queen inflicted upon him with her cowardly retreat, the death of his children, a combination of all of those, or something else, Undyne can't say. It isn't her place to, anyway. In any of those cases, the point is that Asgore would never willingly stay home if he weren't doing truly miserable. Heavens know he needs it, but he's the last person who would willingly admit to it.

 

Whatever happened to him today wasn't normal. Maybe there's more to the malfunction in the CORE than what he let on? Not very likely. If anything, he'd have to tell her because she's his second in command, right? It was probably more related to the children whose names he can't say out loud, or any of the other number of ghosts haunting him.

 

The important part is that, the last few times Undyne spoke to him, he was doing better. His speech was faster, more focused and comprehensible. His eyes aren't reddened anymore. Which means after lunch Undyne will probably be heading back to Waterfall to proceed with her day. No time for her to do the shopping nor all she wanted to do, but she can stick to a reduced version of her original plans. Since she'll be having lunch with Asgore there'll be no need to come over for dinner, either, so if push comes to shove she can work a bit deeper into the night.

 

And, if she somehow has a sliver of time left... Maybe before going to bed she could open her piano and--

 

It doesn't make a significant difference down here. Morning or night, it's all the same. Monsters abide by a clock because a routine is required to function together as a society, not because there's any sunlight to guide them.

 

Not yet. Undyne will bring them all out of this hole. Undyne will be next to Asgore as he becomes the ultimate sacrifice and hero of all monster kind.

 

She can't spare him such a fate, but she'll do anything she can to make it as bearable as possible.

 

Several kids play in the puddles outside the window. They were suggested to stay indoors, but the rain is so light after a few hours most monsters decided to forgo the warning. Now dozens of colourful umbrellas fill the stale whiteness of New Home with some splotches of life.

 

...For a cage, it really is beautiful.

 

"Sweetheart, what if we--?"

 

One day the puddles little children play in will be those of water that falls from the sky, collected from the moisture of rivers and seas from places far away. Fresh water that isn't sullied by the dank moisture of the Underground.

 

She'll make that a reality. For them and for every monster born after. Human tyranny will end and a new era for monsters will begin. Asgore and her will see to it.

 

-

 

This is the worst thunderstorm the Underground has seen in years.

 

Thick drops of water clatter against her armor loud as relentless gunshots. Behind them, the cutting wind's shrill howling and sloshing of water whisk away any other sounds Undyne might need to hear, like civilian voices or other Guard's instructions and footsteps.

 

Compared to the perpetual night of the Underground, the clouds and rain's light grey haze proves to be more impenetrable than the cavern's obscurity. Sheets of frigid water fall from the violent cumulonimbi above with the wrath of a scorned war god. They come at a slanted angle tossed around by the gale and bounce off every surface. Undyne's world is composed solely of the five feet ahead of her. After that it's all watercolour grey sliced red by the few soaking wet strands of Undyne's hair that have been freed by the wind.

 

It was fine for a moment. Undyne was pouring her hardly passable soup into plates, telling Asgore to go to the table already, and the next the drizzle became... whatever the hell this is.

 

Water up to Undyne's shins rushes downhill. Most of the Guard is in the middle and lower circles of New Home. That's where the thick of the lightning is falling, away from the rain. Despite the danger the downpour posits, the risk of lightning strikes is worse.

 

The screams of dozens of people whose days were interrupted by a storm of catastrophic proportions occasionally mingle with the rushing water, metal clamour of Undyne's armour and the wind's pained shrieks. It's impossible to locate their owner's position in this irate cacophony. The only approach Undyne's been able to take has been that of patrolling the barren streets until someone's voice is near enough for her to follow.

 

She's walked by Asgore a few times. He refused to let her leave alone, insisting to hell and back he's feeling well enough to be out here. He better be, because if he gets hurt in the slightest he's going to hear a scolding from her for a change.

 

He wanted them to stay together, and they did for the first ten minutes or so. Until they heard two sets of screams in opposite ends of the same street--

 

His voice is somewhere to her left, yelling to be heard over the storm. Whether it's a member of the Guard or a civilian he's talking to is impossible to tell; that his pitch and cadence are recognizable is more than enough, all things considered. Alright, so the left is most likely covered. The heavy steps of someone clad in armour dash behind her. Undyne continues walking straight, straining her ears for something that isn't rain or wind.

 

Stupid armor. Her own set is at her house; all she has left at Asgore's place is her old set. She didn't want to wear it under any circumstances, but Asgore was adamant about not just her, but the entire Guard being ready.

 

For what he didn't say. He just--

 

...There.

 

A muffled high-pitched voice; somewhere near. Undyne takes a few more steps. The voice grows louder. She runs.

 

She pushes writhing tendrils of soaked hair away from her eye. The voice's owner isn't far. It's likely a child, if the timbre is anything to go by. Their shapeless words solidify the closer she gets.

 

"...stuck, I can't move. Help, please!!"

 

...That voice... Does she know this kid?

 

A stain of orange parts the unfathomable grey. The larger it becomes as Undyne gets closer, a tentacle frees itself from the formless blob. No... No, not a tentacle; a tail. The child is at the piedmont of a steep hill, standing besides a building from which the wind sends two flowerpots careening into the submerged cobblestones a foot away from the kid, who whimpers and shrinks away from the intemperate splash.

 

A brown blur slides from the hilltop across the edge of Undyne's vision towards the child. A log or another kind of wood. If it hits the kid they'll die. Undyne raises her hand--

 

God damn everything. She pushes the hair out of her eye; she's going to impale the kid if she can't see them. She raises her other hand and four spears crackle into existence before the loose debris, stopping it with a loud clatter a foot away from the screaming child.

 

Way too close.

 

A little reptilian monster with wide eyes and slitted pupils in a striped brown and orange vest bathed by her spears' turquoise light struggles, groaning, against something under the water. The current pushes and pulls their little body as if controlled by a grotesque puppeteer. Either exhaustion or a particularly strong tide topples them backwards. They scream--

 

Undyne lunges forwards. Her hand catches their head before they're pulled under.

 

The monster has no arms, but a tail coils tight around Undyne's bicep with desperation. The little one's chest rises and falls rapidly in sync with their shrill, choppy breaths.

 

No arms and a tail... She must have seen the runt around. Where?

 

Undyne helps them stand. They don't let go of her arm. Through heavy pants they hardly manage to breathe: "Foot... Caught... Help."

 

Undyne nods, kneeling before them. "I'm going to find what you're stuck in and then get you out of here, alright?"

 

The scared child nods. Rain and most likely tears alike stain their little cheeks. Poor thing. So small and so alone, scared and--

 

"Mom, please get--"

 

Undyne palms around the child's bony knee with her free hand, finding their calf and going down. She has to be quick but not break every bone in their leg, she has to be careful. Easier said than done when this child's one gust of wind away from drowning though.

 

Indeed, something is wrapped tight around their ankle. No amount of struggling against these binds would have ever freed them; they're devilishly tight, almost embedded into the kid's flesh.

 

What the hell are these? Why are they coming out of concrete?

 

...A shiver tears up and down Undyne's back. This kid needs to get somewhere safe effective immediate.

 

Tugging does nothing on the tangle, she's going to have to cut. She summons a spear--

 

The child screams, falling back from the scare. Their tail strains around her arm, barely managing to keep their torso afloat and stand again.

 

She can't be menacing around kids. They're small and easy to terrify, and so painfully illogical when consumed by emotions larger than them. Damn everything; had the kid flailed forwards and not back they could've hurt themself.

 

Undyne needs to get a grip.

 

"I need to cut through it.” She has to keep her voice even, not allow a single negative emotion to show and scare the kid further. "You can't move, alright?"

 

With a gasp through their laboured breathing, they give her a jittery nod. "I'll... do my best..."

 

...Poor thing is breathless. If Undyne hadn't been around they would have already drowned.

 

Best not to botch it, then.

 

Undyne works fast, very careful not to hurt them, but well aware that the water, wind or exhaustion could knock them off balance at any moment and she has a sharp weapon right next to their legs. She must be quick but precise. She has to get them out of here in one piece and quickly.

 

She can't stay long. Whatever has them restrained isn't natural. A cold nausea gathers in the mouth of her stomach.

 

Undyne saws through the constraints. She can't feel much with all the water rushing by her fingers, but she would hazard to say the kid got trapped by some sort of plant life.

 

...But nothing grows down here. What type of--?

 

Something brushes past the inside of her arm.

 

A thin metal pole breaches the water with a horrendous scraping sound. The child wails, lurching back on instinct but keeping themself upright with a quiet whine. The pole stops at the height of Undyne's neck.

 

It's following her. And so is she. They will follow her to the--

 

...She has to go. She has to get out of here. But she can't leave the kid. She continues sawing through the--

 

Three smaller, slimmer shafts break away from the pole's main body like a metallic flower opening its petals to skies invisible from down here. A neon green beam of light flies towards the top of the cavern, diffused by the water. It's warm, as if it were ablaze.

 

It's going to claim her.

 

Almost there... She's almost there, damn--

 

Her spear cuts through something soft. The child howls in pain, thrashing away from Undyne and the spear which hopefully just gave them a nasty scar. They fall under the water and pull themself upright again with their tail.

 

Damn it. Damn it, poor kid. Undyne shushes them as reassuringly as she can. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but we have to go."

 

They nod, lower lip quivering. Undyne picks them up--

 

Red closes in around her vision. Her hair... It's floating around her.

 

She's here. She's here, beckoning--

 

*

 

...Is it over?

 

Asgore's ears are still ringing from the wind and rain. It's fallen to a light drizzle over the past ten minutes and seems to be stabilizing. Water rushes down the hilly streets of New Home, carrying bits of people's business and houses along with it, depositing them against stone benches and fences, and the sides of buildings alike.

 

He must find Undyne right away. They got parted twenty minutes ago, give or take, much to his dismay and against his will. There were two groups of civilians to aid. As much as Asgore wanted to reach out and ask her to stay beside him, his hand stopped short of her shoulder. A moment's hesitation and she was gone, swallowed by the endless sea of grey.

 

...She is fine, though. She must be, she can handle herself. She could... She could be anywhere; it is a large city. What are the odds of both of them being in the same street with all the people they had to aid?

 

But the danger is over, and he must find her. Excessive worry as it may be, doomed to pull the eye-roll of a century from her when she sees his concern, the only way to stop his heart from racing is to see her.

 

Every monster Asgore walks by, Guard member or civilian, is disoriented in the sudden quiet which has fallen over the flooded streets. Nonetheless, the Royal Guard is checking up on the civilians who were still outdoors, and those of them who have come out of their shock begin to call out for their loved ones.

 

In a clamour of questions and screams, Asgore moves forwards. He makes sure an old lady with a shopping bag is fine, as well as a blue collar worker calling for his colleague. Asgore is not thinking about where he's going as much as he is allowing himself to wander. There is an itch within him that pushes him to move, now; the exact same he had this morning when he woke up from what must have been a nightmare.

 

...Which funeral was he attending in his sleep? Or was it perhaps the cold, icy eye--?

 

"Your Highness, we found one. The first human since--"

 

She isn't anywhere near the town square nor the Palace. No gardens nor parks hold the red and blue he needs to see. His heart pounds.

 

"Friends and fam--"

 

To his right a crowd of people is forming. A dozen or so monsters surround a spot on the pavement.

 

...No.

 

The chill the storm left behind crawls under Asgore's skin, sifting between his fur and settling in his heart. From there it spreads out through his body, freezing him inside out.

 

...No no no no no.

 

Breathing slowly but heavily as the air fogs before his eyes, Asgore approaches the group. They are muttering among themselves, their voices mixing with the flowing water, as they examine...

 

...What, exactly?

 

A few monsters look and point to something the water is carrying along a few feet ahead. A breastplate, a waistcoat and some arm guards are pushed into a stone bench with a dull, distant clang. The skin-tight, black polyester suit of the fallen soldier pokes out from within the arm and neck holes. Among the dismembered armour lies a child-sized orange and brown striped vest.

 

Please no.

 

"Friends and--"

 

The stillness that takes over him is not calm and peaceful. It more accurately resembles the quietude within when he consumed the buttercup pie and was convinced he would not make it to morning.

 

Asgore has seen this many times. During the war armour would be all which remained to bring back home to widows and orphaned children. But where is the dust? And who...?

 

...There is something under the water where the people have gathered. The sloshing of the water as his legs part it with every step is distant. Filthy with leaves, garbage, lost belongings and debris, the thinning and dying current covers... a shape, maybe? Imprinted onto the cobblestones below. It is dark, like a crack, perhaps? Coming closer to it does not make it any more visible. A wolf monster crouches beside it, pushing aside all the waste trapped in the water.

 

Not a crack, but a Lichtenberg figure sears the concrete, cutting through it like the branches of a tree.

 

A lightning strike. One of his soldiers got struck by lightning when rescuing a civilian.

 

Anyone but her. It is an unfair thought, an unacceptable one. But please.

 

...It doesn't have to be her. It cannot be; Asgore would not... It doesn't, it cannot, he would not survive it. Not her, too. Slowly, sight disjointed, Asgore parts from the crowd to examine the fallen breastplate.

 

Freezing cold moisture spreads over his legs when he kneels on the soaked concrete. Fear tenses his muscles, stopping him from reaching out and grabbing the armour.

 

He does not need to see the front to know, though. This set of armour is one he helped its soldier put on the first time she ever wore it. The same set of armour she was so proud of, so happy with, beaming that smile he will never see again.

 

"Have you seen how cool this is??"

 

...The first time he saw her in armour there was no swell of pride in his chest, as he had anticipated for years. Instead there was only a pit in his stomach, anxiety for what would become of her, as she vowed to protect their people and lead them to freedom together.

 

"You and I. We'll save them together."

 

The pain in Asgore's chest is too large for his heart, so it pours out of him in the form of tears that cling to his already wet fur. Just like that day, he is not proud that she died a hero.

 

"I'll help you with everything, Asgore. We're a team now."

 

She should not have been here today. She should have been far away, in Waterfall, doing as she pleased on her day off. He always kept his distance, refused to take any responsibility for her, share any emotions, and still...

 

"Yeesh, now don't go getting emotional on me, old timer."

 

Asgore places his palm on the cold metal, closing his eyes. There is something to say to the souls of those who died heroes, but when he opens his mouth to speak only more pain seeps out. Pain in the form of a sob so loud the crowd

Notes:

Prompt: lightning.

Chapter 6: ...

To mix up the buttercups with the golden flower tea he must have been dangerously distracted this morning.

 

There are many feelings Asgore is used to in this house. These white walls contain many voices and emotions Asgore has made peace with over the years in the same way he has accepted battle scars and injuries. Alas, feeling like a guest in his own home is a new one.

 

The last time he sat peacefully on his couch while somebody else tended to the house was when--

 

"If you two don't behave you won't get a piece of pie. Final warning!"

 

...It was a while ago. When giggles poured from under the second door down the hall and the scent of butterscotch pie wafted from the kitchen. In a different life long, long gone.

 

"That's not fair! We're not really arguing, we can have pie! Right, Asr--?"

 

Persistent clatter from the kitchen beats the house's silence into submission as Undyne does the dishes and puts them to dry. Extremely interesting profanity follows irregular crashes and other noises no chores generally demand. A testament to the fact that, as much as Undyne insists her house is always in top condition except, coincidentally of course, the days Asgore happens to come over, she hasn't the foggiest how to properly tend to a house.

 

She folded the laundry earlier, with the term "folded" being used so loosely in this context it might as well slide from the sentence entirely. She tried to fold the clothes and only succeeded in clogging up the drawers in Asgore's wardrobe. She dusted the shelves so aggressively the minuscule amount of dust which gathered on them since yesterday made her sneeze and she smacked her head right into the wood. She did her best to mop the floor and now Asgore needs to buy a new mop and bucket.

 

The day she was born, the Angel wrapped up the concept of chaos in blue scales, put it in an egg, and blessed the Underground with the most precious girl it had ever seen. Because despite being mostly certain that tomorrow Asgore will need to replace a significant percentage of his dishes and silverware, and regardless of how ill he feels, his snout has been taut with a small smile since she ""gently"" leant against the sofa with enough force to shove it back a few inches as she more or less gave him the order to sit down, and insisted she would take care of him.

 

He is feeling much better now. The headache and low grade fever clouding his judgement during breakfast are long gone. He knew he had not eaten anywhere near sufficient buttercups to...

 

"Asgore, hold on. Chara and Asriel need you. The kingdom needs you. I need--"

 

...The buttercups are not anywhere remotely close to anything edible. They are in a secret hatch carved into the back of the topmost shelf of the left cupboard; an... emergency exit, were Asgore's situation to become desperate. It is concealed behind a tiny square of wood only visible if one strains their eyes to perceive the black square cut-out of a miniature door.

 

He cannot have taken them by accident, yet he was the only person at home before Undyne's arrival, when he prepared the tea. Surely it must have been him, and yet...

 

The sensation there is something wrong, something potentially human-adjacent is still strong within him. While the telltale, faint déjà vu vanished the instant Undyne said she would stay with him, everything else remains. The grief, the heaviness in his chest, the unshakeable feeling something is horrendously awry. As if a single thread in the fabric of the universe had started to become undone too slow to see, but not enough so to be imperceptible.

 

It could be just another day, or it could be the day.

 

"Every last man, wom--"

 

...Only time will tell. Until then, Asgore needs to stay calm. News would reach him of a human's arrival to the Underground long before Undyne were in any danger.

 

...Right?

 

That ability humans have of toying with time as they might a finger puppet makes them near invincible. They can restart from where they left off, learning information one cannot recall having shared, memorizing attack patterns, becoming more godlike than Asgore ever will, even after her absorbs their souls.

 

The only way to stop them is to--

 

"I can't do this anymore. Just end it, take my soul! I can't die again, you win. I give u--!!"

 

...If there were a human down here somebody would know. The time is not upon them, not yet. Right? Asgore has Dr. Alphys checking the cameras periodically and the Guard patrolling up and down. They are expending more men down in Snowdin and Waterfall than in New Home, where they are needed because of the likelihood of a thunderstorm, on Asgore's orders.

 

Being extremely clear, in no uncertain terms, that they are only to capture a human, were they to find one.

 

"Only six to go, your Majesty. I brought its body to prove--"

 

Dr. Alphys sent all the lightning rods she could spare, the ones she's been using to test a new method to conduct lightning more effectively so as to stop the rare fires sometimes sprouting in Snowdin and New Home. She has four prototypes ready, which are being set up and grounded at the edges of the storm, but only three arrived. The only message Asgore has received all morning long has been from her, explaining she does not know where the fourth rod went.

 

There is no human in the Underground. The sensation corroding Asgore is likely remnant from the past. Another ghost which has left the confines of his nightmares and followed him to his waking hours. It happens occasionally.

 

It is not the house the ghosts are haunting with their ceaseless wails, but him. They are less mythical ectoplasm left behind by departed souls, and more the manifestation of his sins.

 

"Why won't you stop killing me, Mr. King, sir? I don't want to hurt you. I just--"

 

It must have dazed him sufficiently to consider taking the emergency supply of...

 

"You can't die today, Asgore. I won't let you. Hold my hand, my lov--"

 

...What a King he is, if he has such a thing in range. His people rely on him for freedom and all he considers is escaping and leaving them astray. Perhaps those who criticize him have a point, after all. Maybe he truly does not want to--

 

"You have to stay determ--"

 

Now he has inconvenienced Undyne. She had better things to do than staying here doing pretend chores she most likely knows are made up. He always keeps his home in pristine condition, like back then, when he still had...

 

...

 

...He truly is lost in the past today, is he not?

 

The presence of a human in the Underground is not new. If there is a human today, they will be the seventh to fall after...

 

"Friends and fam--"

 

...After Toriel moved away.

 

Asgore has dealt with five of them personally; all but the first. The Guard's orders are to capture, not kill. Never kill. He would be a miserable king if he forced his people to confront the price of their freedom on their own.

 

Though some of them would have no qualms, Asgore would much rather handling the humans on his own terms.

 

"I killed it, your Majesty. It--"

 

Something within him twists. No, it is definitely not a novelty to have a human in their midst. Alas if there were one today, it would be the first time the Underground prepares for war. The one Asgore has no choice but to partake in. He promised, he made a vow. Even if he had not, he has a duty to his people. He cannot leave them to fester and rot. Yet the price of their freedom--

 

"Every last man, wom--"

 

...Is one he must pay. He has no choice. His hands are bound.

 

The difference is that, before, it was never Undyne who would deal with them. They were other soldiers, other questionably good people whose lives were on the line in the name of freedom.

 

But not hers.

 

The paperwork his secretary delivered for him to read through might as well be written in a foreign language, if what little Asgore is managing to discern from it is anything to go by. The words make sense on paper, but do not connect in his mind, lost in the tangle of thoughts the tautness in his chest keeps forcing up his neck and into his head.

 

Undyne is the best soldier the Underground has ever seen. A prodigy since a young age, never deterred by anything, hard-working and determined. A bit on the rough side for many things, brash and hot-headed, yet surprisingly cool and collected in battle. There is nobody better for this job, yet there is also nobody worse.

 

Humans can be fickle creatures, with all that determination. Many of the fallen ones have snapped after dying one time too many and turned to grotesquely cruel methods of murder in retaliation for their own repeated deaths.

 

"I wanted to see him hurt. He hurt me more, so I'd say we were even by the time his head came off his sh--"

 

Undyne cannot die. Asgore would never forgive himself for that, hers is a funeral he would not survive. But especially she cannot suffer tremendously before she goes. It is something she is more than willing to endure, a risk she is aware she is taking and gladly does so regardless. And still, her life is the one price Asgore will not pay.

 

Growing fond of her was never in his plans. It was sympathy, if anything, which lead to him training her. Sympathy and the faintest memory of a young boy her age who would have stood a better chance at surviving had he known how to fight, but that second detail is only obvious upon retrospect. In the moment Asgore met Undyne, when he knelt down to offer his condolences and the small child attempted to jump on him with fists swinging and teeth sharp as knives, trying to unload the pain and grief onto him as if it hurting him would soothe her wounds, all he felt was guilt. If he had...

 

"Your Highness. It is in the name of the entire Guard that I request permission to--"

 

He wished to help her, and arguably he did. Training became the norm, and from it blossomed a certain tenderness in his chest whenever she was around. A longing for their sparring sessions when she was not, pride for her accomplishments...

 

He tried to pull back, to cool his heart, to separate his emotions from her lessons. But how could he, when it was her presence, her determination, her voice, which had reawakened emotions in his heart he thought he'd laid to rest along with--?

 

"Friends and famil--"

 

For years now he has attempted to fool himself into thinking he cares about her as a student and nothing else. A protégée at most, but never his... friend. That the time when he considered asking her if she would like to live with him was a transient moment of weakness, and not genuine affection searing through his emotional blockade. Those comforting lies were only useful before he was forced to confront the possibility of her seeing a human in her lifetime.

 

Many monsters do not, after all. Hers would be no special tale if it did not include a human at any point. Countless monsters have lived and died only having heard of humans. There has not been a constant parade of them in the past five centuries, and when they fall it is only for a few days at most before...

 

"Think of it like a trip to the dent--"

 

...Training Undyne was a mistake. What at first was nothing more than an act of kindness, one of compassion for a recently orphaned girl, has become the reason her life is on the line. Of all the things to teach a grieving child, Asgore taught her the ways of war. If not today, at some point she will be fighting the war Asgore promised even though he no longer--

 

"...Sorry about three dented pots and two bent knives. Everything's in one piece, though."

 

Undyne is standing between the kitchen and living room, resting one hand against the chipped door frame. She is sporting the exact same sheepish expression she did ten years ago when he instructed her to refrain from summoning spears in the house and one of them "mysteriously" ended up slicing his accent table in half.

 

Incidentally, the tenderness it elicits in his heart is also the same.

 

Asgore pats the empty seat beside him and lifts the white blanket she lovingly draped over him earlier with the same amount of gentleness a bear would maul its prey. Her eye widens slightly and she raises an eyebrow, but she comes over.

 

He does not really care about the plates. He is more curious about how she managed to do away with two knives. Granted, she has more than enough strength for it, but he needs to know how exactly she bent them. If it was while drying them, or when trying to soap them up. This information is crucial for him to tease her with for years to come. Because she will be alive, beside him, and he will see her become a fully grown adult safely. There is no other future he will accept.

 

Most importantly, though, he needs to know if she injured herself doing the dishes. She will not say of her own accord, but he will be able to see if there are any new scars lining her hands and fingers.

 

Undyne sits stiff as a rod beside him. This is most likely the closest they have ever been without weapons coming between them save for her graduation day. Her arms are crossed, the proximity uncomfortable.

 

She is a friend, after all. There is no need for either of them to be close. She is not family, she is not his responsibility.

 

A life without her sounds like the worst fate of all. Like the night--

 

"It hurts... so much. Dad, help--"

 

"How... How are you, Undyne?"

 

...He did it right this time. He stayed away from her to protect her. He can be devastated by the death of a close friend, it does not mean anything.

 

She is not his.

 

She smiles, but her fingers seek out the thin, golden chain from her mother's locket under her sweater. "I'm... fine, Asgore. It's all good. I'm just a bit scatterbrained today; guess I didn't sleep all that well."

 

She looks up and to the side. She has always been a dreadful liar. She might sell the act of being nothing short of a perfect hero embodied to those who give her the chance to prove herself, but to anyone who cares even a smidgen about her as a person, her personhood shines through the dozens of cracks enveloping her mimicry of steadfastness.

 

Word has reached him there are some who believe he has no interest in her as a soldier or a monster, even. That he merely uses her for show, to demonstrate how kind he is, that he would even give a "lowly street urchin" a chance. His detractors, the many monsters who believe he should have already travelled through the Barrier and claimed as many lives as necessary to free his people instead of letting them fester for centuries, have extended their hatred of him to her.

 

Asgore can handle any cruelty thrown at him, he deserves it. But Undyne is off limits.

 

At every step of Undyne's military career, despite her prowess, she has been accused of being pitiful, of "playing up her victimhood" to gain more sympathy from Asgore. Every success, every challenge overcome, every magnificent display of strategic thinking, talent and ability has been written off as luck by others much less dedicated than her.

 

Indeed, Asgore thinks she should not be Captain. But it is not for lacking the experience and work ethic for it; objectively speaking there is nobody else more qualified.

 

He only wants to keep her safe.

 

"Are you okay, though?" Her expression falls to one more sincere. The little frown of concern he bestowed upon her this morning is back. "You scared me earlier."

 

He did not intend to. The explanation she seeks would require he explain what it is he accidentally put in his tea. Why he is acquainted with such a substance, why he knew the dosage was safe for him besides giving him shivers, a headache and nausea, are not things Undyne needs to know.

 

"Asgore, come quick. Cha--"

 

"I am fine. And I'm sorry for causing your concern. Worry not, Undyne. Everything is alright."

 

The frown does not leave. If anything, it deepens a little. She crosses her arms anew--

 

The glass panes in every window shake and rattle violently. A few of them fly open, slamming into the wall and allowing the freezing, howling wind and potent rainfall which opened them to pour into the room. Undyne stands so quickly the blanket flies off her legs and onto the white rug. Through the piercing wind and rain drumming on Asgore's floorboards come the cries of the citizens of New Home.

 

Undyne rushes to the nearest window, leaning out to watch. Asgore follows.

 

"Bloody hell," she mutters. Her voice is but a murmur over the deafening cacophony of screams and rushing water. Petrichor wafts into the room. For once in Asgore's life it is far from a comforting scent.

 

In the distance, a lightning bolt illuminates the dark.

 

It is pandemonium in the streets. The gale tears down tree trunks with sickening crunches. It plucks leaves and grass blades from the garden areas, moving them around in erratic circles until they land in the water and are deposited on sewers and drains.

 

The accompanying thunder makes the floor shake.

 

The water pools at such a speed the sewers which have not yet been blocked off by debris struggle to swallow it, causing the level to rise. People dash by, trying to reach somewhere safe, but run into buildings or one another amid the low visibility the sheet of grey water submerges the city under. The shorter ones climb onto benches or anything they can reach. Most everything teeters dangerously from its tethers as the wind and water ram into every surface mercilessly.

 

Considering the disparity of height of the streets in New Home, the water has already begun to rush downhill like a massive, bleeding wound opened by Mother Nature herself.

 

This may be the worst thunderstorm in the history of the Underground.

 

Undyne's footsteps splash freezing water into the side of Asgore's leg. "I have to help," she says, rushing to the door. "We have to get everyone indoors."

 

Asgore takes off behind her. She is right. The first thing they must do is rescue civilians. Only once everyone is safe will Asgore--

 

Undyne stops in her tracks, regarding him with gravity etched into her features. "You're sick. Stay back."

 

Her tone implies negotiation is not an option. However, Asgore is no longer ill. If he does as she suggests all he will accomplish will be to be guilty of any harm which befalls his people.

 

"I promise you that I am alright. I am going out there with you and nothing you do will persuade me to do otherwise. Any argument will only cause us to waste time."

 

The corners of her mouth bend downwards in disapproval as, with a huff of irritation, she undoes her ponytail and uses the hair tie to secure a tight braid instead.

 

"You better know what you're doing," she says. Despite trying to keep it casual, concern and exasperation leak into her tone. "I trust you with a lot of things, but not with taking care of yourself."

 

Asgore smiles at her as reassuringly as he can. "Likewise."

 

She returns him a half-smile. "What a team we make."

 

"We're a team now."

 

...

 

Undyne opens the door.

 

The howling wind blows her back a step, a few inches away from Asgore's chest. Both of them are soaked by freezing cold pellets of water. She curses loudly, but the wind is so strong he can only guess at the word she used. She takes a step forwards.

 

...There is no proof a human is responsible for this. None whatsoever. Heating in the ground may cause a rise in humidity and prime the environment for a storm.

 

Yet her life is not something he is taking a gamble on.

 

"Undyne!! Come back!!"

 

She turns around, frowning in disbelief. "Asgore--!!"

 

"Stay with me!!" he yells over the catastrophic cacophony outside. "Let's stick together for this one!! And put on your amor!!"

 

It is most likely not a human. It is most likely nothing. Yet he is taking no chances with her safety.

 

The wind whips strands of her hair out from her braid. They cling to the side of her face with the same intensity the expression of concern has latched onto her today.

 

"I don't need that!! And besides, we'll find less people together!! We have to cover as much ground as possible!!"

 

She makes to turn around--

 

"Trust me!!" he insists. "I do not have time to elaborate; just please don't argue!! Just this once!!"

 

...He could lock her inside. No, that is a terrible idea. What is wrong with him?

 

"Asgore--!!"

 

"We are a team, Undyne!! Are we not?!" She said so herself. "We must look out for each other!!"

 

Her breath condenses in front of her thrice before she mouths something foul.

 

She groans, dashing back indoors. "Just get a move on with your own damn armor. We don't have time."

 

-

 

They have found nine civilians who they have directed to safety and reunited four families in the process.

 

They have been running for close to seven minutes now without encountering anyone. Either they have taken care of everyone in this area or they cannot hear the remaining survivors over the storm's clamour.

 

There is something Asgore dislikes about this storm. Explicable as it is, when coupled with the sensation that has been hollowing out his chest since he woke up...

 

It is a storm. A bad one, but a storm nonetheless. Asgore needs to keep a grip on himself unless he wants his panic to truly put Undyne or himself at risk. A human would have been detected. He--

 

"To the left!!" Undyne points in that direction, towards the remains of the scaffolding surrounding the Music Hall. "Can't you hear them?!"

 

He cannot over the ceaseless clatter against his shoulder guards, but she does not wait for him to answer before rounding the Music Hall's corner and dashing down the street.

 

The metallic sheets and bars composing the scaffolding have been torn apart by the vicious gale. They float in the water now, creating a maze in motion Undyne navigates by summoning a circle of spears around her from which piece after piece of metal bounces against with a deafening jangle.

 

He takes off after her. He cannot keep her safe from a distance.

 

If there were any workers on the scaffolding when the storm began... It was lunch time, right? They were on break?

 

Asgore cannot save them. Undyne's red hair is becoming a duller and duller grey; he is falling behind.

 

"Undyne, slow--!!"

 

The desperate screams of several monsters reach him softly at first. She runs faster, disappearing into the smog.

 

No no no no no, this is not good. He accelerates as well, following in her footsteps and conjuring a cage of glaring red tridents around him for the sharp wreckage to slam into.

 

She will not get hurt. Not on his watch. This level of worry is a baseless feeling born from the fears and residual ghosts of his old mind, but it puts a spring in his stride. He will take no risks.

 

Not with her. But where is she? His hearing is mostly negated with the onslaught of bars and other debris ramming into--

 

Nine feet from the Music Hall's main entrance, a shimmer of turquoise breaks through the glum. There.

 

The closer Asgore gets, five green ovals materialize through the haze ahead of Undyne's spear prison. One of them is tiny enough to be a toddler, most likely. All of them are standing on a grey rectangle, potentially a bench. It is loose on one side, torn from its constraints by either the decrepit scaffolding's unforgiving assault or the rushing water and all it carries. The bench sways sideways in the current, groaning faintly through the storm as if the remaining restraint were close to giving up.

 

No sign of Undyne; she must be masked by her spears' light. Asgore--

 

Grinding and groaning descend from the irate clouds above. That is not thunder. What--?

 

A dozen of indistinct shapes grow bigger and bigger the closer they come to the flooded street. Stone slabs from the Music Hall's gilded facade. They plummet and splash into the water, disappearing in its depths but no doubt headed straight for--

 

A brighter display of turquoise light carves holes through the fog. The family on the bench screams in time with roaring clanging against the spears protecting them.

 

Undyne stopped the bricks. She saved them.

 

Asgore runs as fast as the water will allow towards the aquamarine beacon of her spears.

 

By the time her red hair cuts through the storm's grey and her weapons' turquoise there are no more monsters on the bench. "Asgore!! Let's take them back to--!!"

 

Something behind Asgore cracks sharply. It isn't thunder, and it is much louder than a few bricks.

 

Dismembered pieces of the Music Hall's facade pierce the haze and plunge into the water, their shadows casting half the street into darkness. A stone slab larger than Asgore's torso falls inches away from Undyne's spears. The civilians she is aiding scream.

 

Half of a column and a chunk of white stone hurtle to Asgore's sides. All around him, as if in an active war zone, the water splashes as debris pierces it.

 

Asgore runs.

 

If he does not make it he will be with his children again. He will not have to live with Toriel's scorn anymore. He will not become a god. He will not go to war. He will pay for--

 

He will not be able to protect Undyne anymore. He will not leave her, so he runs at speeds he did not know he had in him. He will never leave her side if he has a say in it.

 

The shadows above him grow larger, closer, darker. He summons as many tridents as he can horizontally above him, encasing himself in glowing crimson. They will not stop stone, but he must try everyth--

 

Through the bars keeping him safe from floating rubble, gold glints. The same gold of his garden, of the flowers Ch-- ...they so dearly loved. Asgore blinks--

 

Something hits his tridents hard from the side. The ruckus is so loud his a high-pitched whine replaces his sense of hearing. His tridents vanish into thin air; he lost concentration. No no. He opens his hands to summon more--

 

The wind is knocked out of him. His feet are no longer on the ground. He is in the air, unable to direct himself, looking up. A gilded column sides past his vision, careening into the cobblestone street he was standing on a breath ago.

 

...Who saved him? Who--?

 

He's halfway through screaming her name when he sinks into murky water. It blocks his ears and pours into his lungs. He thrashes to stand, to breathe, to open his eyes. He needs to find her. He twists and turns, unable to tell up from down from sideways, until his feet are solidly planted on the sunken street.

 

Where is she?

 

Asgore blinks and rubs his face to clear his eyes, chest heaving as his lungs fill with air. He still cannot see. He calls out, but his voice has been drowned out by the water he swallowed.

 

She... She would not sacrifice herself for him, correct? She was off with the civilians, right?

 

Asgore is rubbing his eyes with so much force little dots of light pepper the darkness contained behind his eyelids. His voice is back, but there is no strength to it. Only a breathless sigh vaguely shaped like her name.

 

She would not. She would not, she would not throw her life away for someone like him.

 

No. No, no; she has to be alright. She would not be stupid enough to sacrifice herself for him. She would not die for someone who took an innocent child and put her on the path of war. She--

 

When he opens his eyes the curtain of water clogging up his retinas is gone. The bench that poor family was on is crumbled halfway down the street. Bricks rush by him, a few smaller ones stuck behind his legs. The white stone column the wind pushed onto the street lays in pieces too large and heavy for the water to wash away to Asgore's right.

 

There is no red among them. Only dilapidated rubble.

 

He should go closer, needs to, but his legs do not move. Amid the cracked stone and floating bricks something reflects the dull, grey light.

 

...Please no.

 

Asgore takes a step forwards. Those arm guards...

 

"I don't care what armour I get after this, this is still the coolest set ever."

 

He tries to call her again. His mouth moves, but his voice is lost. This... This is not happening. It cannot be happening. She...

 

A gust of wind knocks Asgore on his knees as if he were hollow. He reaches a hand out, but there is nothing for him to hold.

 

...He lost another...

 

Tears burn his eyes with the same agony his heart

Notes:

Prompt: natural disaster

Chapter 7: Crossed A Line

"Are you sure you are alright?"

 

Undyne nods as if Asgore could see her through the phone. Stupid idiot.

 

"Yeah, all good," she mutters, turning her clock in her hand. "My alarm clock didn't go off, I just need to change the batteries. Nothing to worry about."

 

None of her three alarm clocks went off. That's beyond bizarre.

 

"...If you say so." He sounds about as convinced by her lie as he was when she was ten and insisted her spear hadn't gone out of control after she was specifically instructed not to conjure them indoors and snapped his table, as if there were any other spear-summoning children around. "Just... take care, Undyne. Please."

 

She made him worry about her, great. As if disappointing him by failing to do something as simple as ensuring her alarm clocks work (or even better: not require them to begin with) wasn't bad enough.

 

Why the hell is he promoting her? Surely there's other people more capable than someone who oversleeps and misses a planned meeting with her boss. Asgore's a busy man; he made time for her and she left him hanging.

 

"Alright. You uhh, take care too."

 

...Besides, how long has it been since they spent any quality time together? She's going to miss out on being with him to boot.

 

She promises she'll still stop by for dinner before hanging up. She shuts her phone's lid and puts it on the night table beside her bed. She grabs the alarm clock closest to her and lets herself fall back onto the hard mattress.

 

...It's the one Asgore gave her for her birthday when she first moved in here on her own. It's shaped like a little strawberry poison-dart frog, with the bells being its cute beady eyes. The batteries are fine, it's on time. The alarm was set to 8:10 instead of 6:10. She puts it down gently and palms the table for the other two, more generic alarm clocks. They too are two hours off.

 

Undyne drops them onto her bed, rubbing her eye. She changed the alarms last night, yes. Instead of waking up at her usual 7:10 to get ready to be at the training center in New Home by 8, she set them an hour early so she could be at Asgore's place by 7 for breakfast.

 

Except she clearly didn't, because they're set to an hour later, not earlier.

 

How did she fuck up something so simple?

 

"His detractors can't criticize him if he's giving a street urchin a chance to--"

 

Fuck.

 

It's 7:13 now. She woke up at 7:10 sharp, as her body's used to. Not good enough, though. She's always geared her training to not need anything except herself to do what needs to be done. She's going to have to extend that to sleep as well somehow, because this is unacceptable. She can't make Asgore waste time on her a week before her promotion, or ever for that matter. If she disappoints him, he could also...

 

"For my sw--"

 

Alright, well. No point crying over spilt milk. Regretting isn't going to return her the hour she's lost. She would've sworn she set the alarm clock right, but she fucked that up, too.

 

"Mom... I brought you some flowers and--"

 

Nothing new.

 

Undyne tosses her navy blue sheets to the side. They land half on her bed, half on the indistinct shade of brown of the tiles her house came with.

 

Time marches only forwards. There's nothing lamenting the past will do to improve the future. She missed out on her meeting with Asgore. Fine. Might as well move directly to her workout for the day.

 

Maybe if she ends a little early, since she's going to start earlier, she might have time to... dust off her piano, at least. Maybe open it--

 

She's being stupid again. As usual. If she has any spare time, she best find something useful to employ it on. Attempting to do anything remotely similar to living down here is long-term suicide.

 

...She needs to get a grip. Time to go.

 

-

 

There's a fine line between annoyance and contentedness. Undyne is balancing on it and teetering wildly from side to side.

 

"You know-" she rests her head into her palm, "-you still haven't told me why you're here."

 

Asgore stirs the pot, looking at her over his shoulder. "You missed breakfast. I asked if you were stopping by your house for lunch. You said you likely would. I had a slot to come over and make up for lost time. Is that so strange?"

 

Coming from him? No. He's the kind of softy who'd do just that. But still.

 

The kitchen in her place is almost like his in the sense that it's white and little else. The tiles in hers are a dirty greyish-yellow from not doing as much as upkeep as she probably should, and the grout lines are no longer white altogether. Had she known he was coming she would've cleaned up a little. He always gets on her case about this, subliminally as he does it. Why it worries him that she's too busy trying to save the Underground to waste time doing chores is beyond her, but it's important for him, for some forsaken reason.

 

He returns his attention to the pasta. "What is strange is that you were late. It made me wonder if you truly did fumble up the alarms or if you were sick and did not wish to tell me."

 

What a long-winded way of calling her incompetent. He could just tell her she's a waste of space in the Guard like everyone thinks and move on; it'd be easier.

 

"I've never gotten sick in the ten years you've known me. Weird thing to think."

 

It's pretty obvious he's just checking out on his own if she's really as incompetent as--

 

Asgore lets out a deep, breathy sigh. "Undyne, please. You stabbed yourself in the eye and told me to my face you were fine and "it wasn't that big of a deal."" He shakes his head. "I've no faith in you telling me whether you are ill or not."

 

...It's true, she did. And she's done the same with countless other injuries. They're all learning experiences; Asgore doesn't need to fuss over them. For instance, with her eye she learnt to be extremely mindful of where she is conjuring spears, exactly. They're meant to go between her fingers; not eyelids. Summoning magic weapons requires more bodily awareness than eleven year-old Undyne had.

 

...While she feels bad that he was worried enough to come over unannounced, she's almost glad it happened. It's more than in character for him to get worked up over the tiniest of paper cuts she gets. If that's why he came, and Asgore's never lied to her, there's no reason to be irritated at him.

 

It's been so long since last she saw Asgore this at ease.

 

He's always working so hard, working himself to the bone, that Undyne worries for him. She has no memories of Asgore being anything but exhausted and driven. She's never seen his eyes unsupported by the bags under them. A few pauses here and there are all he allows himself, the bare minimum to remain functional, and back to work.

 

And now he's here, humming quietly as he cooks, having a relaxed conversation with her. Maybe it's best that she messed up with the clocks. If it ends in Asgore taking a break, she might have a few more "accidents" of this caliber every few months.

 

Undyne was still able to dedicate a significant amount of time to playing piano with him when they last shared a moment that adhered to no tight schedule on either part. They always try to sneak in breakfast or dinner together in the time they've set aside for the meals their bodies require. Otherwise chances are they would hardly see one another anymore.

 

...It's true, isn't? They only have time to spend together before one of his meetings or after one of her training sessions. How long has it been since they both set time aside to be like this?

 

Stupid question; they have no time. Time is their most valuable resource when it comes to doing their job. But still, this break-neck rhythm, while working wonders for Undyne, wears down on Asgore more than he'll ever s--

 

"I should have never allowed that to happen."

 

...Hm?

 

"Allowed what to happen?"

 

Asgore turns off the stove, turning to look at her over the off-white marble breakfast bar parting the kitchen and living room. His eyes. They're doing the thing again, he's really sad. Oh no. What--?

 

He points at her.

 

"I bet he won't actually promote her. This is just propaganda to--"

 

"Your eye." He frowns, shutting both of his. "That should have never happened. I am sorry."

 

...Oh. He's sad about that? It was her own damn fault for being too stupid and brash; she was pretty useless as a child. That's nothing to be sad about, it's hardly what she was due back then.

 

She shrugs. "I had to learn. Maybe if I hadn't sucked so much it wouldn't have happened."

 

She was very angry when Asgore began training her. She always let her emotions get the best of her much worse than now, and lost an eye for it. That's not Asgore's fault. Nothing he did would have ever spared her from her own innate mindlessness. If she was serious about a military career, and heaven knows she was, she had to drop her emotions at the door.

 

Asgore still has the same sorrowful and pensive expression. He holds her gaze for a second too long before turning around and taking the pot off the stove.

 

"You did not suck. You never have."

 

Matter of opinions; she won't argue about this with him. He was a bit too lenient with the annoying child who jumped on him to physically assault him on sight. He was so worried about her all the ride to the hospital, and was so damn overbearing with the doctors. Almost like he didn't trust them to actually help her.

 

"Good morning, swee--"

 

She wasn't worth that much, it's a proven fact. Though it'd be nice to forget about it for just a moment. Why did she have to be instructed to "invite friends and family" when its no secret she has none? That was needlessly cruel.

 

"The seamstress' orphan won't save us. The King is just using her for--"

 

Instead of mentioning how fucking weird he's behaving today, Undyne thanks Asgore once more for taking the time to check up on her when he places the most gorgeous plate of spaghetti ever in front of her. He takes a seat opposite her on the cramped, battered, second-hand table she got when she moved in, and lunch begins.

 

...Feeling this way is odd. There's a bit of guilt that he came over and put his afternoon aside for her sake, but also gladness that he did because she can't remember the last time he took a break. On the other hand, both of them are aware of their duty to their people and how their personal integrity comes second. As much as he needs it, the people of the Underground need him too.

 

Then again, the very same people Asgore's going to sacrifice so much for always fail to see him as a person. They envision him a just ruler, a fierce warrior, a brave God; but to Undyne's knowledge at least there is yet to be a monster who thanks Asgore for being the scapegoat for their freedom.

 

They work a thankless job that'll herald no glory or appraisal. Someone has to do the dirty work, so on paper, how anyone feels about her, or Asgore, or any other member of the Guard, doesn't matter; this is what they've all signed up for and Undyne for one has no regrets.

 

When it comes to Asgore, however, it makes her blood boil how everyone seemingly takes for granted that indeed, there needs to be a sacrificial lamb and it simply must be him. How he feels about it doesn't seem to be important to anyone. He just has to forgo mortality and ascend into a creature of power unknown and be okay with it 24/7 even though it sounds frankly terrifying.

 

And, objectively, his feelings don't matter all that much. There has to be a sacrifice. Many, actually, in the inevitable conflict that'll follow; but by far Asgore has the worst part in it. It's a necessity for freedom, one he's well aware of and willing to go through. But the way people treat his ascension like it's nothing, like it has to be him by default and it couldn't reasonably be anyone else, like it's something they're inherently entitled to and isn't a big deal, makes her want to quit more than once.

 

It's a horrible thought, but she's rarely objective and cold when it comes to Asgore. The important part is she doesn't act on it, right?

 

He turned a weak, useless child, into his Captain. In the professional aspect of their lives he has been nothing but a kind and generous leader.

 

In the personal, he's been the only consistent presence in her life since...

 

"For my sw--"

 

...It's only normal she's become fond of him, right? It's not like he has anyone else, he tends to keep the world at arm's length. Always close and warm with them, but never allowing such proximity to become a two-way street. While Undyne isn't delusional enough to think he cares for her with the same intensity she does about him, it's undeniable they're friends of some sort. That's more than good enough, and a perfectly valid reason for her to get upset on his behalf.

 

At any rate, enjoying this meal in silence with him is the most at peace she's been at in a long time. She never gets to see Asgore this relaxed, just enjoying the moment for once. If this small pause in his hectic routine brings him any semblance of solace as well, Undyne won't consider the day a failure because she screwed up with the alarms.

 

He's a person, not a god. Not yet. He has the same needs everyone else does.

 

There's no harm in enjoying this moment here and now. He'll be gone soon enough and she'll proceed with her groceries and cleaning for the day, then see him again for dinner.

 

Maybe this isn't such a terrible day after all.

 

-

 

She's never been so glad to have a barren house before.

 

Without a television or any other distractions, they spoke after lunch. They're still at it now, their empty plates pushed aside long ago, catching up in a way they haven't had the time for in years. He intended to leave fifteen minutes ago, but he said he'd spare another half hour and then get moving, if he didn't interrupt her.

 

He didn't. Chores and upkeep are pointless things down here; she doesn't need more than a roof over her head. He, however, is definitely behind schedule now. She could've lied and said she had a lot to do, but she didn't.

 

She should feel guilty for this, but she hasn't heard Asgore laugh so genuinely in a while. His kingdom can wait thirty minutes. This is as close to happiness as she's seen him.

 

Their words tangle up, branching like a Lichtenberg figure from one subject to the next without the usual pressure of wanting to discuss a certain matter before their free time runs out; there is no specific subject to talk about, they can say whatever. It's... It's a really nice change of pace.

 

"Oh, sweetheart, come over here. Mrs.--"

 

One they'll have more of on the Surface. One they can't afford down here.

 

But one that, as selfish as it is, Undyne is enjoying to no end. Asgore's always one step away from burnout. Seems like this afternoon he's recovering ever so slightly. She'll take it.

 

He looks to the side and hums, pensive. The only thing he can be looking at is her piano; there's nothing else here besides the doors to her room, the shower room and the guest room.

 

"Do you still play?"

 

...Ah. Damn it.

 

She doesn't have time for it anymore. She knew that already when he bothered buying and personally delivering her piano two years ago when she moved into this dump. She appreciated it, of course. It provides something to look forward to, a tangible goal in her own living room.

 

As well as a temptation she must wrestle with every day. One she emerges from victorious all the same.

 

She got to play it briefly again a few months ago, when Shyren came over for lessons. It was a tight fit in Undyne's schedule, but it was worth it; Shyren was happier than Undyne has ever seen her. She was even talking a little. And then her sister...

 

...

 

Right. Trying to live down here is senseless. That settled it as if Undyne had doubted for a second.

 

One day Undyne'll pick up some sheet music and play again. She may lose practice, but it's not like she's gonna forget how to play.

 

Once she's on the Surface, when everyone's free and life's worth living again, she'll play piano. She'll also read some books, finish higher education, go to the Music Hall, watch movies, pick up her old sewing kit and--

 

"For my--"

 

"I haven't had the time."

 

It would be worse if she said she did, right? She wouldn't want him to think he's placed his trust in the wrong person. If she had time for music and leisure what kind of Captain would she make?

 

Asgore's shoulders fall slightly. Why? Why's he disappointed by this? "I thought you really liked playing."

 

"Of course I do. I don't have time, though." She smiles as wide as she can. For once it's not like pulling teeth. "I'll do plenty of it on the Surface, under the Sun."

 

Asgore returns her smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "But you are here, now."

 

She nods. "That's precisely why I don't have time. Until we get out of here there's nothing to do but reach for the light."

 

Her answer doesn't seem to please him. The yearning look their light-hearted conversation had kept at bay creeps into his expression once again. What did she say wrong?

 

"Don't--?"

 

"Would you like to play a duet like we used to, Undyne?" He looks up at the clock. "I still have five minutes. Just one song?"

 

...She would. She would love to. The little creak her instrument makes when she opens the lid, the dull thud of the keys hitting the bottom beneath the pitch they emit, the scent of it. She's missed it for so long now it's become a wound that refuses to scab. But...

 

"...I've lost practice."

 

Her fingers would stumble across the keyboard. She already noticed it when she was trying to help Shyren find a shred of happiness in this prison cell. Undyne already faltered when playing something as simple as scales and cords. Her hands are best suited for destruction now; not creation. Not yet. Not until they're free. It'd be a disservice to Asgore's graceful music to ruin it with her stupid noise.

 

Asgore stands, heading for the stool. "If that is all that is stopping you, my question stands."

 

...Curse him and the love Undyne holds for him. She's going to make a blithering fool of herself, but she joins him. He opens the lid as she arrives. It creaks. The slightly dusty scent is back. Sitting beside him, resting her fingers gently on the keys, are as familiar, in a sense, as the memories of--

 

"What're you sewing now, m--?"

 

"You are plenty talented, Undyne. I am sure you remember more than you think."

 

The smile he's sporting makes all the embarrassment worth it. She grins back at him and flexes her fingers. It's gonna be hard to play with nails this long, but she'll have to make do and not fuck up too bad.

 

"I had a great teacher."

 

The fur clinging to his cheeks becomes slightly pink. He's blushing? Precious, sentimental nerd.

 

"What do you want to play?"

 

...Hmm, it's going to be her first song in a very long time. And she's playing it with him, so there's only one correct answer.

 

"Your favourite song."

 

His eyes widen a little. Was he expecting her to go for something else when he knows damn well she's been in love with that nostalgic, haunting melody since she first heard it?

 

Surprise gives way to a warm, genuine smile the likes of which he's kept buried for years, if memory serves Undyne. "Of course."

 

Asgore closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. Focusing, as usual. He places his fingers against the white keys and begins on his own. Her piano's slightly out of tune, but it's not too bad. She tuned it for Shyren's lessons not that long ago; it's not even a full half a step lower than it should be.

 

No matter how many times Undyne hears Asgore play it's the same as the first. Asgore's fingers are but a conduit for his soul. They aren't simple notes he's plucking from the piano, those are his feelings. Emotions too large, too messy for words, expressed in the most beautiful way possible.

 

And he's sharing it with her. She gets to be a part of it.

 

...Huh. Her eye burns a little, and the bottom of her vision, the piano's keys, are the slightest bit blurry. Maybe... Maybe she'd missed this more than she realized. Her heart and chest are all tender, as if she were reuniting with a long lost loved one instead of with her instrument. Then again, there's no difference between those two things, functionally. She doesn't... She doesn't have time for this, but it'd be so nice if she did.

 

"For my s--"

 

...It'll have to wait for the Surface. Maybe... Maybe that's a shame.

 

The melody's about to repeat. That's her cue to

 

*

 

Asriel chuckles anxiously, removing his vines from the two piles of dust that now cover the piano and floor.

 

"What was that about, dad? What the hell were you doing?"

 

He's breathing hard, petals trembling with every shuddering sigh. That's... That song was his and dad's. He had no right to...

 

...Right. That was just pity. A pathetic shred of sympathy for the little consolation prize dad took in to distract himself with after Asriel and Chara died. Dad misses playing this song with him; he's said so in many timelines before this one. Not once has he played it with his charity case in timelines where Asriel's been a more active part of his life. Even if with this twisted new body of his he can't even play piano.

 

Because dad would never replace them. He would never be like mom and...

 

"Every child that fell down. I loved--"

 

Asriel sighs, shaking his head. He didn't mean to kill dad, but it was so hard not so when he was doing such hooey.

 

The little soldier girl is just a toy to him. Something to play with to mitigate the loss Chara and Asriel left. But no matter how Asriel kills her he can't manage to erase her from dad's heart. Every time he kills her dad cries. And Asriel can't stand to see him cry over the usurper, the stupid outsider dad and his stupid kindness just had to take in out of pity.

 

Dad doesn't love her. He doesn't he doesn't, he can't. He only loves Asriel and Chara. He's not like mom.

 

...Whether Asriel offs the faulty replacement in accidents, heroically while saving people, or gets her stabbed by an unseen assailant in an alleyway, he can't make dad be content with her death and stop mourning her already. Asriel can't even get him to be mad at her for missing their little breakfast get-together. Every time dad starts crying about her Asriel can't take it.

 

Dad would never replace him or Chara. He isn't a traitor like mom, with the small army of human children she adopted as they fell through. Dad actually loved them. He would never.

 

Unless...

 

...Then again, even if his little toy's only a puppet to him right?, he did spend a long time with her. From what Asriel's gleamed, between his death and his awakening in this body, it's been a while. A considerably large one. Dad's the kindest, but that stupid emotion also makes him vulnerable.

 

Maybe... Maybe he does care about his little pet. Not as much as he cared about Asriel and Chara right?, but as much as he would a homeless dog. And dad isn't like Asriel. He still has an annoying and difficult amount of feelings in his soul. Surely losing something he's been attached to in some way for all this time makes him hurt.

 

...Perhaps all he needs is time to process that grief and mourn the weed?

 

"Is that it, dad?" he asks the pile of clothes and dust scattered on the dirty floor. "Do you need time to mourn your little pet? The plaything you got because you missed me and Chara so much?"

 

Alright then. Asriel never meant to kill dad; that was an accident. But in the new timeline it won't have any consequences, so it doesn't matter. Perhaps Asriel should feel something, but...

 

He turns to the dust the weed became. Next time better be the last one he has to waste wiping her out of dad's life.

 

"And you stop being such a pest, will you? Just die and stay dead already. Get out of our family life; we don't want you. Dad only needs Chara and me, okay? You're in the way."

 

He smiles. "You never meant anything to him anyway. He cares about you like a lost puppy. Once you're out of the picture he'll be happy with me again.”

 

...He has to. It's Asriel's last hope before he's forced to do something regrettable.

 

"It's not personal, you know? I don't want to kill you, or anyone. But you've played with dad's feelings so much he's playing our song with the a thief like you when I don't even get to play piano anymore. You've earned death, don't you think?"

 

This is hardly Asriel's fault. He has to kill her. He doesn't have to enjoy it, but she's leaving him no choice.

 

It's all her fault. He's innocent, right?

 

Asriel stretches. It doesn't feel like anything in this wretched body, but old habits die hard. He closes his eyes and focuses.

 

Alright, alright, what will it be this time? A reset, or a load?

Notes:

Prompt: shock

Chapter 8: Just Once More...

Alright. Take seven.

 

It's funny. The way they're unable to learn anything between loads and resets.

 

They remember a little from one to the next, sometimes. Nothing ever relevant, nothing that could save them. Whatever Asriel is now is in many aspects superior to monsters. They can't wield time, after all.

 

But he can.

 

The lot of them are so predictable. What they'll say, what they'll do... It got old really quick. These shiny, brand new scenarios, despite their novelty, are also starting to get boring. Asriel's on the seventh iteration of them by now. Seven different versions of the same events spread across two resets are getting really repetitive; nobody would compose seven variations on the same theme, it's too many. That's why it's time to try something else.

 

...It's really hard to see in all this rain. The divided window protecting Asriel from the violent water pellets of the storm he caused is fogging up. It took a few saves and loads three or four timelines ago to get it right, and they were all wasted. This scenario didn't provide the desired outcome, either. It was all a massive waste of time. If time had flowed in a straight line instead of twisting to Asriel's will, that is. Technically speaking he hasn't devoted any time in this timeline to figuring out which pipes in the CORE he needs to mess with to heat up New Home.

 

This house's inhabitants are working until evening. The only perks of having wasted so many of the early resets trying to befriend everyone in the Underground is the foolproof knowledge of their routines and schedules. Otherwise, they're all equally dull and useless. Them and their warm feelings Asriel no longer--

 

...

 

The window pane rattles in the wind, which seeps into the room through a small crack and fans the white curtains behind Asriel like ghosts tethered to the curtain rail. The visibility is so dismal at this stage of the storm that, at this rate, Asriel will have to expose himself to it anyway, but unlike last time he ran this situation, dad shouldn't see him and... just stay there while half of the Music Hall collapses and...

 

...That was an accident. Dad has to stay alive. Otherwise this whole charade is useless. Without him...

 

Alright, alright, no more fretting. Asriel won't get the old man almost killed anymore by startling him, nor will Asriel ruin his final chance by killing dad himself again.

 

That wasn't intended either, it was a mistake. One Asriel can't afford; he is not a killer. Removing the weed can hardly be considered killing if, for starters, she deserves it and it's her fault this is happening. Since when is getting rid of waste in one's own garden considered a crime?

 

After all she's a thief, right?

 

If this is going to be the definitive time, the one Asriel lets play out to finally see what comes of her death, he has to make it count. Dad raised a soldier and no death so far seems to satisfy him. So. What would make him feel most at peace with her death so he can finish mourning her already?

 

The obvious answer is saving civilians, but every time he's seen her die like that he's cried his eyes out like a crybaby. Then again, he's also done that for "accidental" deaths and sacrificial ones, too.

 

...Eh, heroic death it is, then. If he's going to get all sentimental either way, might as well make it a death he can be proud of and get over once and for all. The stupid idiot doesn't deserve a single of dad's tears, anyway. All she deserves is slow, painful--

 

More heroic than saving just that annoying kid, though, would be have her die saving several civilians. Getting the stupid kid all caught up in vines is easy enough; they can't bend down and free themself with no hands. A larger group of monsters will prove to be a challenge and bring some form of entertainment to this iterating torment already.

 

Whatever Asriel does has to be perfect. If not, he poisoned dad's tea again to ensure his little pet would stay behind during the storm for nothing.

 

Why would dad even have those? Asriel might just have to ask directly at some point.

 

...So the lightning rod approach one more time, but saving more people so dad's happier. Alright, achievable. Asriel will have to leave a bit early to find a group of people near dad's little conniving pet she can hear scream.

 

He'd do well to wait for the two of them to go their separate ways. The first time he used the doctor's lightning rod the weed was all alone. Asriel can't risk getting dad struck as well, so he'll have to let the Music Hall rescue play out uninterrupted until that annoying girl and dad separate. So after the Music Hall, which is in about five minutes, when the filthy crook's all alone and dad's away, a group of people in her vicinity that she'll be able to hear...

 

...She's causing so many problems. Some people should have never been born. Especially those who get children replaced in their parents' eyes and steal all that is rightfully theirs.

 

Ah, to heck with it. Asriel's going to have to get his... leaves, dirty again. Going down there is insane; at this stage of the storm the city's become nothing but a foggy, grey blur dotted by distorted droplets of water plummeting into the sloshing water below. But if he's gonna find some suckers to keep dad's plaything entertained long enough to zap her, he might as well get a move on.

 

Transporting the rod he stole from the doctor is the hardest part, but it has an easy enough fix. All Asriel needs to do is wrap it completely in vines, all snug and tight. Since it's such a slim contraption two medium vines suffice; it's not a huge loss. He twines two vines around the lightning rod and lifts it in the air, turning it around to make sure there aren't any silver openings between the green. He can transport himself through the earth without trouble, but other objects experience a lot of friction and either slow him down or break if they aren't completely covered. It really limits the amount of things he can carry; it's not fair.

 

This... This is no body for a monster. He can't play music, he can't hold things how he'd like, he can't touch anybody and feel it the way he used to. But it does its job well enough, in terms of getting Asriel around. So there's no need to feel all that bad about it as he did the first time he opened his eyes in the flower.

 

Alright, there it goes. Asriel burrows through the tiled floor, sifting through the building's stone until he reaches softer, easier to navigate packed earth. He keeps the two vines securing the rod beneath him and starts moving through the dark. Whatever he does, it's primordial dad doesn't see him. Last time they were in this scenario he caught a glimpse of Asriel and almost got himself killed by that stupid facade. Only for the usurper to be oh so noble and die saving him, making him miss her more. Greedy little sk--

 

Asriel can't endanger dad. Most of all, he can't give his little pet a chance to be a tragic sacrifice for him again; that'd just ruin this timeline, too.

 

Asriel travels close to the surface. He's been a flower long enough to start telling footsteps apart from down below even if he can't see anything. He's listening out for the heavy-duty ones that armour causes. They have a special type of vibration compared to everyday footwear or barefoot monsters even when concealed by the rush of water pooling on the streets of New Home. And, since dad and his little pet decided to travel together, it's made them easier to spot.

 

...There. Dense steps thunder against the cobbled ground above, rattling every petal in Asriel's... body? Is this a body? He hasn't figured out every detail yet; it's a curse for sure. He overshoots them by several feet so the curtain of water conceals him from their view before emerging to the flood.

 

The water current pushes and tugs on him as easily as it does the debris it carries, threatening to tear him out of the ground and toss him downhill. Asriel tightens his roots as much as he can around sturdy clumps of earth and rock, and extends them as high up as they'll go without losing their grip on the ground, barely managing to breach the surface.

 

Immediately he's whipped around by the cutting wind and piercing rainfall, a few golden petals torn from his head. It feels almost like nothing. It feels like something, but without the body parts to feel touch and other senses, his physical senses have also...

 

Asriel wraps his roots and stem in a tangle of vines to strengthen his pathetic, frail body, and squints. A hazy purple blur ahead topped with gold must be dad. The solid stain of grey beside him crowned red, as opposed to the ever shifting haze of pouring water, must be the target. They take a left, towards the Music Hall. How creative. Under ground once more, Asriel follows.

 

He travels right beneath them, making sure he doesn't lose the constant, rapid steps vibrating above. He extends his roots and vines around him, in every direction, to find any group of survivors just close enough to serve as the little soldier's last stand.

 

There must be some idiots still loose. Why were they outside to begin with after dad ordered them to stay indoors? Because it looked like nothing would happen? Well, their stupidity's costing them greatly, and for a select few the cost is about to get even higher.

 

...Six. Faint, but decidedly there. Three pairs of feet. Just north-east of dad and his plaything, the tips of Asriel's roots vibrate at the uncoordinated pace of three pairs of frantic, disorganized footsteps. Not wearing armour; perfect. Dad and his pet will separate very shortly after the Music Hall, so their location couldn't be more perfect. Heck, the annoying armless kid is a street away from them. Dang kid can go on with their day this time; Asriel's got his sights on something a bit more dramatic.

 

He lurches towards his unlucky chosen ones as fast as he can, keeping several roots and vines behind him to keep tabs on dad and his soon-to-be dust pile. He can't let the bait get away; they've gotta remain close enough to be heard. Asriel weaves through the dirt, but their steps outrun him. Darn it, they're running away from dad and his thieving minion. Asriel dashes more until--

 

His vines erupt upwards, curling around a rough, scaled leg with increased force from the current ramming Asriel's vine into the limb. The sacrifice keeps on running and stumbles. After scrambling to stand again it tugs with force against its unseen restraints, but Asriel steels himself and pulls harder, sending another two vines for good measure. He uses his tether on the leg to hoist himself up and catch a glimpse of the other two's ankles.

 

He's sepulchred in murky, disorienting brow-grey water, pushing him forwards with the current and bouncing all over as more and more raindrops pierce the surface. He doesn't need precision this time, though; just a general idea of where the others are.

 

His prisoner continues yanking. Their desperate voice reaches Asriel distorted, penetrated by the unforgiving sloshing current and patter of rain. A few feet ahead of them, a pair of blurred green sticks and another, smaller set of white ones stop in their tracks. Legs, presumably. Upon hearing the cries of the idiot Asriel's fished in this storm, the vertical sticks become larger and larger through the water.

 

Those idiots ceased their pursuit of safety to rescue their friend, no doubt. No wonder they're going to die. Emotions are fickle in the face of danger, Asriel would know. He can hardly be held accountable for their demise, right? After all, creatures so stupid were bound to meet an early end anyway; he's only speeding up the inevitable. Compassion is a crueller murderer than he is.

 

After all, he's just curious. This is all a means to an end.

 

He sinks again, safe from the disorienting environment, and sends six more vines flying upwards. Slicing through the concrete in New Home, they slither through the water until they find their marks. Another scaly leg, and a much slimmer one that...

 

...Ah. It's covered in fur... Wet fur. Just like...

 

...

 

Asriel squeezes that one until its flesh parts and the frail bones beneath it crack between his vines. He tightens his grip more.

 

...It's not fair. It's not fair at all. Why do other monsters get to keep their bodies when he--?

 

All three of them attempt to force their way out of his hold. Miserable fools. They bend down eventually. Clumsy fingers try their hand at loosening the vines and breaking free. As if. Stupid, naive idiots. They don't deserve bodies and souls that can still...

 

...Asriel will feel too. All in due time. He just needs to get a few things done, but his feelings will return.

 

Right?

 

With his marks tied down, Asriel goes in the direction of the vines and roots he left like a trail behind him. Dad's too far away to be felt now, and his stupid soldier girl is at such a distance only the faintest echo of her footsteps rattles Asriel's appendages. She's not close enough. She won't hear these screams for help; she's headed for the street where the useless armless kid is. Dang it. Asriel miscalculated.

 

Now what?

 

On the far end, Asriel's prey continue struggling to break free. Disgusting vermin; all that grabbing and pulling hurts. They should just give up already. In the end, everyone dies anyway; it's unavoidable. Been there, done that.

 

If only they'd been closer. Asriel's going to have to go to lengths to find other viable sacrifices again or reset, isn't he? She won't hear them at this rate. Not unless he makes them scream louder.

 

...Asriel isn't like that; he would never. She has to go because she's trying to insert herself where she doesn't fit by shoving him aside; and Asriel's taking this extreme solution because that weed of a girl's left him no other choice. But hurting people on purpose...

 

...Hm. It's still a notch under killing them, and he was willing to get them zapped, too, if it meant getting rid of her. Weeding a garden can hurt other innocent plants as well, after all. Just part of the process.

 

Nothing personal. Asriel's just running out of time.

 

He squeezes the hairy one's segmented bone, embedding its shards deeper in his own vines, while also cutting through the other two and snapping their dumb bones in as many pieces as he can. It hurts, his eyes water -can they do that or is he imagining it?-, but he has to be stronger. He has to make them scream.

 

A large vibration follows. One of them collapsed, alright. Hopefully their voices get stronger as a reaction to--

 

Her footsteps come closer, towards the writhing monsters. Hallelujah, she heard them and didn't run by towards the snotty kid. Good good, it wasn't pointless torture. It helped!

 

Asriel travels right beneath the surface like a subcutaneous bundle of nerves, shrinking his vines back into himself as dad's puppet runs towards the useless decoys Asriel laid out for her. She truly is stupid. There's nothing special about her, she's just the thing dad fixated on to fill a void. She's dull, useless and a criminal. Bringing a thief to justice can't be considered bad, right?

 

It's only fair. She stole Asriel's rightful place; he takes her life. Easy and simple.

 

He glides through the earth, petals pulled back as he makes way to the prey. He surpasses the usurper's stride and stops beneath the three unwilling offerings. Their grimy hands don't stop tugging. They just don't give up, don't they? Miserable creatures.

 

They'll learn their place soon enough.

 

And she will, too. Her place is spread all over her mother's precious locket, dead and forgotten. Someone who is willing to lay their life down so stupidly doesn't deserve a soul at all. Souls are precious, and she's just going to throw hers away for people she doesn't even know. Oh, how noble. If only she'd adhered to such high morals when she stole--

 

The steps stopped. She's here.

 

A large, heavy vibration rattles Asriel's body. She dropped to one knee; she's looking for his vines. She'll start cutting any time n--

 

Disgusting stinker. She's gonna pay for this with her miserable, useless life. Curse her.

 

Okay, she's started with the first sucker Asriel trapped. He wiggles a bit until the vine she's sawing through is directly above him. Here it goes again.

 

He aims the two vines shielding the rod vertically upwards, parallel to the vine she's already segmented. No matter, no matter. She still has two more to get through if she wants to rescue this idiot, and she has to be slow if has the stupid mercy of not butchering their leg. Dumb idiot. Asriel has more than enough time.

 

He pushes the rod upwards until his vines are jostled by the unrelenting water. Okay, he's breached. Now he has to push up, up, up... Just a bit above the water's surface. There, that's the wind. It isn't the way Asriel could feel it with his old body, but it has its own distinct way of shoving him around. He retracts the two vines back underground and deploys a third to continue pushing the rod upwards. A little more, just to be level with her stupid head.

 

She's sawing faster, the rat. She's noticed, but she won't abandon the civilian. She better enjoy the final throes of her "heroism;" they're the last actions of her useless, miserable life.

 

Asriel knows her better than she knows herself. She just can't remember how close they've been because she's weak and pathetic, for all dad praises her "strength." She doesn't know just how well Asriel knows her, her secrets, her fears.

 

Asriel discovered his ability to love is broken in this vile body on the first day of having it. But he didn't realize he was capable of hatred until he met her. For people, things, like her, so full of stupid emotions of pain, hurt and guilt, death is a mercy and a justice alike.

 

Killing her is righting a wrong the universe committed allowing a repulsive creature like her to exist in the first place. And as the Time God of this universe, Asriel will gladly fix that.

 

It isn't cold-blooded murder; it's justice. It's all her fault.

 

...Alright, that should do it. Now, the doctor added some new laser technology or some other thing to these rods. Something about increasing their reach by a lot. She told him when they were "friends" ten or so timelines ago, but he wasn't listening anymore. He'd heard her yap about it dozens of times by then; who cares about the fine print? The point is this thing can summon lightning, and is quite dangerous to be close to.

 

Asriel releases the other two sacrifices. They can't run, but he can, and as soon as he's sure it's too late for the weed, he's getting out of here; retaining them would slow him down. Best not to find out just how far under the earth lightning can travel.

 

He keeps the final sacrifice held tight. The rod's high enough by now, so he stops pushing. He just needs to find that little button that turns on the laser part and--

 

Snap, the vine her gross hands are maiming falls limp. Dad's disgusting plaything works faster than anticipated, moving onto Asriel's last remaining vine. Stupid skunk.

 

There. The button protrudes from a few inches before the rod's base. Once Asriel presses that he'll have a couple of seconds at most to get away. He extends the vine she's hacking through like a maniac and the one caressing the button, recalling all other roots and vines towards himself. Asriel dashes as far as his vines will stretch, a few yards away, and pushes the button.

 

The vine dad's dumb dog had been slicing falters. He brings its remains back towards his body along with the healthy one that pushed the button. The earth trembles and groans violently as lightning strikes the rod.

 

Asriel sighs. Good riddance.

 

If there's anywhere her soul rests, wherever souls go after they die, and she's looking back on the life she gave up so uselessly, may she see dad being happy without her every day of her afterlife until she realizes she was in the way. Everyone's happier without her, the world is better off without her. She was never needed, nobody ever loved her. She was a thief, someone incapable of being loved. More a thing than a person, a blight in the Underground, a calamity. The universe is genuinely better off without her. May she burn in Hell in agonizing pain for the rest of eternity.

 

Death isn't enough. Not for her.

 

Alright. The laser recharges for a minute, and surrounded by trees and other much taller bodies the lightning rod itself isn't super dangerous right now, but it's best to act quickly. Asriel goes back to where he came from, extending some roots and vines ahead of him as feelers. Two of them wrap around the rod. He turns the laser off and pulls it down. It can break now, it doesn't matter. As long as nobody sees it and says dad's entertainment was murdered, as long as he thinks she died doing what he wanted her to do, it should be alright.

 

This time's the one. Asriel got rid of the weed for good, he can feel it. She won't lay roots in dad's fragile, fragile soul anymore. He'll move on from her and go straight to loving Asriel again. Him and only him; none of that "divided attention" crap.

 

The only person dad was allowed to divide his affection with isn't here anymore. Anyone else is extraneous.

 

The engineers at the CORE won't take much longer to fix the pipes Asriel gutted. The temperature and humidity will go back to normal, the storm will finish.

 

And then dad will be his and all will be fine again. This nightmare can end at last.

 

-

 

The water bubbles and flows downhill, peaceful, carrying along debris and rubble. Without the sheet of rain, the electric lights are able to illuminate the city as they normally would. One street light in particular shines over the sole survivor of the bait. The one with the shattered leg and beautiful white fur, farthest away from her friends, still breathes. In the quiet aftermath she looks around, dazed. She's probably deafened for now, if not for life, and blinded as well.

 

She wasn't supposed to survive. But if she was far away enough to live, she likely couldn't see through the rain. There was no visibility out there, right...?

 

Asriel can do it all again if he has to, obviously. But it'd be best if he didn't. It'd get more monotonous than it already is.

 

Wrapped around a broken street lamp, Asriel looks down as the white-furred monster collapses, barely tall enough to keep her head over the water level. Her laboured breathing carries over through the splash her body makes and the serene water flow filling the streets of New Home.

 

Behind her dad stands, looking around frantically. His gaze lands on the scattered parts of armour that once encased his little pet. A piercing white light slides up and down its edge as it passes by another light post, carried downhill by the stream.

 

Dad watches helplessly, moving his mouth with no sound coming out. Asriel's stem tenses so much his petals brush up against the pole's sharp filigrees. Dad shouldn't care so much, he shouldn't. She never mattered; he already had Asriel and Chara. Why the heck is he always so sad about the dang replacement dying? She was nothing but a dad-stealing--

 

She doesn't matter. Dad... Dad wouldn't replace Chara and him. He's not like--

 

"When humans fall down here--"

 

The tears are too small to see from this high up, but the way dad's face contorts into an expression of pathetic agony is unmistakable. He's sobbing like a miserable fool for an expendable soldier all over again. Disgusting. All those emotions are useless in the hands of people so fragile. There's no objective reason for dad to feel so strongly about something as gross as that thief. When Asriel sees pathetic stuff like this it makes him wonder just why he's so keen on getting his own emotions back.

 

Asriel closes his eyes--

 

Force of habit. No, he isn't going to load or reset this time; that was the whole point. He opens them again, but finds his gaze bouncing all over New Home instead of settling on how dad wades through the water towards the hollow armour set. People here and there wander, call out to each other, blink, dazed, in the jarring aftermath of the storm. The city bustles with activity and movement, they all scatter like bugs, but dad's purple cloak remains stagnant in the edge of Asriel's vision.

 

As his first groan of a sob startles everyone near him, Asriel slides down the pole and goes back under ground.

 

Dad's a traitor.

 

...He'll let time do its thing this round.

 

He replaced them.

 

Time to see what happens when he has to live without the usurper.

 

He replaced him .

 

He won't... He won't mourn her for long. Because she doesn't matter, and she never did.

 

And, when he needs support the most, he'll find his son has returned from the dead to comfort him.

 

Nothing will make him forget the useless weed faster.

 

-

 

What a sad funeral.

 

Not that Asriel feels sad; rather it's just... pathetic.

 

From one of the golden flower bouquets dad insisted on decorating the wenge mortuary with, Asriel watches. The only person here is dad.

 

A few monsters, mostly members of the Royal Guard, stopped by to show their respects to one of their fallen, but none of them stayed for the service. Dad waited and waited, crying intermittently dressed in his finest mourning robes, until he stood up and faced the lacquered pedestal at the center of the funeral chapel.

 

There was no dust to be found, it was washed away by the current. As such, instead of covering her favourite belonging in dust, dad has taken her mother's golden locket and placed it around her helmet. He's kept his hand on it for at least ten minutes.

 

...Disappointing. It's already been a day since she died. How much longer is the old man going to need to get over her already? She wasn't even important right? He's just a sentimental, lonely old man. He probably... He probably thinks without her he's going to be alone, or something like that. He doesn't have any friends besides her.

 

Asriel can understand the pain of losing one's only friend. Chara--

 

...

 

...No matter, no matter. Dad can take as long as he wants to work through the pointlessly complex emotions his soul still provides. Asriel was a crybaby too when he had a soul, too. It's annoying now, but it's a matter of time.

 

Unless...

 

"...Can you hear me, my dear? Wherever you are?"

 

Dad's voice is stringy from tears and hoarse from all the screaming he did yesterday when he internalized and processed that, indeed, his lapdog is dead. How dramatic of him.

 

Asriel coils once more, burrowing. He doesn't have to hear this. What he has to do is show himself. He's already given dad more than enough time to sort out his little pity party. He celebrated a funeral and all. One with no mourners because the only person who could legitimately grow to care about a useless, vile stray like her was someone as egregiously kind as dad.

 

He needs his son. That way he'll know he won't be lonely from now on.

 

...

 

...When Chara died... When Asriel thought he'd have to be alone for the rest of his life without his best friend... He would've needed more than a day to process that. Perhaps the soldier was nothing but a means to keep dad distracted from how much he misses his children, but it's obvious he did care about her, on some level. Somehow.

 

Instead of surfacing, Asriel takes a turn. He'll let dad finish saying whatever words he feels are necessary. It's important for weaklings with souls to let their little emotions out. The worst thing Asriel can do right now is rush everything. He already got rid of the pest, everything else can wait for a moment.

 

He goes to the garden instead, where he first woke up so many timelines ago, yet only yesterday in terms of date. Funny how time travel works. He came to in the flower just a day ago; not even twenty-four full hours. But if he were to add up all the days he's spent in all the timelines he's explored, how much would they add up to?

 

...Who knows. Months, if not years. Months of trying to feel, of wanting to give up, of being determined to continue regardless...

 

...He's done most everything this festering hole has to offer. The only outcome he hasn't seen yet is whether dad will get his pet dislodged from his heart if given enough time. When Asriel's already waited so much, why not wait a little more?

 

He'll await dad in the garden, just like in their first meeting, and see where things go from there.

 

Just a little longer.

 

-

 

The other flowers are shrivelling up.

 

It's been three days now, this is the third patch of moonlight Asriel's trailed through the throne room. It's obvious... It's obvious dad isn't coming. From past timelines, Asriel's observed how dad always makes time to come back here and tend to the garden. Even if he's tired, overworked, if he's had a long day. He always finds the energy to look after the last thing he has left of Chara.

 

As he should. At least he can't forget them.

 

...Maybe Asriel should reset it all. Do something different; get her killed in front of dad so he can get some closure or something. But what if it's all the same? What if...? What if he finds dad really did...?

 

No. Dad would never. He's not like mom; he only taught the little weed. He grew fond of her like he would a stray dog. He wouldn't... He wouldn't...

 

Asriel burrows. Fine. Time to take matters into his own hands. If dad won't come to the garden, Asriel will go to him. This is what he's wanted to see for so long, the outcome of this specific series of events. He isn't going to quit out of frustration towards the overemotional king.

 

If he quits, he'd--

 

Asriel's as familiar with the underside of dad's house as he was with its insides when he was still alive. He's spent enough resets here to know which support beams hold up which part of the house. He navigates around a few of them until he finds the one that goes into the columns in dad's bedroom.

 

Asriel goes in, using his vines and roots to help himself ascend. While he's yet to find a material he can't sift through, some are harder than others. Nothing comes close to the metal labyrinth of the CORE, though, so a bit of wood isn't a problem.

 

Up and up he goes, until he's more or less at ceiling-level. Unless dad's staring upwards into a corner, it should leave Asriel relatively hidden for a while. He comes out--

 

...Dad isn't here.

 

The room reeks of not having been cleaned in days. The bed is messy, with some of the blankets twisted after restless nights of tossing and turning sliding off the mattress.

 

What the heck? Dad's a meticulous nightmare. He's never let the house get this bad. Did he really care about...?

 

...

 

Ah, ah. Not yet. Asriel needs to see the outcome with his own eyes; that was the point, doing everything. For all that's holy, it's impossible for anyone, even someone as kind as dad, to truly care about her that much. So Asriel returns to the support beam and moves over to the living room. Empty. The fireplace hasn't been lit in a while, nor the couch sat upon. Kitchen? Empty. Basement? The same. Where...?

 

...A certain stillness takes hold of Asriel's stem and leaves. The only place dad could be are the bedroom he once shared with mom, or his and Chara's room. Why would he be in either of those?

 

...Does he also miss...?

 

The old main bedroom is unlit and empty. The bed mom and dad shared is pristine, smooth, but blanketed in a layer of dust. Dad doesn't even go in here, not since she left in order to adopt every human she could to replace Chara.

 

Unless he isn't home, there's only one place left for him to be.

 

Asriel goes into the wall once more. His old bedroom...

 

Playing with Chara. The pillow fights they'd have. Knitting with them. Telling scary stories with their scary face at night. Talking about the future. About the Surface and the freedom of monsters. About buttercups and soul absorption and--

 

...He can't. He can't, without Chara he can't step foot in that room. Last time he was there was right before going to the hospital. Back when--

 

"Psst... Chara...Please... Wake up. I don't like this plan anym--"

 

It-It was their room, too. Asriel can't just--

 

The floorboards creak. Someone's definitely in there.

 

Slowly, Asriel takes a peek. The white room, their beds and toys, the memories of running around and laughing so brightly, are pushed to the back of Asriel's mind by something much more tangible. In the present day, dad sits on the rug in the middle of the room holding something in his hands.

 

A pink, crudely knit sweater that catches the tears that don't stick to his matted fur.

 

...He's... He's not mourning her.

 

He's mourning Chara and Asriel. Her funeral reminded him of theirs.

 

He knew it. Dad wouldn't fail like mom did. He never replaced them. Perhaps now that it's finally just the two of them...

 

Asriel takes a deep breath before popping out. Dad doesn't notice, still stuck in his agony, in the memories that sweater brings him, with that tight frown. Regarding the room from this angle is still a tad odd, something feels wrong. Everything's too big, too tall. His room... He only saw it like this when he was laying down on the floor, with Chara next to--

 

Despite it, he pushes through. He'll get used to this perspective too. He doesn't have a say.

 

It's time to explore the final thing this hole in the ground has to show.

 

"Dad?"

 

He jumps to a stand, conjuring his trident as he drops the sweater. Eyes bloodshot and wide, dad looks around. Always overreacting, almost like he's heard a ghost.

 

"Dad... It's me. I'm back."

 

Slowly, as if he doubts what he's heard, dad looks down, following Asriel's voice. When their eyes connect Asriel changes his visage to resemble the one he used to have, the one dad knows him by. Dad gasps, taking a step back.

 

"Hi, dad."

 

The trident clatters to the floor, rattling it along with Asriel's body and vanishing when dad loses concentration. "...What?"

 

His voice is still a hoarse whisper. He rubs his eyes and looks again, frowning, surprised that Asriel's still there.

 

...That wasn't the first reaction he had the first time. In the original timeline dad held Asriel and comforted him. Granted, the replacement was still alive, and Asriel was crying--

 

Right. Tears. He can still do that with this body. He isn't afraid as he was when he first opened his eyes, he's hollow without a soul, but he can fake cry a bit. Nothing like tears to inspire sympathy from those with emotions.

 

Asriel sobs. "I'm not sure what happened dad; I just woke up like this. I'm scared!"

 

Dad continues regarding him the way one would an apparition. What's wrong with him? Wasn't he grieving Asriel and Chara just a moment ago?

 

Asriel sobs louder to get the oaf to react already, but it doesn't work. Dad just stares at him, occasionally looking away before regarding him once more. What the heck is up with him? Is he going insane or what? He--

 

The floor shakes every last of Asriel's petals as dad's knees give out. Eyes misty again, he brings his head closer to Asriel.

 

"My son..." he rasps, quiet as a whisper. "...Is it really you?"

 

Of course he is. Dad's become so stupid in this timeline. Who else would Asriel be?

 

He nods. A few fake tears pour to the rug. "I missed you, dad."

 

What's the old guy waiting for to hug his son?!

 

A man as large as dad, whose laughter could make Asriel's ears ring when he still had them, is reduced to nothing but silent sobs and a flood of tears as he leans forward to comfort Asriel. His entire back heaves as his strong hands hold Asriel close to his face as gently as possible.

 

It feels like nothing. It's all empty inside. Nothing changed.

 

...Oh well.

 

Dad tries to speak a few times, but no words come. He breathes through an open mouth instead, running his fingers as soft as bird feathers through Asriel's petals and across his stem.

 

...Same old. It's always the same. Always a whole load of nothing.

 

Nonetheless, having come so far to reach this point, might as well let it unfold for a while, right? Last time Asriel stuck around, his mood was constantly hampered by the thief being here all the time. Dad was so over the moon with his son's return from the grave he just had to share his joy with her.

 

Well, now it's just the two of them. And, from the looks of it, dad doesn't even remember his former plaything anymore. He was grieving his children, not her.

 

She never mattered. Something like her never could.

 

Asriel rubs his head into dad's hand, returning the affection he would be feeling if he had a soul. He forces more tears to pour, eliciting even more sympathy from dad.

 

And now finally he can try what he's wanted all along.

 

With that thing gone, everything's going to be alright.

Notes:

Prompt: a soft epilogue

Chapter 9: Eternal Torment

Take ten.

 

It's never going to be enough. No amount of time will ever be enough.

 

For someone lacking a brain, Asriel is closer to having a headache than he thought he could in this blighted vessel.

 

At this point there's only one thing left to do. Just one, and it's best to--

 

...

 

He's been more patient than anyone could reasonably expect him to be. Even for weaklings with stupid souls the mourning period ends at a certain point.

 

Not for dad, though. He's always grieving, eternally, forever. No matter how Asriel kills her she always lives on. She's a ghost at this point, digging her claws into dad even from beyond the grave, tearing into him and turning him into whatever he is nowadays. You'd think he's mourning someone important instead of a distraction. That he replaced--

 

He didn't, darn it. He didn't replace them he did. He was just lonely and miserable and needing something to keep him company, that's all. He's not like mom. He would never betray Asriel and Chara like that.

 

Unless he would.

 

...

 

Today marks the fourth anniversary of her death. In this timeline, at least. The first time Asriel committed himself to letting events unfold giving dad time to process his useless, misplaced, brittle emotions he waited two years. From the moment Asriel found dad in his and Chara's old room, to the moment where he comprehensibly lost all patience and reset, two entire years went by! Two years of hearing the old geezer whine and complain about how "it was his fault she died" and "he should have never trained her", and more hooey in that vein.

 

The bitter aftertaste that discovering that her death, and not just funeral, had reminded dad of Chara and Asriel's, hasn't left in all this time. How could some random, stupid girl's death remind dad of his children?! Dad... Dad really did try to replace him, huh? He went out and found the nearest thief with a sob story to tell and brought her in. How could he?!

 

It beat discovering that mom replaced Chara with arbitrary fallen humans. That's something Asriel can't forgive; mom is dead and scattered to him.

 

...Still. That... That might be the wrong conclusion, right? There's still room for speculation; or so Asriel thought. Thinks? Wants to think. After all, following that death, dad felt responsible for her passing. And he's the sort of idiot who'd be affected by a non-issue like that.

 

In his old, delusional head, had he left her where he'd found her, or helped her "direct her hatred in another direction", "taught her something else," she would've never been a soldier. She would've never been caught up in the Royal Guard, and never died saving civilians. It wouldn't have been her responsibility, ergo the little pet would still be alive. But no, dad trained her, and he proceeded to blame himself for that for two hecking years.

 

Asriel was curious about that specific interaction. Curiosity and entertainment are the only things he still has left within this repugnant body. Until he gets his emotions back, that is, but with the old geezer's behaviour being this, said day may never come. Will never come? Because dad just had to ruin everything. This is all his fault, and he deserves to see his stupid, useless little toy die over, and over and over. After all, he's doomed Asriel to--

 

...Life without emotions is surprisingly tasteless. Everything is wet paper. Isn't that why he tried so, so hard to feel with mom and dad when he first woke up in this body? Isn't that why, when he realized he'd never feel again, Asriel tried to...?

 

...

 

...Asriel waited two years after the little soldier died heroically. Instead of making dad proud, it made him a miserable wreck. He never stopped mourning her for some reason, so Asriel reset and tried again.

 

The next time he killed her he made it an accident once more, one taking place far away from dad so he couldn't blame himself for it. Asriel returned to the day he first woke up and, instead of waiting in the garden, he snuck into the house again and watched from the floorboards how the same breakfast he's witnessed so many times took place anew.

 

They had breakfast together, they almost argued, the weed said she'd be back home by dinner. Dad went on with his day. Asriel found her in Waterfall. She stopped at the bottom of the cliff. That small, insignificant shard of memory of having died there twice making her hesitate. But she doesn't know what those feelings within her are, doesn't recognize them as memories, so she went ahead and climbed all the same. Stupid, useless idiot.

 

Asriel wanted to wait for her to reach the top, grab her by the ankles and drop her again. Same old. Nothing new. Tasteless. Bland. Means to an end, divine justice. But that could still be traced back to her being a soldier and dad training her, because she presumably wouldn't be scaling cliff sides if she weren't in the Guard. So instead, Asriel waited until she was done, tripped her, the fall didn't kill her, but his vines in her brain did.

 

The one passer-by who witnessed the “incident” unfold couldn't see that, though. They only saw someone trip on a rock and “fall wrong,” which can happen to anyone. Totally removed from dad's military teachings, there, done.

 

Except of course, it wouldn't be that simple.

 

He returned to New Home as fast as he could, rolled his eyes into the back of the flower when dad received the news from the same soldier and had a breakdown again, then waited. Dad couldn't attribute her death to himself that time; it was more promising than the last. Asriel watched the same hollow funeral and reached out to dad. Once again he was happy to see Asriel, and once more Asriel felt nothing.

 

He was more patient that time, though. Four years. Four years of a life about as exciting as sticking wads of wet paper to the ceiling. Yet considering how the only alternative at that stage was crossing the point of no return--

 

...He's not there yet. Not yet, there's still... There's still hope somewhere, right...?

 

...

 

Despite being unable to take responsibility for her death, something still broke in dad after she died. Why?! She's more boring than predictable timelines and repeated scenarios. She's bland, a thief, a weed, an usurper, and a gross little bug. There's nothing to something like her.

 

If Asriel had blood, it would boil.

 

He wasted four years arguing with himself. That dad hadn't replaced them. After all, unlike the filthy traitor mom turned out to be, he never said he cared about the usurper as his own. Never did he mention anything to that effect, in any of the timelines Asriel's tolerated him in so far. So he still believed. He thought there might be a chance he could get dad all for himself without stupid distractions.

 

But whether Asriel got himself to be patient with dad and his uselessly complex feelings, or believed dad had really replaced him, no emotions returned. Even with stupid dad's stupid undivided attention, even with the salvageable remnants of his family united without extraneous individuals, Asriel's heart never warmed.

 

It's hard to warm up something that isn't there. Especially when the flame supposed to do it is too busy putting itself out with tears shed for the same loser every freaking day.

 

So he reset again. Her death couldn't be an accident. And, knowing dad's unforgivable affection for her, being murdered wouldn't make him miss her any less, either. There was only one sort of death Asriel hadn't tried. If dad was distraught no matter how she was killed, or how she died of natural causes...

 

...What if she died because she wanted to?

 

It was funny. Considering how her mother went, it was so funny. Comedy gold. Asriel reset and headed straight for her house. She was still asleep when his vines sliced open her body over and over and over. She couldn't even make a sound before her bedsheets were covered in sticky dust. She didn't notice, it was painless.

 

He gathered all the dust and grabbed some rope. Not a hard thing to find, really. Her house is utterly barren, she was hardly living. It wasn't hard to find the drawer in the dresser where she keeps all the tools and survival stuff. He appended it to one of the bare rafters in the living room, folded her sheets with the dust still on them, poured it all over the floor underneath the noose and disposed of the bedsheets in the garbage dump after shredding them so nobody could find the leftover dust.

 

Asriel then used her phone to send a message to dad. Her final goodbye to "a dear friend." Surely that would fix it? That would give dad a reason he couldn't blame himself for, it would not be "a tragic life cut short” or whatever. It'd be what she wanted with proper closure.

 

Just like Ch--

 

...

 

When Asriel went back home dad wasn't there. He'd immediately taken off to stop her for some reason, and when he reached her house and saw it was too late he was more broken than Asriel has ever seen him. It was a death he never overcame. Not even in the sense of being unable to move on, like with the other two. Whatever it was that always broke within his stupid soul at her funeral utterly shattered when the cause of death was, supposedly, by her own hand.

 

Framing her suicide was clearly a mistake. Even if she wanted to die dad still blamed himself. Out of all three post-mortem situations, it was by far the most incapacitating to dad. A permanent Requiem that's been playing in his mind and soul for the past four years.

 

He really did... Dad really did love...

 

...

 

In hindsight, of course it was a mistake. Chara wanted to die too, after all, and it didn't make Asriel feel any better about their passing. He...

 

He just wanted it to stop. To turn back time, as he can now. To spare their suffering, to have never agreed to the plan. He wanted his sibling back, he--

 

...He missed them all the same. Misses them to this day. Even if they'd planned it all and wanted it. He lived less than a day without them, less than an hour without their soul intertwined with his, and it was still insurmountable.

 

But since this is the only scenario Asriel hasn't seen so far, he figured he'd commit to giving the old coot some time to grieve. More than he had before, because someone you love wanting to die... it kind of really hurts. Even if it's someone otherwise meaningless, apparently.

 

It still felt like the best contender for dad to eventually get over. Yes, the initial shock would be nastier, fine. But seeing as it isn't dad's fault in any way that there's a history of insanity in her family, that her mother already hung, surely... surely that'd help make the grief pass faster, right?

 

Wrong. Four years into this timeline and Asriel's one incident away from tearing out his own petals.

 

After all, for him it's been a decade. Two years from the first heroic death, four from the "accident", and another four from the "suicide." And to think it was boredom he was trying to evade when he started playing with time. Watching every possible situation with every monster unfold, thinking of new interactions along the way, all that theoretically fun stuff. If it isn't working over such large stretches of time, it might just be time to accept...

 

...No no. Not yet. He isn't there yet, there's still time.

 

Right?

 

It's been so long it really does look like dad replaced him, specifically. A dead monster with another monster; like mom did to Chara with all those humans. And if dad replaced him, if dad can't love him the exact same way he did when Asriel was still alive because he loves someone else now, then it really is the end of the line. The way he's behaving, with this never-ending grieving period, it's tedious and most of all disheartening. But dad gives so many mixed signals Asriel just wants to grab him by the shoulders and rattle him until he starts making sense!

 

When Asriel and Chara were alive, the way dad acted with them was so different than how he treated the usurper. He didn't hug her once, he never said he loved her. He didn't play catch with her or read her any stories. He always kept her away, a gap perpetually between them. He never tucked her hair behind her... fins, as he did with Chara's ears. He never booped her nose like he did with Asriel; though that may have been because the weed doesn't have a nose. He never cuddled her or anything, there was always this huge space between them that lends a bit of feasibility to the hope that maybe dad didn't replace Asriel?

 

His distance with her compared to how he behaved with Asriel and Chara gave room for hesitation. Still does, all things considered. But when coupled with just how much he misses the stupid, useless weed that hesitation melts more and more into conviction in Asriel's mind with every passing day that dad's eyes look so dang sad.

 

Did dad really take her in to replace Asriel him, or was she just cheap entertainment to keep the loneliness at bay?

 

Asriel was convinced it was the latter for so long. If dad did care about her like a child of his, he was dismal at showing it. And dad may be a massive, pathetic loser, but...

 

His laughter. His tight hugs. The way he listened to Asriel and Chara and broke up arguments. How he played with them both and taught them all about botany. The way he'd sit them on his lap and read them stories. His piano lessons and--

 

...He was a pretty great father. Or something.

 

So he acted all cold and distant, like he didn't care about her that much, but then when she died inevitably, no matter how Asriel did it, dad always got sad. Not even just sad. Sad may have been normal, after all. Souls can feel so many things. But depressed and utterly ruined, a shell of himself, for years and years and years? That's not normal for just a friend, right? Nobody can love some random charity case plucked from the streets that much; she wasn't even fun or anything. Dad's behaviour with her is so contradictory it just--

 

Agh, never mind. It's never going to make sense. The only thing left to do is ask directly, and every time Asriel tries that his stem coils up just as bad, or even worse, than when he tries to gear himself up to ask dad about the buttercups in the cupboard.

 

That stupid little weed is still ruining his life, and she's dead! What will it take to get rid of her for eternity?!

 

Dad's on the couch. He's been working from home more and more since his little pet died. Did he care about her or not? Was she just a distraction or more? He treated her coldly compared to his actual children, but then why is he so torn up after her death that no matter how many years Asriel waits, he never gets better?!

 

...How come he got better from Chara and his death, but not this random, useless soldier? There are dozens like her in the Royal Guard, she isn't special. With Gerson stepping down from the Guard and her no longer being available to take the baton from him, they found someone else to be the new Captain in a matter of hours. She's nothing special, but dad can't hecking breathe without her.

 

It's almost like he loved her more than...

 

...

 

Asriel tried cheering dad up a lot, especially at the start. Be it after her heroic death, accidental one, or supposed suicide, in every timeline Asriel's gone to lengths to help dad get over her, but he never does. No matter how Asriel does away with the weed, dad's always broken in the aftermath. He waited two years at first, four years the next, and another four again. And for what?! Asriel can wait six more to reach the decade mark if he wants. He can torment himself like that, but why would he?

 

...Even if he waits around uselessly all that time, sharing dad's affection with a ghost that should've never been in his heart In the firs place, haunted by the presence of someone who isn't here anymore... will anything change? Or will this very same day in six years play out as it is today? With dad on the couch, buried in work, and Asriel observing him from afar, bored and hopeless?

 

Dad tries, if Asriel's to be completely fair. He tries to smile, he tries to be cheerful when he's with Asriel. He tries, but it's not enough. If Asriel can't rebuild what remains of his family, he'll...

 

...

 

...It won't make a difference, will it? It's never going to make a difference. Whether he gives the man two, four, six, infinite years to mourn, he'll never bounce back from losing her. Whatever Asriel does, he can't erase her from dad's mind. She lingers after death as if her soul possessed human determination.

 

She remains in dad's heart. No amount of love Asriel gives him will ever delete her from it. Is it because he's soulless? Because he died and now he can't love anymore? Because all Asriel has to offer is a hollow flower while she had a vibrant little soul she never hesitated to waste on stupid, useless monsters? Is she better than Asriel? Is that it? Dad loved her more because she had a soul while Asriel went ahead and died?

 

It's not like he wanted to. He never wanted this to happen. He had no choice. He--

 

"Six, right? We just need to get six..."

 

He burrows. Where he's headed to matters little; he needs to move. Why isn't he enough for dad? Didn't dad say his return was the best moment of his life? Then why isn't his presence enough?! What did that little twerp do to him?! How did she bewitch him so much that even his son's return from the dead can't get him to snap out of it?!

 

She was a hero, Asriel was a crybaby. Simple as that. As a monster or a flower, Asriel will never be good enough. He's the idiot who got himself killed, and that's all he'll ever be. Of course dad would give his spot to someone else, but that's just so rude!!

 

Even when she's dead dad still loves her. He still cares about her, darn it!! When Asriel woke up the first time and dad found him in the garden he was radiant. But when the exact same situation plays out with her being dead, what? Asriel isn't enough on his own to bring dad happiness anymore? He cared about his replacement toy so much he can't be happy without it even if his son is back?!

 

This means he's doomed. His last chance at feeling something was in dad's hands. It just so happens his hands were so full of love for her that even after scattering her dust there's still no room in them to hold Asriel anymore. He only had one chance. Without it he's reached the end. Mom was a traitor and couldn't get him to feel anything. Making friends couldn't get him to feel anything. Dad, so long as his affection was shared between Asriel and the little soldier girl, couldn't make him feel anything. And without her dad is nothing. What happens to Asriel then? Does he live like this forever? Or does he--?

 

...Those footsteps. Above him, that light stride. It's the dang monster kid.

 

...Huh.

 

Asriel surfaces. He's somewhere near Hotland, near a pool of lava. It's sweltering in here, what a nightmare.

 

The annoying kid in question is running around like a fool next to a pit of lava. Crap for brains. They're always alone, which isn't surprising. Unlikeable dummy. When Asriel was stupid enough to believe friendship might rekindle the warmth his death froze, this darned kid was as close as he got to having a genuine friend. The problem, however, was the little idiot being obsessed with the Royal Guard. The same Royal Guard the little soldier girl belonged to, and hearing all day long about soldiers this and soldiers that made Asriel sick.

 

The kid is playing pretend now, pretending to kill humans as a member of the Royal Guard. Because of course they are.

 

...

 

...If they admire the Royal Guard so much, might as well send them with the deceased almost-Captain. That way they can play heroes all day long where they won't bother anyone.

 

The child cries out, staring down in horror at the vine penetrating their chest. Breaking scales, bones and sinew feels... Not good, of course. Murder is bad. But it's a new feeling, one Asriel hasn't grown bored of yet, so it feels interesting.

 

That's it, just interesting.

 

He's not... He's not enjoying this. There has to be a line somewhere.

 

The kid's high-pitched squeals become stupid, pathetic whining. They fall to their knees, crumbling to dust before their legs hit the ground.

 

"Go meet your hero," Asriel grumbles. "Tell her to go to Hell on my behalf.

 

"Tell her to let dad go already. He wasn't hers to begin with."

Notes:

Prompt: ten years later.

Btw, i don't think i said in earlier updates, but comments, even (constructive) criticism, are always welcome. No pressure though. Have a great day ^^

Chapter 10: Memories

After every load the child grows more restless, more scared. They turn over their shoulder even before Asriel makes his presence known, looking for the intangible danger. They cry out for help, but nobody comes.

 

Nobody ever comes. For anyone. At the end of it all, everyone faces death alone.

 

Asriel has bisected them, thrown them into the lava pit, suffocated them, strangled them, killed them quick and painlessly, and slow and agonizingly. And still the anger within him, scalding and scorching, suffocating and excruciating, remains.

 

Dad replaced him. Even if he's acting weird, even if he didn't conduct himself the same way with that thief than he did Asriel and Chara. There's no reason dad would be so normal and just move on from their deaths, and then spend four years devastated for someone he didn't love more.

 

He's just like mom. Just like mom, replacing his kids like they mean nothing. He doesn't care and never did.

 

Asriel's vines curl around the child's neck, squeezing the air out of it, but instead of strangling them, this time he flings them around violently until their vertebrae snap in his vines. He loads.

 

The child is breathless from the start, alert. They look around with wide eyes, slitted pupils diffused by tears. Panting, they run. They run straight into the root Asriel pops out right in front of them, tripping them into the lava with an ear-piercing scream torn from the bottomless pit of despair he's turned their heart into.

 

Useless. Useless useless useless. This isn't working, it is not working. There's only one thing left to do, but Asriel can't do that.

 

...

 

...Right?

 

-

 

Asriel opened his eyes in a foreign body he yet hadn't deduced was a flower early one morning. Unknown to him, his father was indoors, having breakfast with the usurper, trying to convince her to take a rest on her day off. Dad later went about his day, had dinner with her, and it was before bed, after a lovely soirée with the monster he used to replace his son with, that he realized he had yet to water the flowers. He headed to the throne room, and after hours of sobbing, Asriel finally had assistance.

 

Dad was ecstatic to see him, crying happy tears Asriel mimicked only superficially. He couldn't... He couldn't feel anything. He forced himself through the motions of smiling, crying from joy, reciprocating affection, but it was hollow.

 

He told himself it would pass.

 

That night he hadn't yet found out how to move in the flower, how to burrow, or just how fast he could travel, so dad repotted him and took him everywhere in his arms. He showed Asriel how nothing in the house had changed, but besides mom's conspicuous absence along with every photograph of her, dad, Asriel and Chara removed -out of grief, dad insisted- there was one picture frame that hadn't been in the living room when Asriel was alive. A pink marble frame holding an image new to Asriel's eyes. Not an absence, but an intrusion.

 

It was of dad and a monster Asriel had never met. She was small, a bit younger than Asriel and Chara were when they died. In the photo she was standing next to dad, holding a cyan spear too large for her, eyes wide with awe and a large, sharp-toothed smile. Instead of staring at the camera, dad was looking at her, smiling gently.

 

"That is Undyne, my son. I have taught her to be a soldier since she was young. She will be promoted to Captain soon. Gerson is retiring."

 

...There was something Asriel didn't like about that picture. The way dad looked at her made his petals shudder. The fact she was there while Asriel and Chara's photos had been confined to the photo albums hidden in the dresser's drawers didn't sit well with him. But there were more pressing matters to be dealt with that night, like the horror of realizing Asriel had come back, but Chara hadn't.

 

He was determined to find them in the moment. Surely if a crybaby such as him had managed to elude death's grasp, Chara ought to be somewhere, waiting to see their best friend again. He wouldn't let them down.

 

Asriel went to sleep uneasy. All day long he'd felt... not much, after the initial fear and confusion. A bit of anxiety, maybe. But the love he had for dad when he was still a monster seemed to remain somewhere among the dust Asriel turned into when he died. It was a matter of time though, or so he thought. He'd have to adjust to the flower, that was all.

 

Needless to say, he never did. Every day was the same. Is the same. Will apparently always be.

 

All Asriel managed to feel in that house was bitter jealousy. The following morning dad needed to share his joy with his soon-to-be Captain and seemingly only friend, the girl from the picture. She'd grown up quite a bit, lost an eye, and was so painfully kind, to Asriel. The way she looked at him, pronounced his name, they was almost... reverent, to a degree. She saw his return as nothing short of a miracle, and her happiness for him and for dad radiated off of her. The wall of muscle and scales outside did nothing to hide her squishy, weak interior, full of so many coveted emotions.

 

That was the first time of many Asriel was jealous of her. Her body was hers, her heart was so full, and his... He didn't even have one.

 

She irritated him significantly, though. Her celebration of his return when Chara was yet to be found was driving him insane. He'd already told dad there was no doubt within him that Chara was back, yet all dad did was give him sad smiles and try to assuage his grief.

 

But Asriel didn't want sympathy. He needed someone to help him find Chara right away.

 

The first week Asriel spent at home he didn't see the soldier again. At that point it was easy enough to believe she really was nothing special to dad. A friend, someone he'd grown fond of through years of training and sparring. Just another monster under his orders who he cared about, because as it happens dad's great at caring about everyone except his son.

 

Dad always found it so easy to care about others. Asriel did, too, when he was a monster. So he thought if he stayed with dad long enough, basked in his company, he might reawaken that part of himself.

 

In the following weeks, though, the usurper began coming over for tea. One or two days out of every week at most, but her mere presence irritated Asriel. Dad wouldn't stop inviting her. Why? Had he not missed Asriel in what had apparently been centuries since his death? Did he need other people so badly? Was Asriel's presence not enough for him?

 

Was it because he was soulless? Because he'd gotten himself killed? Because he was, as Chara insisted, a crybaby?

 

What bothered him most though was a conversation he overheard after yet another tea date with the darn soldier girl. Asriel was just barely starting to feel better about her when dad missed her promotion ceremony to stay with him because he was still getting used to his new, useless body and didn't feel like attending a public event. Dad prioritized him, as he should, but that relief lasted all of a day and a half.

 

Tired of being ignored, Asriel had begun experimenting with his new prison of a body. The first week he was pathetic and weak, and couldn't bear do anything which may lead him to acknowledge his new body. All he craved was to be a monster, to have legs, hands and fur. A mouth and ears. He wanted to have nerve endings, play piano with dad again, feel.

 

Curling his leaves, wiggling his vines, stretching his roots... Any movement that brought to his attention how Asriel's old body had scattered made him nauseous. His hands, his feet, his head... Disintegrated, then blown away. The body he adored so much, gone. Trapped, imprisoned in a plant, in the embodiment of what his missing sibling loved most... It felt like a cruel joke. Asriel would have liked nothing more than to remain still forever, eyes closed, imagining he could still feel warmth on his fur and muscles tensing instead of epidermis.

 

But, since nobody was lifting a finger to find Chara, disappointed and hollow, eventually Asriel began experimenting with the flower's limitations. He didn't have a choice. All their collective inaction forced him to be nauseous for weeks on end as every tiny motion drove home how dead he was.

 

How dead, and how empty inside. How soulless.

 

Dad didn't know the flower wasn't bound to the pot, though. Asriel never bothered telling him. Why would he? It was dad's fault to begin with; he didn't need to know everything. So out of curiosity, a few days after the thief's promotion, Asriel followed dad and his little pet to the kitchen after they cleared the table.

 

"...more time with him, Asgore. I don't want to be a bother, I don't want to interfere." She spoke that looking genuinely remorseful, frowning. "...Quality time with a parent is priceless. Your son needs you."

 

Asriel was partway through pondering if that was really true, if he needed dad if dad refused to find Chara, when dad lifted a hand like he was going to put it on his stupid, useless toy's shoulder, only to pull back.

 

"My son's return is the happiest moment of my life, Undyne. And there is nobody I would like to share this happiness with than you. My son is back, but that does not mean I am no longer here for you." He smiled at her with such sincerity, such undue warmth. "I will always be here for you."

 

That disgusted Asriel. The nuisance was removing herself and dad insisted on having her over. She was... She wasn't mean or anything. Quite the contrary, she went out of her way to be nice to Asriel. She took interest in him, didn't remind him of his death, asked what he wanted to do... She was surprisingly caring for someone with such a no-nonsense, coarse demeanor. The first time she came over after finding out that he'd come back she brought as many board games, VHS tapes and books as she could carry so he wouldn't be bored.

 

She can carry quite a lot.

 

She was nice. Asriel didn't like or dislike her. Not until dad said that, anyway. The little plaything was right, she shouldn't be there. All of dad's time and attention should be devoted to him. He was the son who'd come back, was he not? Dad owed him his time and attention. The soldier could rot.

 

Asriel needed it. He needed to feel loved. How else was he supposed to regain his own ability to feel warmth? Dad was the person Asriel most resembled when he was alive. They were similar in so many ways, from their mannerisms to their way of seeing the world and likes and dislikes. If there was one person who could reawaken Asriel's emotions, it had to be dad.

 

...So Asriel thought, anyway.

 

The weed was the first one to catch Asriel slithering around the house. When she asked since when he could move on his own and why he hadn't told dad, Asriel spat at her how dad wasn't listening. Chara was out there somewhere, and dad didn't care.

 

The usurper smiled at him. Not mocking, not pitiful, just a soothing smile.

 

"I promise that if during any of my patrols, or outside them, I find a human, you'll be the first to know. Not even your father; you. I'll keep an eye open for your sibling. If Chara is anywhere out there, I promise you I'll stop at nothing to bring them home and reunite you two. But for now, take it easy okay? Do you want help getting back in the flower pot or can you do it yourself?"

 

Asriel almost felt something at that; just almost. Mostly rage that an outsider had taken more interest in locating Chara than dad had.

 

Asriel spent a few more weeks with dad, a bit over a month. The more time went by, far from increasing, his emotional range waned. The sadness and despair that overcame him at first, when he realized he was somehow back yet his body was not his own, were the most intense feelings he had in all that time.

 

All Asriel could constantly, reliably feel was fear. Life was... nothing. It was quite literally nothing without the warmth of love and compassion. Seeing all the love dad had for him, the time and effort he put into being with him, was tasteless. Where there should have been joy and closeness all Asriel had was a void.

 

It scared him. An eternity spent like that didn't seem worth living.

 

He left dad for a combination of factors. For one, it was obvious dad's warmth wasn't igniting the heat in Asriel's... whichever life force he has now; not a soul. The resentment he felt towards dad being so hopeless that Chara had returned when even a weakling like Asriel had was getting tiresome. Dad was very annoying about having the scientist Asriel owns this miserable existence to explain to him the exact mechanics behind his return. Something about determination experiments he couldn't care less about if they can't be used to bring Chara back.

 

Lastly, as nice as the replacement was, she irked the heck out of Asriel. Seeing dad laugh with her when Chara was missing and mom had left, the way he looked happy with her when their family was broken, was overwhelming.

 

So fine. Dad was convinced if Chara had returned someone would have found them already. The usurper never had news of them. Staying at home with how quiet it was without mom and Chara was torture. As soon as Asriel mastered movement in this body, he left.

 

He roamed all over the Underground. Every corner of New Home, to the hellscape of Hotland and under every waterfall in Waterfall. He shivered through Snowdin, searching everywhere for his best friend, until he reached the Ruins.

 

...Home. His home, the one he'd grown up with before dad lead more expeditions further into the Underground. The one he, mom and dad returned to occasionally out of nostalgia, or simply to get away from royal duties. The one where Asriel first heard Chara's voice, begging for help.

 

He never thought mom would be there, but seeing her once again stirred... something, in Asriel's hollow being. He was conflicted because she'd left dad, gone far away from the place she'd lived with Chara and Asriel. She abandoned their home. But, in a sense, hadn't she come back to it? Their other home. The one where Chara never lived, but where they appeared in Asriel's life. The one they didn't die in, untarnished by buttercups and human blood, where all the memories were happy.

 

Her mere sight gave Asriel hope. If anyone could make him feel love again, it was certainly mom. Mom who was warm, whose hugs always made him and Chara feel safe, who made the best pies and puns alike. Sure, Asriel and her weren't as similar as he was with dad, but she was still probably the warmest person Asriel had ever met.

 

If she couldn't do it, nobody could.

 

That little flame of hope warmed up Asriel's freezing, soulless void for all of three days. On the fourth, while mom was catching up with him and putting him up to speed as well, she disclosed what had happened with the six human children who fell after Chara.

 

...Asriel didn't really care that dad ordered they be killed. He knew he should feel something, but he didn't. What bothered him was how mom spoke of the other children. The way she cried thinking about their deaths. Why... Why did she care so much about them? They weren't hers. Chara and Asriel were; the others were just random kids. Why was she so saddened by their passing? They didn't matter.

 

Except to her they did. In her own words:

 

"Like Chara and you, my child. I loved every single child that walked through the Ruins."

 

One sentence ruined her for Asriel. How dare she love anyone as she had Chara and Asriel? They were her children. What, she didn't have enough with them? She needed more? She had to go ahead and replace them as soon as they were gone?

 

...Had she even been sad that they died? Did she even miss Chara if she could call any random human "her own"?

 

So Asriel left. He didn't care that during his short stay he'd found Chara's skeletal remains under the earth, felt every bone to make sure they were truly gone. If he was back in a new body, so were they. They were his best friend, after all. They would never leave him alone. He just had to find them. There was no way the strongest person Asriel ever knew would let something as frail as death keep them from coming back to him.

 

Chara was the only person who would never fail him. His emotions, his feeling and warmth, were surely beside them.

 

His search dragged on. With every passing hour he grew more and more desperate. Desolate, he trudged forwards every day. Devoid of any emotion but despair, he tried befriending any monster he encountered. After his disappearance, though, dad had sent out a decree that any monster who saw Asriel should bring him back immediately, so the first thing Asriel did was deal with that. If he was to find Chara uninterrupted he needed to stop every other monster from reporting him.

 

He went back home once more to talk to dad. Even if Asriel couldn't feel anything towards him, he was still abiding by his monster self's actions and morality at the time. If Asriel wouldn't hurt dad's feelings while alive, neither would he after death. He was still the same person, after all. Just in a new body, right? His feelings would come back in time, he firmly believed. So Asriel announced his return, pretended to apologize for his departure, and simply said he needed a bit of time and space to adjust.

 

Dad understood, or so he said. Everything must be new and terrifying for Asriel, after all. If living at home with the ghosts of the past was too painful, dad promised he wouldn't pressure Asriel.

 

"But... do not get your hopes up about finding Chara, my son. If a human were wandering around the Underground I promise we would have already heard about them." He frowned deeply, sorrowful. "I do not know what blessing brought you back to me, but if there is one thing I have learnt in this life it is to not count on miracles."

 

...He didn't know Chara. He didn't know them as well as Asriel did. Chara wasn't dad's best friend, after all; they were Asriel's. After months of being back, Asriel felt the first thing towards dad that wasn't outright negative.

 

Pity. The same one would have for a pathetic, sickly, old, stray dog. The kind that inspires repulsion instead of sympathy. The once mighty king his father had been was weak, hopeless, unable to trust even in the greatest person ever. It was sad at first, then obnoxious.

 

Asriel marched forwards all the same. He had a sibling to find, since nobody else believed in Chara. At least sorrow had driven dad to become miserable. Unlike mom, who had formed bonds with any vagabond child who threw themselves off a cliff. At minimum, dad had actually been affected by Chara and Asriel's deaths. He ordered every human killed and promised to exterminate them all for what they'd done to his kids. On the other hand, mom was so horrified by it that she left, broke what little was left of their family, and tried saving all the poor souls who came her way. That said souls were the key in avenging her kids seemingly didn't matter. No, who cared? It was best to adopt them all and spit all over Chara's memory.

 

Even if dad was pathetic, at least he still cared. Or so it seemed back then.

 

Asriel was kind to everyone he met in his travels. He cheered them up like he would have when he had a soul, helped them out, did favours for them. But where he once felt warmth and satisfaction after his altruistic acts, post-mortem he felt nothing. He was empty.

 

The only monster he couldn't bring himself to befriend was dad's little pet, though. Even if at the time they weren't yet antagonistic, something about how much dad cared about her and insisted on inserting her into Asriel's home life repelled him from her. And she tried to befriend him very hard. He simply couldn't tolerate her.

 

...How long did that go on for? Weeks? Months? Three, at the very minimum.

 

Asriel befriended, as far as he can tell, every monster in the Underground. He assisted them, laughed with them, humoured them, brought them together. His quest wound up being pointless, though. There were no signs of Chara or his missing emotions anywhere. He didn't find either in bonds with others nor in solitude. He tried, he worked so hard! But it was all for naught.

 

In the end he had to accept neither Chara nor his feelings were around anymore. He was alone in the same miserable state he'd awoken in. He would never find them. He was empty and cold.

 

And, much like he'd felt early on... such a life wasn't worth living.

 

Chara never spoke of why they jumped down Mt. Ebott. All Asriel knew was they hadn't been happy on the Surface, hence their hatred for humanity. Asriel didn't decide to follow in their footsteps and... erase himself, in one day. It was a thought that slowly trickled into him as water did into his roots. It was a lengthy process of him growing increasingly more desperate until he caved in. After all, if nothing worked, not even being with his parents, not forging new friendships, not being alone... What else could he do when every day was a nightmare?

 

If Chara had done it and it worked, Asriel would follow. He spent his first life trailing after Chara in everything they did. Chara was always the one with the drive and initiative, the brave one. They'd pull Asriel along to any adventure they came up with and he'd gladly follow.

 

It only made sense he'd trail them in death as well.

 

He succeeded, too. He did a great job. But as he became sicker and sicker, doubts settled in. Among his petals and leaves, constricting his stem, beneath his roots, everywhere. He was soulless, was he not? What would happen to someone, something, like him, after death? Where would he go? Was there an afterlife for him, or...?

 

His surroundings were fading to black. The corners of his vision pulsated with darkness, consuming the sight of the Ruins. Of course, he chose his final location to be his sibling's tomb. Where else could he rest in peace?

 

Except he wouldn't rest, right? There's no room in the afterlife for those without souls. Wherever he went would be as cold and hollow as he was. There would be no hope for him to ever feel again, not even a smidgen of it. He'd surrendered himself to a void as cold and relentless as the final months of his life had been. Forever.

 

...Except that wasn't quite it.

 

While he'd done too good of a job to survive, when he opened his eyes again he was once more in the garden in New Home. He thought he somehow failed at something, because he always did. It wasn't surprising he didn't even manage to die correctly, so he headed inside, ready to face dad. Maybe after seeing his son almost die again he would be more attentive. Kick out the girl for good, pay attention only to his family.

 

What a surprise it was when he found dad had no recollection of him. Asriel thought it was a sick prank at first, but his little pet didn't seem to remember him, either. No monster in the Underground did.

 

Every calendar marked the wrong date. They were all set to November 23^rd, the day he'd first opened his eyes in the flower. Asriel had effectively reset time.

 

It was unnerving at first. He tried doing everything again, staying with dad instead of visiting mom the traitor, making friends. It got boring pretty fast, and soon Asriel's mind began to wander. How had he reset time? Willpower alone? Had he done it, or was it a freak accident? Could he do it on command?

 

That timeline resulted to be as bland as the first. If anything, staying with dad instead of searching for his dead sibling burnt Asriel out faster. Not only was dad a vacant copy of his former glory, fallen from grace like a pathetic failure. The little soldier girl was a thorn in Asriel's side like no other.

 

All she ever talked about was freeing monster kind. Freedom this, freedom that. Generations that will grow without being Underground, seeing the Sun, so on and so forth. She was incapable of leaving work at work. She hauled her job into every aspect of her life. Her speeches about freedom and justice meant nothing to Asriel, though. Last time he'd been on the Surface, seen the Sun she covets so profoundly, he'd held his sibling's corpse and gotten murdered. Even if that weren't a factor, he suspected even if they achieved the freedom she so fervently spoke of he still wouldn't feel anything.

 

Then there was the way dad looked at her when she spoke. Brow slightly tense, concerned. Why? Wasn't that what he wanted, too? To lead his people to a new dawn? Wasn't that why he'd ordered every human murdered without compassion? To get revenge on humans and free all monsters? Surely he would want his Captain of the Royal Guard to dream in the same direction as him?

 

Asriel asked. He didn't care about the answer, he only wanted a bit of variety. To sate his curiosity, to do anything that might free him of eternal nothingness his life had become.

 

"I worry for her, Asriel. Sometimes I wish... Never tell her this, my boy, but sometimes I wish I had never taught her to fight at all. I wouldn't want any harm to befall her, yet she is so prepared to sacrifice her life. It scares me."

 

...

 

...So what? That was her job. Why did dad care so much? Was he like mom deep down? Had he used his obnoxious guard dog to replace Asriel and Chara like mom had?

 

The pet had irritated Asriel since the start. Her full heart and vibrant emotions, the close bond she shared with dad, knowing she'd played duets with him even if they at least had the decency to not play in front of him, the fact that she could still play at all while Asriel was stuck with useless leaves for hands... It was nauseating.

 

But to see dad actually care about her prickled and hurt even more. He shouldn't care. She wasn't family, just a friend. If that was the case, though, why did dad have her over so often? Why did he call her every day and worry for her? Whether she'd eaten, if she was sleeping properly, if she got hurt... Dad fussed about her almost like...

 

"Young man, young liege, you need your coats if you are to go outside. Here, let me bundle you two up so you do not--"

 

Asriel began seeing her in a much more negative light. In that house lay the memories of his family, and the remains of it. Chara was dead, mom as good as. The only ones who had lasted were what was left of dad and what remained of Asriel. That stupid, hopeful weed had no business trotting up and down the halls for breakfast and dinner once or twice a week. She had no right to disturb their mournful silence with a phone call or text every day.

 

And for the love of all that is holy, dad should not have encouraged such behaviour. If he had any respect for the family he'd lost, he should have never brought outsiders to their house.

 

Asriel hated her almost as much as he hated mom. He resented the affection dad had for her as much as he did the love mom had developed for random, meaningless kids.

 

After failing to make friends or feeling anything again, the thoughts of resetting the timeline and trying new things was... much more appealing. After one single reset, Asriel had yet to master what he's started calling "save points", for lack of a better term. Instead of resetring and loading at will, eventually he became desolate once more and figured he might as well recreate the scenario which lead him to discover resets. Best outcome, if he brought himself close enough to death he'd turn the hands of time in his favour once more. Worst, he'd die.

 

Considering his quality of life, it was a win-win scenario however it turned out.

 

Once more, after his eyes closed they opened again. When he headed inside to check up on dad, he found the exact same scene: him and his annoying guard dog at the table arguing the meaning of the words 'day off.'

 

November 23^rd. Asriel had done it.

 

Resetting was exhilarating to him. After two timelines of bland nothingness and despair, he could try all he wanted. He could do people favours in different order to see if anything changed. He could make mistakes only to try something better next time. Without consequences, he was free to do as he pleased.

 

He spent less and less time at home in subsequent resets. Whatever he did, dad's annoying plaything was always there. Dad was always smiling with her. And while Asriel was almost certain he wasn't like mom at the time, since dad didn't behave around the replacement the way he did with Chara and Asriel, it still stung to see him love anyone else. All his love should be for his children, after all. Not charity cases. Dad is his and Chara's. There isn't room for anybody else.

 

Every time Asriel became bored of a timeline he would simply reset, then load when he got the gist of saving. Over and over, time and time again, exhausting everything the world had to offer. It was addictive. He was a god in every sense of the word. He existed outside the realm of action and consequence. He could bend time itself to his will. He was unstoppable.

 

With practice he figured out how to load and reset without requiring the agony of a near-death experience; took him long enough, what an idiot. As long as he was determined enough to rewind time, he could create a save point wherever he wanted. If his will was strong enough, there was nothing to hinder him in his quest to entertain himself.

 

...What else did he have left? Without love, without Chara, without mom, with a father who cared a bit too much about his only friend and her trampling all over his childhood home, with no lasting bonds, what else could Asriel do? Fighting off the boredom was all he could muster.

 

Then again, it didn't last long.

 

It got to a point where he'd befriended everyone so many times he could predict their actions and sentences. He knew what would happen if he ran errands for them, or brought them together, or listened to them. He knew their deepest secrets, he was everyone's best friend. It's extremely easy to worm one's way into a pathetic heart crawling with emotions when you know what buttons to push. In the end, even the thrill of godhood rotted away.

 

If Asriel thought he'd become hopeless the first time, when he decided it was time to leave the world behind, he reached a new, deeper pit of Hell when it struck him there was truly nothing left for him to do. Befriending everyone wasn't rewarding. Dad wasn't rewarding. Mom was dead to him.

 

Chara was never coming back.

 

What... What was the point of being a time god if he didn't get to share it with his best friend? What was the point to life if he didn't have Chara beside him?

 

He was haunted by their voice, their words, their memories. They pressed up against him, compressing his petals, suffocating him. Everything he did was marked by their absence. His life without them, and without the emotions that once made it worth living, was nothing.

 

...

 

...But Chara wouldn't have given up. Chara was too strong, too determined, to become despondent as Asriel had. Perhaps he no longer had his best friend, but part of them still lived on in him, right? In his memories, in his omnipresent longing for their company. Chara was dead, but the part of them residing in Asriel could never die as long as he was alive.

 

So after a few weeks of despair, Asriel picked himself back up and started thinking. Were Chara in his shoes, what would they do?

 

They would fight. They would find a way to make it work. They would push through their rut and act accordingly. From that lens, the problem was ridiculously simple. Asriel had managed to predict every outcome to being nice to monster kind. Consequently, the natural conclusion was to be mischievous.

 

After all, if Asriel was dead, if what had made him himself lay with Chara under the earth, he was under no obligation to act like he would have when alive. Abiding by his living morality he'd restricted himself, a time god, to a very small set of actions. Chara would have never done that. They were smart and unpredictable, fun and driven. Something so small wouldn't have stopped them.

 

So, Asriel wondered before resetting, what would happen if he behaved in different ways?

 

Pranks, blackmail, and abuse had never been funnier. Those responses he would have missed out on had he remained hell-bent on being a paragon of morality. Chara had no such qualms. They cared about monsters, but they also knew how to have fun from time to time. Asriel needed a lot of that, so he continued. If he ever hesitated, thought he was taking something too far, he simply had to remind himself how Chara would accuse him of being a crybaby and he would find the strength to continue.

 

He heckled, bullied, harassed, mislead, lied, tormented, and manipulated everyone in the Underground. Their reactions across the various timelines never failed to deliver the entertainment Asriel had grasped like a lifeline. After enough resets they were hardly people to him anymore. Just a series of outputs in reaction to inputs. Sets of sentences and numbers to amuse him. Anything that wasn't to his liking he could undo with a little load. He was drunk on power. It was a high he never wanted to come down from.

 

But all good things must come to an end. Much like kindness became tasteless throughout resets, Asriel reached a point where he could predict every outcome to anything he could conceive. Once more he had reached rock bottom.

 

What is there left to do after you've assisted and annoyed every person in the world? What else could Asriel pull off in order to feel, if anything, amusement?

 

Well, murder. That was it. The final frontier. The only thing he'd yet to do. He hadn't seen monsterkind react to the different deaths of their loved ones.

 

The idea slithered into his mind in a moment of despair, but it repulsed him. No, that was taking things too far. There had to be a line that ought to never be crossed somewhere. A set of actions so disgusting Asriel couldn't bring himself to perform them. He'd lost his sibling, his best friend; he couldn't inflict that pain on others. Driving couples to divorce, getting workers fired and watching their families starve was one thing. Ending their lives and being covered in their dust was too much.

 

Asriel swatted the thought away every time it came. He maybe he didn't love the people of the Underground anymore, but he didn't wish for their deaths, either. That was quite the leap to make, and one he refused to indulge in.

 

His existence, though, is a desolate one. Without feelings, the curiosity of seeing what happens after every action is the only drive in Asriel's "life." That's why he tried almost everything to be done in the Underground after he realized there are no consequences to his actions if he can reset. Even the bad things he wouldn't have done otherwise. Because if he isn't entertained, there's nothing left for him.

 

He searched for his missing feelings everywhere, the Angel knows he tried. If his heart hadn't been left behind with mom or dad, maybe he could find it elsewhere, in the hands and embraces of other monsters. He was kind to near every monster in the Underground and then mean to them; all for nothing. Monsters, be they gentle, indifferent or irate towards him, sparked in Asriel's frozen heart as many feelings as watching paint dry.

 

Boredom was consuming him. And the more it did the more he wanted to die. There was one thing he hadn't tried yet, but even without any emotional investment it was taking it too far...

 

...Right?

 

Mom had said something the first time Asriel stayed with her; a passing comment about having a "feeling" she always knew the other fallen humans, the ones she replaced Chara with. A sentence he'd ignored for so long jumped out at him the same way seemingly arbitrary things do tend to pop into one's mind when they're desperate. A lot of random things were coming to mind to quiet the thoughts of killing someone back then.

 

Asriel didn't have anything better to do and that was the one thing he didn't know yet, since he'd largely ignored mom in subsequent resets unless he needed something from her. It was through her and befriending the stupid scientist later that he found out a funny thing about his powers.

 

They were not unique. They were never unique. Every human who had fallen to the Underground had them as well. It was a power that could be harvested and harnessed through their souls. That meant Chara did as well. And, in turn, if Chara could also toy around with time, being as great as they are, surely they had somehow survived...?

 

"It hurts. I--"

 

The bones under the earth in Home... don't mean much. After all, Asriel's body also scattered; he heard it time and time again from dad and the scientist. He remembers it.

 

But he's still here.

 

If he's still here and he's a crybaby, Chara's out there somewhere. They must've done something Asriel can't think of. Maybe how to go forwards in time? They could be somewhere in the future. But if Asriel's back and Chara had access to the same powers, they definitely had a backup plan to survive the buttercup incident.

 

They just didn't tell Asriel because... Well, because he's a crybaby. And he would've definitely yapped about it to mom and dad. Right, that's why. They were going to surprise everyone by coming back with the six human souls, and then coming back to life.

 

They would never leave Asriel forever if they had the chance not to. Chara would never... They'd never leave him. It's just that Asriel was stupid enough to die over there, on the Surface, and he ruined everything. Whatever plans of reunion Chara had, Asriel blew them to pieces by dying like an idiot.

 

So that settled it. If all humans can reset time, it's tragic or whatever that six of them really wanted to quit; but that's a them problem.

 

Chara would never be so weak.

 

They're out there somewhere. Asriel's bound to bump into them at some point; but he can only do that if he doesn't give up. If he, like them, holds on doing anything he must for it. And if that's murder, well...

 

Murder, to claim a life... It still felt like too much, but he had to do it, didn't he? It was the only thing he didn't know, that could still keep him engaged and save him from despairing before meeting Chara and disappointing them again. He had to; it wasn't his fault that every other option had been exhausted. Nobody was helping him, he was alone. Alone and heartless, unable to feel anything, bored, and not wanting to die. What else could he do?

 

He was so desperate to run away from both that line of thought and the permanent apathy wilting him that he did the unthinkable: he tried befriending the only monster he'd stayed away from, dad's little plaything.

 

Even when he was still trying to be kind to everyone she repulsed him. Her bond with dad felt exploitative. She was an orphan and he a grieving man. She'd taken advantage of him, twisted his pity to her advantage, to become so important to him and try replacing his children. While, as far as Asriel was concerned, she didn't stand anywhere near his and Chara's place in dad's heart, she was still uncomfortably close. Dad was a bit too attached to her, it was unacceptable.

 

Yet she was the only monster Asriel hadn't tried anything with. Not befriending her, not ridiculing her. If he was to cave in to murder, if he was going to perform such heinous actions in the name of having nothing else to do, he needed it to be true. Until he'd tried being with her and ruining her life, there were a few things left.

 

And surely if he was entertained, he would stop thinking about murder while still saving time to hold on and meet Chara again.

 

While Asriel's original intention was to befriend the usurper, the more time he spent at home with dad and her the murkier his thoughts on her became. Was she really just a friend, a child who'd tugged on dad's heart strings, or did the two of them consider one another family? The former was abhorrent; the latter unforgivable. Seeing dad laugh with her, have their own inside jokes, reference events predating Asriel's awakening he consequently couldn't reset to and be a part of, made him irate.

 

She may not be a daughter to dad, but she was annoying as heck. The two of them had shared memories Asriel didn't belong in, and that was wrong. It was wrong because dad is his and Chara's. Always his kids', not some random pity case he'd picked up from the side of the road.

 

Befriending her was impossible, Asriel loathed her too much. So he skipped that step and went straight to harassing her. Observing her routine, her faults in character, and carefully constructing situations in which she'd look bad in front of dad. Fabricate evidence of fraud, convince other monsters they'd witnessed her committing a crime, endless possibilities. It was devilishly fun at first, but it became frustrating in the blink of an eye.

 

Instead of providing the same amount of unbridled amusement hurting and breaking other monsters had, in the very first reset Asriel got to see the only outcome he would witness.

 

Unfalteringly, dad sided with her.

 

If there were eye witnesses of her pushing an old woman, if there were documents attesting to her accepting bribes, if there was a tampered recording of her hurting a child, all dad did was get angry at whoever had manipulated evidence against her. Asriel was baffled. What would it take to remove the leech from dad's heart?

 

The only time Asriel didn't find it funny to observe how monsters react to their hazy memories of past timelines was that era. Dad was softer and kinder towards her after every load and reset, more prone to protect her without even questioning her innocence.

 

"I trust you with my life. I trust you with my people's lives. I trust you with my son's life. I know you would never hurt anyone you have sworn to protect. We are safe with you. I will find whoever is doing this and bring them their due punishment for their actions."

 

...How very disappointing. Watching the vermin squirm with the memories of past resets had always been hilarious. Witnessing dad care more about her instead of less was disquieting. She was the last person Asriel had left to harass and embarrass. If he got nothing from it, where did that leave him?

 

With his master plan he'd warded off thoughts of murder for a few weeks. After seeing just how much dad believes in her and cares about her, it was no longer so clear to Asriel that he hadn't used the toy to replace Chara and him. It was obvious the way dad loved her went a bit beyond friendship. Which was absolutely revolting. He shouldn't love anyone except Chara and him. Not even mom after she replaced Chara.

 

Asriel told himself over and over it wasn't that. Dad wouldn't, he simply wouldn't. He didn't behave with his little distraction even a fraction as affectionately as he did with Chara and Asriel. His conviction crumbled more and more, but he's still tried his best to hold on tight to the hope that dad wouldn't replace him. Even so, even if the soldier didn't mean as much to dad as Asriel feared, she as still taking up time and space that weren't hers. She had to go.

 

She had no place in their home. He had to remove her forever. He had to kill--

 

...Not yet. No, not yet. There was one thing left to do. Actually, genuinely befriend her. Murder was morally disgusting, inexcusable. Asriel couldn't bring himself to kill someone, right? Hence there was still something left to do. Always one more thing to avoid entertaining the thoughts of dust covering his vines.

 

Befriending her was more tortuous than living without love.

 

Asriel reset again and committed himself to seeing every outcome that could blossom from helping her and being otherwise pleasant to her. All of those were disgusting in every way.

 

She happened to be such a good person. A responsible, caring, self-sacrificial idiot full of hope. Absolutely disgraceful. Understanding what dad had seen in her to care so much didn't make Asriel change his mind. It merely angered him more.

 

He should be the one who knew how to make dad laugh. Genuinely, that is; not following formulas and sentences he already knew could make dad giggle. He should be the one with a soul full of emotion. He should be the one standing beside dad as he prepared for the hardest moment of his life: the arrival of the seventh human. Whatever dad's feelings for the little soldier girl were, that proximity to him belonged to Asriel. He was crown prince, after all.

 

He should be sharing dad's love and all that glory with Chara. But he's a darned flower.

 

The dang weed was in the way. Taking dad's time, dad's affection, dad's trust. Everything which would have been Asriel's and Chara's if they hadn't died that stupid, useless, repugnant thief had siphoned for herself. Getting close to dad when he was grieving his kids, playing the oh so sad orphan card... She'd stolen everything.

 

Instead of mitigating the thoughts of murder, being around her made them worse. And with every reason, because thieves of that caliber deserve to die.

 

...The first time Asriel killed her was an accident, though. After fighting the thoughts for months he pushed her off a cliff. He never wanted to, it wasn't deliberate. But after she turned around to ask him what he'd like to do next, so much kindness in her eye it gave him a rash, after giving him a day of fun that should have made him feel something but only served to make her feel anything, he snapped.

 

In a moment of frustration he released several pellets. Her back was to him; she'd turned around to regard the scenery of Waterfall while she assumed he pondered what he wanted to do for the rest of the day. Unprepared for battle, not even suspecting a confrontation, she stumbled forwards a bit.

 

Just two steps.

 

It was the day Asriel found out there are falls high enough that not even someone as powerful as the Captain of the Royal Guard can break. He looked down the chasm as her body hit the ground and, shield and all, she turned to dust on impact.

 

In a panic, he reset. He hated her, yes. He was jealous of her, of her relationship with dad, of her soul and her body, of her taking his rightful place beside dad. But killing her? He'd only thought about it, he didn't... He didn't really want to, right? It had been an accident, after all. He didn't mean to.

 

...Yet something about that event did... something, in Asriel's head. Scrambled it a bit. Or a lot. Clarified it, maybe. Watching someone as strong as her be reduced to nothing because of a misstep was...

 

...Not alluring. But not negative, either.

 

It terrified Asriel to think like that. She should have been able to trust him. In theory he was a harmless flower; he'd given her no chances or reasons to be en garde around him. He'd taken an unsuspecting life, whether that had been his intention or not. He should be disgusted with himself, but unsurprisingly at that point, he felt nothing.

 

Two paths opened up before him. Succumb to the bland emptiness of a soulless life until it drove him mad and he lost his will to live, becoming nothing; or trying everything, like Chara would have, to survive.

 

Of course, neither solution was great. To "try everything" would entail killing. An accidental murder hadn't done anything to him, but surely a purposeful one would...?

 

He wasn't ready yet, he was still weak. In reality, there was one final thing to try. One he'd avoided like the plague because he knows better than to take certain... illegal substances. The sort that make one feel heightened emotions, and...

 

He knew where to find it. The shady places of the Underground were as familiar to him as the back of his hand had been he still had one he could play piano with. It's surprising, the amount of monsters that need just a little fix to get through their hopeless days. And how that, in turn, ends up ruining most of their lives.

 

Hopes and Dreams, better know as HnD on the streets, is what's keeping a lot of monsters going. So Asriel tried it, and it did nothing for him.

 

HnD only elevates the emotions already present. For someone like Asriel, that meant making him incapacitated with fear, grief and anguish. It wasn't worth it. It, predictably, could not save him. Heck, he had a reaction so bad to it the guy who sold it to him wondered if he'd accidentally given Asriel the altered version designed to heighten anxiety and other negative emotions, Revenge HnD. So the matter of murder was still on the table as the only viable option to losing hope and dying. Still, it would be too much, right...?

 

...Only one way to find out. Asriel hadn't reached the height of consuming illegal drugs to give up.

 

Of course, Asriel only did it because he had to. The limited world of Underground had given him no choice but to take the darkest route to retain his sanity. He could hardly be blamed for not wanting to lose his mind to despair. And besides, he could just reset, it wouldn't mean anything. There are no consequences for a time god like him.

 

And still, unlike making plans to ruin people's lives, actively aiming to end them was a bit much for Asriel. He couldn't pick a random monster and snuff the life out of them, right? There has to be a line somewhere.

 

Now, if said monster deserved it...

 

...The problem in everything was her. She was the one taking his place next to dad. She was the one ruining his home. She was the one in the way. She was the one who was hoarding a significant amount of dad's love. With her gone, with dad's affection being only for Asriel, for him and him alone, perhaps... Just perhaps, maybe, Asriel would manage to feel something.

 

When Asriel... before he died, when he still had feelings... Most of them, 99.999%, were related to his family. To mom, dad, and Chara. All of them together. He liked the Sun in the throne room because he could share it with Chara, and he liked drawing because mom put his artwork up on the fridge. Playing piano made him happy because dad would teach him. Everything... Everything in his life revolved around them. Surely if there was ever a chance for Asriel to feel anything, he needed his family together again, right? That should fix everything, return the emotions at least somewhat.

 

He would never have his family as he knew it, though. With Chara missing and mom...

 

"He killed them. Your father killed my childr--"

 

...In one of the first resets, before he ever thought of being mean, never mind murder, when he was much more hopeful, Asriel considered getting mom and dad back together. He even tried convincing mom to talk to dad. But knowing that she'd unequivocally tried replacing Chara...

 

"Every human I have met--"

 

No. Nobody who replaces Asrieil's best friend deserves to have a family at all. He's glad all those humans died. Mom deserves to mourn eternally for having had the gall to take in any other humans. Chara is precious. There was nobody like them, and there never will be. Mom deserves any pain and grief she gets for being a darned traitor.

 

If Asriel has any family left it's dad and dad alone; mom ruined everything. Then again, it was so hard to think of dad and himself as the sole survivors of their original family when dad's pathetic stray dog was shoved into their home by dad himself constantly.

 

She shouldn't have been there. She has no room in Asriel's family. Even if he can never regain the soul that died, it's not fair that she gets to stand where him and Chara once did. Chara didn't come back, Asriel came back wrong, and this annoying outsider takes their place?!

 

Why did she get to bask in the remains of Asriel's family when Asriel couldn't even feel anything?

 

Asriel's sole chance at rebuilding his family life, at reawakening anything remotely close to a soul, ultimately lay in dad's hands. If dad's love was undivided, Asriel's alone, without petty distractions, there was a slim chance Asriel might regain his feelings. Mom couldn't warm up his cold heart; not with the amount of betrayal she'd done. Chara was gone, unfortunately they couldn't help. But dad potentially could.

 

If only he wasn't distracted.

 

Asriel knew dad loved the usurper. It was painfully obvious. He wasn't sure how much, or whether he wanted to know at all, but she had to be removed. At the kindest interpretation he can form of her, she's nothing but a heartless thief manipulating a frail, grieving old man who may or may not have manipulated him into giving her a space only his real children should ever hold.

 

Killing her couldn't be classified as murder, just self-defence. The kind Asriel needed up on the Surface instead of letting all those gross humans kill him. He needs his family now, as much of it as he can scrape back together. That's his last chance at getting a modicum of his heart back. If that fails, or if he doesn't even try, he's dooming himself to become as bad as the people who killed him first.

 

And even if he does that. Even if he sinks that low and takes a life on purpose. Experience dictates that, too, will get boring in time. When his existence is moderated solely by entertainment, when it's all he has left, he can't risk becoming so desperate he dies.

 

Chara would have never yielded, though. Asriel won't either. Acceptance is for cowards.

 

So he started killing the weed, and the rest is history. Dad's reaction to her death hasn't been the best. It's been awful, showing more care than Asriel considered. And whether that's because she played with him or because he genuinely feels that way, it doesn't really matter anymore. The fact of the matter is that Asriel's last shot at getting his emotions back was with a man who loves a stupid cadaver oh so much he just can't forget her and go back to how things were.

 

To the joy and warmth he had when Asriel and Chara were still alive and mom lived with them all. To the games of catch and the hours spent watching old cartoons. Telling them all stories, playing piano for them, their song and theirs alone...

 

If dad can't go back to that... If he can't remind Asriel, for any reason, of how things were when life didn't feel like a chore, then Asriel really has tried it all, right? If even killing the stupid weed over and over and over isn't doing the trick, that means dad can't save him.

 

Dad can't save him because he's too busy being sad about an outsider. A homewrecker, a conniving idiot with the self-preservation instincts of a goldfish, who would throw her life, her soul away, for another person. As if souls were just something one can take for granted.

 

Besides, Asriel knows her. After spending so much irrecuperable time befriending her, he knows what something like her's all about. After her mother died she's only had dad. And while dad's a pathetic loser, he's warm. She's never said it, but she wants him to be her dad. And if dad feels the same or not doesn't matter, because it's unacceptable to keep such an unrepentant sinner near him. Even if it's pity, even if it's whatever.

 

She has to go. She doesn't value life, she's always, eternally tormented by the noose she walked in on. Frail, frail girl. If she'd held her sibling's corpse and absorbed their soul--

 

...It's not a murder, and Asriel's not a murderer. It's self-defence. A mercy, even, because she doesn't know how to live. It's removing a weed, it's anything but a crime. She's a thief, a home invader, a manipulator. A scheming weed sucking the life out of Asriel's only chance.

 

And even after death, she's won. She's won, because dad loved her oh so much he can't just get over her and move on no matter how Asriel kills her.

 

Has dad replaced him? Probably. All things considered, even if it's messy, it's likely. At least he had the decency of replacing Asriel with another monster, and not Chara with another human, like mom did. It's still cruel, but it's more acceptable this way.

 

Even if dad hasn't though, it doesn't matter. The last thing Asriel could think of trying to get his emotions back was recreating as much of his family as he could. And because of her intrusion, because her absence is in every dang corner of his house because dad won't just let her stay dead already, Asriel can't have that anymore. Which means he'll have to cross the point of no return just to see new things, and when that gets boring too, all the same he'll just... vanish. Become nothing, go nowhere, ever again.

 

All because while he was too busy being dead, some random orphan stepped in to strip him of what's rightfully his.

 

And for that, killing her isn't a crime. It's just poetic justice. The only place scum like her should be is scattered in dust.

 

And, above all, forgotten.

 

-

 

Asriel uses small vines to penetrate the child's body in non-lethal spots. How long will it take them to die this time?

 

The first time he killed her on purpose he mimicked his first kill by knocking her clean off the cliff. Dad's reaction to her passing was so visceral, though, that the second time he tore her to shreds. That felt... not bad, but off. Too aggressive and violent, too painful. Asriel may not feel anything, but he still knows moral boundaries. He's doing all this to prevent being forced to cross them, after all. He later tried less unapologetically violent methods to exterminate her, put a bit of distance between himself and the kill, until he heard dad play their song on the sixth go.

 

...So dad did replace them. Even if it hurts to admit, he did. He replaced Asriel with another monster.

 

He already knew dad loved the usurper; he's known for longer than he cares to admit. That to some extent dad used her to fend off the loneliness Chara and Asriel left in his heart. But to play their song? He took it too far. He took it way too far.

 

The child whimpers. Annoying, they should just shut up already. It's just death; whining won't stop it. It's not like it'll be permanent. A few more vines ought to speed up the process. One through their eye; just not deep enough to reach their brain, so they can resemble the hero they oh so deeply admire.

 

At first it felt like... A lot of things, really, and none of them good. Asriel found it more justifiable that he'd been replaced instead of Chara. Or maybe the replacement had played dad like a fiddle long before Asriel woke up as a flower. Or, his most lasting theory, dad has grown fond of her because time spent together leads to affection. Even strays get a shred of love from people as squishy and weak as dad.

 

The kid can hardly breathe. Their heart is beating so fast and hard Asriel's vines and roots vibrate. They won't last much longer, he'll have to load again soon.

 

That would have been a great theory, one he wishes were true, had dad not been utterly devastated by her death no matter how the damn dog dies.

 

Agh, screw it. He pulls out of the kid's body and focuses all his vines on their heart, loading when they crumble to dust. The child's hyperventilating, looking around with wide eyes. With a frustrated groan, Asriel grabs them by the ankles and whips them into the wall until their flesh becomes dust.

 

He loads.

 

...After his and Chara's deaths dad was sad, so he says, but he seems fine enough now. Sure, it's been a bit longer since then, five hundred years, but still. He shouldn't miss her at all. She's taken up a portion of his love and attention that belongs to Chara and Asriel. She deserved all the pain that came her way.

 

It's not a crime. It's not fun nor personal, it's fine. It's not murder. Asriel's not... He's not a murderer.

 

Asriel drops the kid into the lava pit. They scream. He loads.

 

If dad's happiness was tied to her, he deserves to be miserable for the end of time. Asriel's been way too understanding, giving dad different forms of death and years after each one to grieve. Every time without fail her death reminds him of Chara and Asriel's. Why her death brings back memories of his children's makes Asriel see red.

 

As red as the kid's scales are when reflecting the lava, splattered across the rocky ground. A massive vine almost as wide as they are has torn through their chest and abdomen. Their eyes well with tears that mingle with the dust they explode into. Asriel loads.

 

Well, he's officially tried everything this world has to offer. Even removing the usurper from dad's life isn't enough to erase her from his heart. Like the leech she is, she keeps sucking his blood even from beyond the grave. Disgusting piece of crap. She's gone and she's still causing harm. It's no wonder her mother offed herself, having to live with something so vile every darn day.

 

The kid curls up into a sobbing ball as soon as they're reloaded. Good. Asriel loved playing catch with dad. Except there is nobody to catch the shrieking kid when a vine descends upon them from the ceiling and Asriel tosses them as far as he can. He loads.

 

Even now with all he's done, the idea of being heartless forever and killing to survive... Sure, he has to do it; there's no other way. It'll save him some time, a few more weeks or months perhaps, since grief is so interesting and evolves over the course of years, before it becomes predictable and boring again. Maybe in that time he comes up with something?

 

...If he can't get his feelings back he'll die. It's just a matter of time. He'll give up in a way Chara would never. He'll disappoint them, he'll be a crybaby, he'll never see them again. Maybe that's why he can't find them, because he's too weak. He has to find a way to get his feelings back. He can't accept this.

 

He can't reset to any point before his save file existed. He's tried. He tried to remove every last useless human child from mom's heart, to fix her and make her his mom again, but he can't do that. November 23^rd this year is his cap. Since the stupid little weed was born before he woke up in the flower, he can't pluck her before she taints dad, either. And it's not like killing her is working in any capacity. He can terminate her flesh, but her soul lives on in dad's and that's not fair. Asriel can't give up, but just what else--?

 

Oh? The kid's dead, but Asriel was too lost in thought to notice what he did. Oh well. He loads.

 

This one kid's been the second most annoying thing aside from dad's pet. Mostly because they idolize her so much. They deserve this, honestly. Killing them is fine, it doesn't count as murdering anyone if they're practically as bad as she is, and killing her isn't a crime. It doesn't make Asriel a murderer.

 

Murder is a means to an end. A necessity. If push comes to shove, Asriel can certainly take a life. But, if he can avoid it, he'd much rather regain his emotions before despair digs his second grave. Killing is wrong, after all.

 

There has to be a line somewhere.

 

This is all dad's fault, anyway. If he hadn't replaced Asriel none of this would be happening. From the start, from the very first reset, his love would have been Asriel's uncontested; and surely someone as full of emotions as dad is could have awakened something. Just anything, Asriel isn't picky at this point. Dad should have never found anyone to love beside him and Chara.

 

None of this is Asriel's fault.

 

...Then again, he's tried everything to remove her, but she's a stain in dad's very soul that Asriel can't wash out. If dad allowed her to settle so deep, that's his responsibility. Asriel's had more patience, endured more debilitating boredom, than anyone would. The alternative was ending everything, of course, but that's not an option. He can't disappoint Chara like that. There's nothing left to try if this doesn't work though, and it isn't because of her. There's no way Asriel can erase--

 

...There's something wrong with the child.

 

Their orange scales are grey. As are their eyes, sclera and all, and their clothes. They're afraid, as much as they have been since their torment began, but...

 

Asriel pushes them tentatively with a tendril. They scream, taking a few steps back. Frozen in fear, they stare at his vine as it returns to the ground.

 

He can still touch them. What...?

 

...What the heck is this?

Notes:

Prompt: the cake is a lie.

Chapter 11: Hope

Every evening he thinks about it when Asriel leaves. He goes to the cupboard, pulls out the hidden door and takes them in his hand. Asgore feels the flowers, the leaves. Thinks about it, how easy it would be. Then he puts them away and continues with his day, because his duties to the kingdom are not over.

 

But today it is a muffin he is twirling. One not so unlike the pie his children baked centuries ago, yet much deadlier.

 

Deadly enough.

 

"Asgore, hold on. The kids need you. The kingdom--"

 

Still, it means little. Holding it, feeling it between his hands, envisioning taking a bite. Suffering a lot, as much as his beloved child did, and then ending this miserable existence of a claustrophobic life. It is still just conjecture, not an action. He went ahead and actually used them, prepared something with them. But at the end of the day Asgore is merely sitting at the table, grasping something that will not hurt him unless he puts it in his mouth and swallows.

 

He could do it. He has gotten further than ever. He never thought he would make it this far; having them was more of a comfort. A reminder that if everything got too suffocating, he could always be done with it, escape. Not the easy way, not one less painful than what Chara had to endure. An aching one for a sinner, criminal, and worst of all dreadful father such as himself.

 

He could do it. It is inches away from his face. It would be so easy. So, so easy. No more impending war, no more living with ghosts, no more grief.

 

Searing pain, and then nothing.

 

He could do it. Will he? Thinking about it has been his evening ritual for the past two years. He never does it. Then again, he's never done more than look. He has to think quickly. If he's to do it, it should be before the object of his misery returns.

 

On the surface the flower sounded and behaved like Asriel. At first. The sheer glee of having him back blinded Asgore to a painful yet ineludible truth.

 

The dead do not bloom from flowers. They are gone.

 

Whatever experiment Dr. Alphys conducted on the flower to imbue it with determination failed in the most heartbreaking way. It taunted Asgore with the potential of holding his son once more only to tear the boy from his embrace yet again.

 

He should have known better.

 

Life has been laughing at him for a very long time now. Since the night Chara died, life has done nothing but relentlessly mock Asgore.

 

He thought he was a good father, but his child was unhappy enough to take their own life. He believed he was a responsible parent, yet his son snuck off to the Surface and got himself killed. He would have sworn he was protecting Undyne, but his teachings were the stepping stones leading the daughter he never acknowledged as such to her death.

 

...He thought he was a loving father, but two of his children sooner died than confided in him. The third he was such a dismal caretaker to it took her death for him to admit he loved her at all.

 

Her death was by her own hand. Because history is a curse that always repeats and there is not a child under Asgore's care who loves their life. All of them end it.

 

Perhaps he should, too. It would only take one bite, maybe two.

 

He thought he would not survive losing a third child, that his will was not strong enough to resist. Yet against his expectations, for some forsaken reason, he is still breathing. He was at her funeral, beginning to come to terms with his profound affection for her, with the fact he was so dreary at showing it she as well chose to die, when he realized he would not live long, and it would be for the best.

 

His heart has beat for four years, though. Against all odds, because life is a more cruel mistress than death, he continues to live.

 

At first he could attribute it to the fact his son had returned. In one night he lost two of his children, in one day he lost another and reunited with the first. A miracle in the nick of time to give Asgore a reason to live. Except it was nothing but life yet again deriding him.

 

...Four years ago today, the little girl who he'd trained, taught how to cook, how to play piano, listened to, and loved with all his heart, died of her own volition. She left a message explaining why, one Asgore has only ever been able to peruse. For as much as she insisted it was not his fault, her absence left a gaping wound bleeding where his heart had once been.

 

Perhaps if he had not sewed such distance between them it would have been different. In his fear of being a bad father, of bringing yet another child to her death, of cursing her with his affection the same way he had Chara and Asriel, all he managed was to craft a relationship where she would take death before an honest conversation with him. Where dying was easier, preferable, to reaching out.

 

Just like Chara. They chose death, too.

 

If only he had allowed himself to feel, to love her. To tell her she was not alone, that after her mother's death she was not uncared for. Somebody loved her, somebody would miss her, somebody needed her. It isn't like Asgore is a stranger to the sorts of thoughts which may be lurking in the minds of quiet, seemingly happy people. He was already there with Chara as well. Asgore knows how deadly unspoken, bottled up emotions can be, yet he never provided, never even offered, an outlet for Undyne.

 

He never said a word. He told himself time and time again he did not see her as his child, that he could not replace her mother. And in the end she left truly believing herself to be alone and unwanted. Abandoned by her mother, and hardly appreciated by someone who cherished her. He could have done something about it. He almost did when she was eleven, but he talked himself out of it. That he is a curse, that she would be better off without him. All excuses to avoid ever having to suffer the pain of burying a child of his yet again.

 

Maybe he could have saved her had he been less of a coward. Now he will never know.

 

Life was meaningless without her. As usually happens, he did not realize how much he cared for the girl until it was too late. Until her absence was another scar in his soul, another whispering ghost encased in the silence of his house, he did not become aware of how much he loved her. Without her around, what motive would a failure such as him have to live?

 

When Chara and Asriel died, the rage which consumed Asgore was so powerful it fuelled him through the grieving process. The people who killed his children would pay. He would make them pay. He would become the being of their nightmares and slaughter them as relentlessly as they had torn into Asriel. He would inflict upon them the scars they had inflicted on Chara. He would rip them to shreds just as they had done with monster kind when they were imprisoned.

 

The anger sizzling in his veins boiled away the pain, sadness and grief. At least enough to make him functional, because they never did go away. His children's absence has been etched into every aspect of Asgore's existence since he laid them to rest. Anger was fuel to keep him moving, to power him through the day, but when it ran out he still had two children to mourn, he had lost his wife, and he had doomed his people to yet another war.

 

One he is technically still shackled to, and will be for as long as he is breathing. One he cannot escape from even if the prospect of slaughtering another innocent child makes him want to die, for he cannot allow his people to perish imprisoned, either. The alternative, to let someone else do it...

 

"Your Highness, we found one. The first human since--"

 

...Is that not why has an emergency exit tucked away in his kitchen's cupboard?

 

Toriel was right to leave. Why would she want to remain by the side of someone who wanted to kill humans like her child, like Chara? Who, aware that peaceful coexistence between humans and monsters was highly unlikely, decided to "mend" said issue through war?

 

Anger powered him for long. It dwindled over time though, becoming weaker and weaker within him, leaving behind pain and regret as the rage evaporated. All that goes up eventually comes down, and when his ire burnt out and left nothing but sizzling smoke within him, he met her.

 

Asgore has gone to as many of his people's funerals as he has been able to. Being there for them when they are suffering is another of his responsibilities to them. He is more to them than the head of the state, or so he likes to think. He tries, at least.

 

News of a monster losing hope is not common, but also not a rarity. Living in a prison it is only natural some will find it impossible to move on. However, a monster with children of her own succumbing to despair is infrequent.

 

Asgore would know how much small children who depend entirely on one can motivate a person to live no matter what.

 

When he approached the little orphan girl, clad in black with her red hair messy, to offer his condolences, she essentially jumped on him, blaming him for "being weak" and "killing her mother," insisting she "was stronger than him and would prove it." As much as her pain rubbed off on Asgore, as much sympathy as he felt for the desolate ten year-old attempting to punch and bite him with all the fury her little frame would allow, her flame reignited his own. In a small way imperceptible at the time, only visible with the clarity retrospect provides, but he was attached to her from the start.

 

For a decade, the only ten years worth living since Asriel and Chara died, she lit up his life. She reawakened parts of him he did not think remained, brought a smile to his expression once more and warmth to his heart. He cared for her so dearly he was terrified of hurting her, of once again being the cause for a child to die. Yet irrespective of his best attempts, she still...

 

…

 

Her death was different, heavier, for a plethora of reasons. For one, Asgore was all out of rage. He had experienced so much of it his brain could no longer create the chemicals for it, burnt out. Without anyone but himself to blame, there was no revenge he could plan to channel his grief. Having already lost two children, her death was a reopening of a gaping wound, cutting deeper than before. Two of his children had been desolate enough to choose death, and Asgore had been none the wiser.

 

He was genuinely surprised, profoundly disappointed, when he did not simply evaporate into nothingness when he saw her dust. He stood there, watching the remains of her body, expecting to die at any second, when life heckled him again.

 

It sent him a clear message. His burden, his punishment for his countless sins, would be an eternal life stripped of his children. Watching them die, attending their funerals, living with the silence their voices left behind. No matter how many he outlived, how many funerals he attended, he would be cursed with strength sufficient to keep him alive.

 

When Asriel and Chara died, Asgore had anger and vengeance. When those faded, he had Undyne. And when life stole her from his side, it played its ultimate trick by "returning" him his son.

 

...When Asriel appeared again, Asgore thought there was still a glimmer of hope left for him. His son's presence did not wash away the grief for his daughter, but it gave Asgore a reason to feel a sliver of happiness, of wanting to live.

 

Dr. Alphys explained, many times actually, how she had done it. Step by step, using words and formulae he is too stupid to understand. Determination, souls, exist as concepts to him, but as tangible science to her. He could not have chosen a better successor to Dr. Gaster.

 

In short, Asriel's soul was dead, but his dust alone, the physical remnant of his body, not the culmination of his being, had brought him back with a bit of determination. It sounded outlandish, but Asgore would take it. Once more, Asgore had something to live for. His little boy through death itself had found his way back home. This time, Asgore would not fail him. He would do everything within his power to keep his son safe. No matter his form nor the circumstances of his resurrection.

 

His son was back. Asgore was blissful in a way he did not know he could experience.

 

It was smoke and mirrors, of course. Asriel is not back. The flower encapsulating his memories and personality was very convincing at first. Over time, the facade cracked open and revealed the hollowness within. Asriel's compassion and love, his inherent warmth... Everything is faked.

 

The flower has no soul, only physical matter. It should not have been a world-shattering revelation, but it was. Asgore had already noticed many things were off about "Asriel" over the course of the first months of his stay, but it was not until the year anniversary of Undyne's death that Asgore realized to what degree Asriel the flower was someone entirely removed from Asriel his son.

 

He could not understand why Asgore was sad. He tried to hide it, tried to be compassionate, but he failed. As much sympathy as he showed, "Asriel" was embittered at Asgore's grief. The real Asriel, Asriel with his soul, would have never.

 

Asriel was the child who did not hesitate to take Chara in, who begged Asgore and Toriel to keep them. He had always been an only child, it would have been comprehensible if he had been a tad jealous of having a new sibling out of nowhere, if he had felt replaced. But he did not, because Asriel was kindness wrapped up in warm, snuggly fluff, who embodied all that was good and pure in the world.

 

The flower, not so much.

 

The flower is cold and calculating. It holds Asriel's memories, Asriel's figures of speech, but none of the warmth which made his son himself. The flower observes, analyzes, does not feel. It speaks like Asriel, conjures up his face at convenience, but it carries with it a cruelty Asriel never possessed. Once more life had given Asgore something to hold onto only to pull the rug from under him.

 

Asgore argued with himself many times. Perhaps the boy was not like the son he remembered because said sweet boy had died long ago. The process of dying a death as violent as Asriel had, having witnessed his sibling meet a heinous demise as well hours earlier, holding their corpse, being reborn as a flower... Surely it had hurt Asriel. It had to have changed him on a fundamental level, warped him. It would be impossible for his boy to leave such an experience unscathed.

 

So Asgore vowed to be patient and help. Listen to his son, offer guidance and help. Be unambiguously loving with him, unlike he had been with Undyne. Communicate properly, unlike he had with Asriel and Chara. He would be the father to the boy who was, whoever he was, and not the one who Asgore remembered. For as much as he desired to bring back the gentle, naive boy he loved most of all, it would be a disservice to the boy who had returned from the grave to expect him to be unchanged.

 

Asgore loved his son no matter his current state. Monster or flower, naïve or scarred. Asriel is his boy and nothing could ever undo that.

 

Being irritated at his grief for Undyne, however, was but the tip of the iceberg.

 

The way Asriel conducts himself is reminiscent of how human children always know more than they should. To suggest a monster could wield time as humans do is ridiculous, but Asgore has had the impression there is much more to his so-called "son" than meets the eye for three years now.

 

He knows things he should not about Asgore and other people. When Asgore asks he feigns innocence, attempts to convince Asgore he must have misheard, or must be misremembering. He plays innocent all the time, dodging all accountability. He lies about as many things as he can as long as it is convenient to him.

 

Though the largest lie he has ever said is that he can feel love. The way he interacts with others and with Asgore himself is not one of love. It is one of convenience. Of planning, of wondering what he can extract from everyone around him. Of tugging at their heartstrings until he gets his way, employing the face of a dead boy to obtain whatever he desires.

 

Being changed, hurt, bitter, would be one thing. Harming others born from emotional pain would be comprehensible, to a degree. But to lie, manipulate, connive, mock others for something as emotional as feeling grief, all in cold blood...

 

The expressions Asriel makes when he thinks nobody is watching, the way he rolls his eyes if someone mentions caring about someone else... Those were all indicators. The disgust he regards other monsters with during public acts, how the facade of innocence and kindness returns the second someone puts their eyes on him, reinforced that. He will say and do whatever is expected of him with a highly convincing act.

 

One which can fool everyone but Asgore himself. The only person currently alive who knew Asriel, and not this masterclass forgery of him, is Asgore.

 

Despite seeing all this, being unable to recognize even a shadow of his son in the flower's eyes, Asgore told himself to be patient with the boy. What he went through has no name, he needs time and love. But no amount of it ever did... anything. No mentions of his mother, no insistence he go meet her personally. No being tender nor warm, no amount of hugs and nuzzles do anything for him. He is immune to all forms of affection and softness bestowed upon him.

 

He does not flee from them as if he feared being cared for, like Chara did at first. He does not fight back nor make a scene as many hurt children do. He does not even become cold and distant at the mere sight of affection, as if he were incapable of trusting he is loved and safe after all he suffered. He is simply entirely unaffected by warmth and love. He does not seek it nor fear it, he does not pretend to be indifferent; he is. He veritably is.

 

Asriel was not empty. Even after being hurt it stands to reason Asriel would conserve a shred of himself within. Buried under the debris of trauma, of course, yet still presently there. But there is not.

 

It was on the second anniversary of Undyne's death two years ago that Asgore could no longer fool himself. After two years of turning a blind eye, bargaining with himself, attempting to convince himself his son was indeed back, he brought up Chara.

 

It was late at night, Asgore struggled to sleep. The flower does not sleep the hours a monster child does, so he was awake. Asgore did not mention he missed the girl he never called his daughter, he was already aware the mere mention of Undyne displeased Asriel. To provide his son with comfort Asgore entombed his affection for his daughter in silence. He has kept her memory to himself all these years, never speaking of her and eventually, slowly but surely forgetting little details about her expressions, mannerisms and pattern of speech.

 

Instead, when asked why he was morose, Asgore spoke of Chara. Of wanting them to be back, of missing them every day. The flower watched, but did not react.

 

Asriel would have never remained imperturbable at the mention of his best friend no matter the circumstance. The fact he didn't mention his sibling at all since the moment he came back, retrospectively, was the first sign something was profoundly amiss.

 

He cried, though. Later, after Asgore's mask of impassivity must have slipped at the freezing shock of truly coming to terms with the fact his son was as dead as buried as he has been for the past half of a millennium. Only when he noticed something in Asgore's expression did the flower perform the emotion expected of him. Cold, calculated, tears on command. Not a genuine emotion behind those frozen, dead eyes.

 

Not a fragment of Asriel in sight. After being lead to believe he had truly been reunited with his son, Asgore found he had once more been turned into the butt of a joke in the eyes of fate.

 

When, after two years of internal conflict, trying to rationalize away "Asriel's" odd behaviours and remarks, Asgore was forced to confront his son was no longer present, that all which "came back" is but a collection of memories and personality traits hollow without the soul which gave them life, he locked himself in his room all night and half of the following day. While the new Asriel may no longer be the son Asgore loved so profoundly, Asgore did not wish to hurt him with rejection.

 

After all, it is not his fault he was brought to life. It was Dr. Alphys', and by extension Asgore's as the one who had asked her to run the experiment in the first place. The flower had no say in being born and should not pay the price.

 

Once more, Asgore wondered how he could move on. How, after a two years of moderately believing his son to be back thanks to some miracle, he was supposed to cope with losing him again.

 

King of monsters as Asgore may be, to life he is nothing but its favourite court jester, it seems. Yet again, against all odds, his heart did not stop. Life once more forced him to keep on living.

 

"You did this," it seemed to say. "You were a bad father. You never let her know someone loved her. You ordered this experiment. You promised them war. You took their souls. Now live with your consequences."

 

...And live he has. Or existed, more accurately. Life is something he last experienced four years ago today, when at the advent of another insurmountable death he was given a flicker of hope by a cold, unrelenting destiny in the form of a little golden flower. That was the last time Asgore was a living being as opposed to a body forcing itself through life because of a merciless, beating heart.

 

That flower is not Asriel. Asriel was warm and loving, sweet and kind. He was compassionate, gentle. Without his soul, of course he never truly came back. Asgore was a fool to believe.

 

Asgore has tried to love him, he really has. But he cannot. At least not in the way "Asriel" deserves. Living with him has lead Asgore to a decline much faster than he would have if he'd solely had to cope with Undyne's death, and not with Asriel's a second time.

 

Asgore has hardly mourned her at all; his grief pushed back by the efforts of parenting a soulless son, and the sorrow of being forced to acknowledge the truth behind his son's "return." Asgore is the only person who was close to Undyne, who could remember her, and he hardly thinks of her. When he attempts to conjure up her image, her speech, her gestures... It gets fuzzier and fuzzier every time.

 

He does not remember her.

 

He sacrificed mourning her, keeping at least her memory alive, in favour of caring for a mimicry of his dead son.

 

If Undyne's death knocked Asgore to his knees, the realization that Asriel was gone once more, had never been back at all, that something was wandering with his memories but not his heart, rendered Asgore prone. He has not been able to get up since.

 

He does not want to, either. It gets harder every day. Every day? Every breath.

 

It is unfair. He tries so hard to conceal his true feelings, to never let the flower know it is the true reason for Asgore's miserable mental state. But with every passing day without his children, with a falsification of his son impersonating him, the wound cannot close. It was torn open anew when Undyne died, and with the flower here beside him all the time Asgore cannot forget for a second how all his children are dead. Its vines and roots seem to pry it open, unrelenting and unforgiving, tearing Asgore's soul asunder every single day.

 

And so the tradition began. Without Chara, without Undyne, without Asriel but with his haunting memory personified, the siren call of the buttercups became louder and louder in this quiet mausoleum of a house. Crying over the wails coming from the basement, the whispers of the bashful, dead children playing upstairs, and the woeful piano of the girl he never called his daughter. Asgore can no longer live with the soulless creature masquerading as his son. And yet he cannot bring himself to die, either.

 

For as hollow as the flower is, it is the closest Asgore will ever be to being with one of his children again.

 

At first Asgore tried writing in his diary anew; the buttercups were not his first instinct. Or at least acting upon such thoughts was not.

 

His diary was still there, in his desk, it did not crumble with time. There was a layer of dust so thick on it he could not make out the purple of its covers. He dusted it off, opened it, and stared at the blank page following his final entry centuries prior until Asriel returned for dinner.

 

What could Asgore write? That he is receiving his fair retribution for child murder in losing every child he loves? That he has been blighted with the hollow likeness of his son? That in trying to parent it despite knowing it does not feel anything he has drowned all memories of his daughter in silence? That he has hardly had the energy to think about her when he is too busy perpetually grieving his son in an unending cycle? That he, as the only person who knew her, has essentially forgotten her?

 

Why would he commit that to paper? He already knows.

 

...Asgore was the only person who could remember her. Her large, hearty smiles. Her bizarre sense of humor and non-existent culinary skills. Her ideas, her responsibility, her aloofness...

 

Her ceremony was torture. Some of her Royal Guard members assisted out of respect, but none stayed for the funeral. They paid their respects and moved on. A life as precious as Undyne's was honoured for its end, but it was never celebrated for the person she was.

 

Vivacious, determined, just, loyal, protective. Nobody knew her. Her dedication and passion for the cause, her devotion and sense of duty kept her from sharing with the world the brilliant, kind young woman she was.

 

She had no friends, no family. Only Asgore. An old man blinded by hatred who doomed her. He could have taught her anything, really. She looked up to him, trusted him. He could have at least tried to re-route all her anger towards something more productive than the senseless murder of all humans, but he did not. He reinforced for her that genocide was the path to salvation, solidified the idea in her mind, then watched her consume herself to the bone in preparation for that moment of "glory" which would prelude the mass extermination of humanity.

 

He saw how she stopped living little by little, becoming more and more devoted to a cause Asgore is so uninterested in he's had a means of "escape" tucked away in his kitchen for centuries. One he tends to, replaces when they go bad, so he can always have that option handy if the time comes. He bore witness to how her life became intrinsically intertwined to the upcoming war, how she tossed aside everything and anyone who might bring her a modicum of joy, and did nothing. All he did was repeat to himself she was not his own, he had "saved her."

 

Saved her? He taught her to take lives. He would have never suspected the only one she would ever end would be her own.

 

...When he sat down to write and he realized he details are fuzzy... That the way she smiled is blurring at the edges, and the fire in her eye has started to fade to black in Asgore's memories... When he tried to conjure memories of their first years together, of her graduation, of the first time she successfully conjured a spear or played piano, and found they too were fraying...

 

That was when Asgore gave up on organizing his emotions on paper and began centering his attention on the little escape route he conceived of so long ago. The realization his efforts on the flower had taken up the space which was rightfully hers, that his despair for having just one of his children close again had lead him to blur his recollections of her without even mourning her was sobering.

 

And without the inebriation of denial, how could Asgore move on?

 

Her voice is part of the silence haunting this house. Her presence never left, staying behind with Chara's and Asriel's to torture Asgore even more. And that silence Asgore once so deeply loathed he has grown to miss. "Asriel's" new voice, the voice of the flower who resembles his son in everything save the most important aspect of all, is a deeper blade than silence ever was.

 

The flower is Asgore's torment and his joy. The brief, few and far between moments where he can forget Asriel is truly gone are the only instants of anything but vacant misery in Asgore's life. The rest, though, are torment.

 

And perhaps, with all the harm he has caused, it is a suffering Asgore deserves. Perhaps life consistently picks on him because he merits no different.

 

What other destiny would a man who has killed children deserve?

 

The muffin is an inanimate object, yet it as well taunts him. It sits there, trapped between his fingers, promising an end to his existence, a reunion with his children. It would be so simple. One bite after another, then twelve hours of prolonged suffering...

 

Then nothing.

 

The pain... The agony of dying as such is not alluring in the slightest. Asgore could do it quicker, without suffering. But why would he? Were any of his children's deaths painless? Did Chara not agonize for hours until they died? Was Asriel not torn into and destroyed until his body collapsed? Did Undyne not suffer to the point she recreated her mother's suicide instead of living?

 

Did the six children die peacefully? Was the first not ripped to ribbons at six years of age? Were the second through sixth spared any amount of suffering as Asgore killed them over, and over, and over until they gave up their souls because they could not do it anymore?

 

"Please!! I just want to go home!! I--!!"

 

Asgore deserves this. Anything else would be too kind for a man who has committed unforgivable sins in the name of justice.

 

For the man who was a dismal parent to two of his kids, who lead the third to her demise, who forgot her in the name of attempting to revive a dead boy, whose orders ended six innocent lives, who doomed his people to a conflict they will never recover from, anything else would be a mercy.

 

The lack of mercy he has shown to others is exactly what he has earned at the time of his death.

 

He will suffer as much as Chara did, and then he will burn in hell.

 

Asgore closes his eyes. This... This should be easier if he cannot see. He will immolate himself the way his child did, share their pain, feel them close, punish himself one final time, suffer with his final breath. It will not suffice to cleanse his soul from every child he--

 

"What the heck are you doing?"

 

The flower. He is back. At least for today, Asgore has run out of time.

 

On the table teetering on its stem, beyond the source of Asgore's freedom, the flower stares at him unamused.

 

"I remember that smell, dad. I know what those are. You got what's in the cupboard, didn't you?"

 

...Curses. Even if he feels nothing, Asgore had no wish of reminding his son's memories of Chara's...

 

...Does it even hurt him if he cannot feel anything at all without a soul?

 

"I... I can explain."

 

...How? How will he do that? Asriel should not know about the buttercups, he lacks hands. This proves he has much more manoeuvrability than he lets on, but Asgore will not harp on that. Instead he must find a reason why--

 

The flower's face contorts into the expression of a nightmare come to life. A conglomeration of everything which has ever terrified Asgore stored in the pitch black crevasses that were once eyes and a mouth. They are hollow now, sunken scars in the smooth white surface which constitutes the flower's face. The crooked, serrated grin carved between his petals oozes a dark, high-pitched chuckle. His vacant eyes glimmer.

 

...What--?

 

Vines erupt through the house, crashing through the wooden ceiling and walls, splinters raining down. They tear through the floor with sickening crunches and wrap around Asgore's arms, pulling them apart. He struggles, but his body is weak compared to this... this creature before him. The flower, whatever it is, hoists itself up on its roots, coming close to Asgore's face.

 

"I've had enough of her."

 

Asgore fights to break free, straining against the vines slithering around his arms. His struggle prompts the thing to laugh as it tightens its grasp so much it--

 

Its vines are inside of him. Inside his flesh, caressing his bones, tearing his skin and muscles apart with their thorns. Asgore bellows and the creature smiles wider. Its twisted giggles soon fall to silence along with its expression.

 

"I always thought if it was just you and me, you could revive me. That if I didn't have to share your love with her, if you were only mine as you always should have been, you could pour some of that soul you have into my body."

 

The thorns on the flower's vines push deeper and deeper within Asgore, further fragmenting his already broken bones. He cannot breathe, yet he cannot lose to this thing. It may have Asriel's memories, but it is nothing like him. It is dangerous and cannot be left to roam the Underground. Asgore tries to conjure a trident--

 

He yelps as the vines squeeze harder, pressing down on his nerves and rendering his fingers immobile. His red weapon fizzles out before it hits the torn up floor. Unfazed, the flower watches it before returning its attention to Asgore.

 

"I was about to give up and become everyone's worst nightmare. Keep on going until even that became boring, but..."

 

Its diabolical giggle returns, dark enough to match the ungodly expression on the thing's face. It pulls Asgore's arms farther apart, threatening to tear them out of their sockets, and laughs in a pitch low as the depths of the hell it was born from.

 

"Today I found something very interesting."

 

Black spots consume the dilapidated living room before Asgore. Dots of pulsating darkness expanding slowly with every ragged heartbeat and breath. They develop faster the harder Asgore struggles, the more he hurts, but he cannot give up.

 

He has to live. He cannot let this creature harm anyone in the Underground.

 

Anyone in the world.

 

"I discovered you can erase people from existence.” The flower returns to its normal, Asriel-like voice. "All you have to do is kill them enough times. Isn't that exciting, dad?"

 

...Dad? The rage of hearing his son's voice spoken through the disgusting, dangerous thing holding him captive fills Asgore with a strength he never knew he possessed. He makes to conjure another trident directly under the creature. Through gasps of pain, Asgore manages to rasp: "I am not your father."

 

Nothing this flower, this thing, is saying, makes a shred of sense. Asgore was right all along, there is nothing of his son in here. Asriel would never--

 

"Of course you are. You just forgot.” Its voice and frown leak resentment. Even its hellish grins warps into a scowl. "I was gone for a long time and that street urchin took you away from me when I couldn't even fight for what was rightfully mine. That wasn't very fair of her, now was it?"

 

Is it jealous of Undyne? Is that what--?

 

Asgore exhales through gritted teeth when the vines begin slithering, tearing apart more and more of his arms. His knees buckle, but the vines around him do not let him fall, sinking deeper into him as gravity pulls him down.

 

"But I'm going to fix that."

 

The demonic grin the thing is sporting widens, impossibly large for a face so small, as it cackles in deep tones once again.

 

"I'm going to erase her until you don't remember her. Then everything will be alright again, dad."

 

Asgore cannot... give up... He must...

 

The flower's face is covered by encroaching dark spots. Only one of its eyes remain visible behind the filter of agony covering Asgore's vision. The eye, if only for a moment, returns to the appearance Asgore is used to it having.

 

"...If I could go back in time to before I woke up like this, I would do the same to all the children mom replaced Chara with. But they died before I woke up, so I can't fix her, too."

 

It sighs, pulling its vines upwards and Asgore's shoulders along with them. He groans, but the yanking does not stop until his feet are off the ground and his arms out of their sockets with a sickening crunch.

 

"But I can still fix you."

 

...What is it... talking about? What...?

 

"I don't expect you to understand. None of this makes sense to you, and that's okay. You don't have to understand because soon you won't remember. All you need to know is that if I don't do everything I can to get my emotions back, I'm going to die. If I die, I'm going to disappear forever. Maybe if I fix you, if I erase the weed you replaced me with, I can fix myself too."

 

The part of Asgore's sight not yet moth-eaten blurs in sync with his thundering heartbeat. He cannot focus, he cannot move, he can hardly breathe.

 

Despite it all... He is doing to die.

 

The flower looks down and to the left, dejected. "I can't fix mom anymore, but I can wipe her out of your heart." It cackles, slowly looking up again. Its face has once again warped into the material nightmares are made ot. "As many times as I need until you forget she ever existed. The plans I have for you two..."

 

...He cannot... Asgore cannot... die. There are... things to fix, and... if this creature is loose... it will kill...

 

Even breathing is taxing. Yet Asgore must persevere. His breaths rasp, wheezing and meek. The spots have grown to blind him entirely. Still, he must...

 

"See you later, dad."

 

...live to

Notes:

Prompt: near-death experience

Chapter 12: That Was Funny

...It has been such an odd day.

 

The specs of dust caught in the overheads' cold light fall slowly to the floor around Asgore. It gathers on every surface in the empty training room, from the dummy to the steel sparring swords. The tattered shelves and boxes holding necessities for the formation of new recruits are snug against the walls, leaving ample room for sparring and otherwise training in the center of the white parquet, white panelled room. The wood is chipped and cracked in many places from weapons practice' going wrong, but in an odd way it makes the training area feel more lived in, less hollow.

 

Asgore takes a deep breath. This place always stays the same. If he closes his eyes he might as well be waiting for 12 year-old Undyne to return from the changing room. Teaching her the basics of weaponry and conjuring instead of sparring with her as a veritable equal, watching her improve her restraint over her dreary impulse control and anger, becoming more and more proud of and scared for her with each passing day.

 

He loves this training room. Wherever he looks there are fond memories. Here on the floor, kneeling beside her to check up on her after tripping. Begging her to stop climbing on the shelves to reach the topmost ones and ask him for help instead. Trying his best not to laugh the time she tried stabbing a training dummy and succeeded by all meaningful variables, except she somehow managed to strike the one in the far corner instead of the one a foot in front of her...

 

Usually this place is soothing. Even in the darkest moments, this musty room hardly ever aired out has a calming effect on Asgore. Almost as if he could enter this place with a blank slate in his mind, as if he could leave everything which troubles him at the door.

 

"Every last man, woman and--"

 

Alas, today has been distinctly...

 

...Hm. There is no concise word to describe it. It has been off. From morning to evening, almost night, Asgore has been concerned, alert, stressed, expectant.

 

It could be anything, really. Relying on feelings and sensations to detect a human presence could not be a more flawed method. The emotions invading Asgore happen at random, mostly triggered by himself, and plenty have been the times where he has not even suspected a human might be in their midst until he has seen the child in question and had the vague sensation he had seen their face before, or heard their voice, or incidentally knew the flavour of NiceCream they favoured before seeing them pull one out.

 

"Mr. King, please just--"

 

Yet this time, provided he were correct in his agonies, would not be one more. It would be the time. But most of all it would entail Undyne would have to...

 

"We're a team now."

 

He shudders. Determined as she is, any human outdoes her by virtue of being human alone. He could not bear to lose her. Not any of his men, but not her. Never her.

 

Worrying as such is futile; it is impossible for that which he dreads to be true. He checked with the Royal Guard and Dr. Alphys' cameras several times. The doors to the Ruins of Home in more than one sense remain shut.

 

Thank goodness. All day long two lines of thought have been pecking at Asgore's mind like hungry vultures: what would be worse, to reach the day where the war is more than a promise stuck in an uncertain future to become a reality, or to have to sit back and watch Undyne take on a creature capable of killing her?

 

...It has not come to that. It has not come to that, she is fine. And so is he, the war still besieges some horizon not yet near. There is no need to catastrophize.

 

This buzzing in his head is so familiar, though. The odd déjà vu, the certainty in his bones that he has lived through this day before, refuses to leave. Why? If someone were resetting time, it would most likely be right before battling him. He is not facing any confrontation though, not even close to one for the looks of it, bar sparring with Undyne.

 

Then again, she seems to be slightly under the weather as well.

 

Undyne has been worse for wear since she appeared at his doorstep for breakfast. She is always weary and spent, sporting some new sparring injury she laughs off with the same ease she did her missing eye. But today, for as much as she insisted all was well, it seemed to be worse than usual. Just slightly, nothing exceedingly alarming, yet for someone who cares about her, anguishing all the same.

 

And that, in and of itself, is more proof for today's inherent oddity. When Asgore laid eyes on Undyne upon seeing her this morning he was imbued by warmth and sorrow as if he had not seen her in a long time. Bizarre as it is, he had to repress the urge to express his disproportionate glee at her sight lest he make the situation uncomfortable for them both.

 

That sensation, that reunion stabbed deep between his lungs as if he had not spoken to her just last night, has followed him within his shadow all day long. The compulsion to write, call, make sure she was alright on her regular training course, has haunted Asgore almost as profoundly as--

 

"Asgore... Asgore, Chara's not breathing. Why aren't they--?"

 

He has tried chalking it up to his old mind a few times. He has been living with ghosts angry and beloved alike for far too long, sometimes they cling to him as if to siphon his life force and breathe anew. It was a matter of time before the weight of his actions and inactions respectively started messing with him.

 

"Stop killing me. Stop killing me, please. I can't do this anym--"

 

By the time midday rolled around he caved in to his exaggerated worries and went over to Undyne's shell of a house to have lunch with her. While it entailed leaving work a bit early, as unreasonable of a feeling as it was, at least he could make sure she would eat something warm for once, provided she was home.

 

She was, and after her training session she did not look any better. If anything, her eye was duller than it had been at breakfast. The spark was still there, thank the stars for that, but if Asgore is not mistaken something was clouding it.

 

Asgore was already on edge, but after that his paranoia has only grown. His own perception can be flawed and warped, it is not a commonality yet it is far from being novelty. ...But her? What is wrong with her? Is she alright? Did she merely sleep poorly, as she insists, or is something haunting her? Can she handle it on her own? Does she need help?

 

Fostering distance be damned. If something is chipping away at her sanity, Asgore should not leave her alone. Does she even know he is there for her for everything, related to her job or otherwise?

 

...Has he ever told her he cares for her? He should not, he is a blight in the lives of all those he loves. Keeping away from her was always designed to be a small mercy towards her, to spare her the pain of being cursed with the affection of an old sinner such as him.

 

But does she have anyone else? Or is she alone with her own ghosts? Just like...?

 

"It really hurts, dad... Help m--"

 

...Something as small as asking if she needed anything, if she knows she can count on him for anything and everything, got lost somewhere between Asgore's mind and his vocal folds. He looks at her, sees the turmoil brewing within her, and cannot bring himself to ask the simplest of questions.

 

A failure on his end, for sure. Centuries of keeping his emotions constrained by an iron fist must have hampered his ability to address her, or anyone's, emotional needs.

 

...It was not always like this. There was a time when caring for others came as easily as breathing, practically second nature. Yet those days...

 

"I'm just angry because Asriel's being so headstrong and--"

 

...They are long gone.

 

He still wishes for the words to come through irrespective of how hard it is to conjure them. His guidance, propinquity to him, might be a curse, but leaving her lonely to her own devices may be worse. He does not want to risk it. Not with her.

 

Surely this is a dramatization concocted by a combination of Asgore's old mind and the bizarre sensation corroding him. Surely, yet to see Undyne even the slightest bit down is so unnatural, alarming, it makes Asgore's heartbeat spike.

 

In all the years he has known her, Asgore can count the times he has seen her in any capacity downtrodden on the fingers of one hand. They happened so long ago the memories blur, when she was much younger and more vulnerable, overcompensating that fragility with undue aggression like clockwork on the anniversary of her mother's death. Outside that day, and even on it in later years, Asgore has never witnessed Undyne having a single instance of emotional vulnerability.

 

Not once, not even when she lost her eye, has she been visibly, undeniably dejected. For her to be like this something dire must be happening. Something she is entrenching behind a smile and silence, alone.

 

Just like Ch--

 

For all of Undyne's determination, perseverance, sense of justice and upbeat persona, those are all layers she crafted to keep her childhood out of sight. She never says it, not with words, but Asgore knows deep within her heart there is still part of her that never moved on from the little girl who walked into her mother's bedroom one day only to find a noose still swaying and a pile of dust beneath it, half-covering a letter that was never read.

 

Every action Undyne takes, whether she is aware of it or not, is one devoted to leaving that precious little girl trapped in the past Undyne drags with her like a ball and chain wherever she goes. Her internal fire burns so bright in hopes of turning to ash the pain that instant scarred into her soul.

 

While Asgore's usual troubles cannot reach him in between these walls, something else crept under the door and sat on his lap. Something somehow heavier. After lunch Asgore asked her if she still plays piano. She tensed for a moment before admitting she has no time for it. And once again Asgore wanted to ask if she was alright, if she needed to talk, if she had gotten in trouble, and yet again the words remained caged within him.

 

She is so obsessed with freedom and justice she has forgotten life is what goes by while she works herself to the bone it is Asgore's fault. Her hopes of pouring the blood of an innocent sacrifice in order to be free, to find "a life worth living", in her own words, have vanquished the chance of having a life here, now.

 

Her refusal to live, her obsession with leaving the past she despises behind, confined to this prison while she herself ascends to the Surface... It does not work like that. Running away, moving elsewhere, starting a new life based on ending lives, will not save her from the wounds within.

 

She cannot run from what prowls within her. Nobody can.

 

"Dad, me and Ch--"

 

They played a duet in the end, the waltz from Sleeping Beauty she found in the dump six years ago. She was nervous about it, presumably due to her lack of practice, but she infected him of her anxiety. Like during every other part of the day, Asgore's muscles were rigid and sore, coiling around his lungs until his fingers pressed down on the first key.

 

Their melody was clumsy indeed. Undyne is not the only one who has not played in long. Both of their fingers were untrained, gauche in the art of putting emotions into sound. Regardless, what they did for the following five minutes was...

 

...How to describe music? How to pin down in words something as elusive as ephemeral sound that disappears, ceases existing, the moment it stops being played?

 

Long, long ago, before declaring war on every single human, Asgore had resigned himself to living down here eternally. The certainty that humanity would annihilate monsterkind if they ever managed to escape snuffed out any hopes or dreams of ever seeing the Sun again. The idea of going to war against humanity anew after the massacre the War of Humans and Monsters turned out to be was unfathomable. The oppression of being surrounded by impenetrable rock in every direction crowned with a death sentence on the other side was suffocating. Asgore mourned the lost freedom of his people as much as he did those fallen in battle.

 

Before his instrument, though, he was free. For the fleeting moments the music lasted, his body may have been bound to the prison they were left to die in, but his soul could soar.

 

Expression through words has always been tricky for Asgore. His emotions, his soul, are a complex weave of elements. Anger and hatred, love and sorrow, grief and despair. These feelings form and inform one another, build up off of each other. Every time Toriel anyone asked him to let it out, to express himself, he found he could not. He still cannot, words are lacking.

 

To express his anger would be to remove it from his sadness as if both were not intrinsically intertwined. Discussing them simultaneously if he could would still fail to do justice to how those emotions lead to grief and despair, and them to regret. He would have to voice them sequentially, one after another, as if all of them and more did not coexist simultaneously in his heart, pushing against it until it threatens to burst.

 

Words are messy. Speaking of one thing neglects another which must be returned to later. In such narration details are bound to be missed. There is no combination of words in any existing language that could ever do justice to the storm in Asgore's soul.

 

Music knows no such limitations, though. He discovered early on in monsterkind's incarceration how his fingertips are much more qualified to express what lays within him more articulately than his voice ever could. There may be nigh-infinite combinations of words to convey the most complex sentences and ideas, but ten fingers are all Asgore needs to do that job better, more efficiently, and in a shorter period of time.

 

A melody and its harmony can expand and shrink as needed to accommodate the emotions and sensation of its performer. Through chords and progressions Asgore has always been able to feel in a way words do not come close to. No stress about stating exactly what he means in a clear and cohesive way, no seeking limiting words. He is able to pour his heart into the music, let his fingers speak for him, and feel in the moment, sharing his soul with whoever listens.

 

...He never managed to make Toriel a soul cry when he explained the sorrow corroding him for having lost the war. He brought her anyone to tears every time his feelings were so close to exploding his only alternative to sudden death was caressing the keys on his piano. The same has been true for every other failure and joy in his life.

 

Words pale in comparison to the act of feeling vividly. Words communicate rational ideas and thoughts. Music connects the souls of people in a fashion words could never. It bridges gaps no rational form of communication could begin to cross.

 

When... When he buried...

 

"Friends and fam--"

 

...When he was forced to live alone, Asgore closed many doors. The one to...

 

“Dad!! Dad, Chara and I--!!”

 

...To their room. Along with the door to the one he'd once shared with...

 

“Gorey, you may be King of All Monsters; but behind this door you're just my Fluffyb--”

 

...With another person. And also... also the door to his heart.

 

That blue eye, unseeing, encircled in bloodied--

 

The lock hatred placed over his emotions kept him away from music for centuries. To play without heart would be as hollow as existence without a soul. If he opened up his heart, however...

 

"Every last man, wom--"

 

...There are many reasons for which Asgore must keep a cold head above all. The future, monsterkind's freedom, demand a lot from him he cannot allow his emotions to interfere with, so Asgore locked himself from his piano as well.

 

Until he met Undyne, that is. Among the many parts of Asgore she unwittingly set free, his ability to feel through music was there as well, as if no time had passed and nothing had changed. For that he could not be more thankful.

 

They have not played together in long. He harboured the hope she still found time to put the world and its pain on pause for a few minutes every day and allow herself to feel unrestricted; that is why he bought her a piano in the first place. Today, when their tangle of unpracticed fumble of fingers plucked music from strings, it was a return to the past.

 

To the evenings where, after hours of training, Asgore would take her back home and teach her to play. Where the frustration, pain and betrayal she felt due to her mother's death came to life. She was a hot-headed child who picked fights everywhere, but nowhere did her rage and grief shine through more than in her sonetti and concerti. When she was so young Asgore dared not join her for a duet. Her feelings were too large for her, she needed to experience them and let them go on her own without being tainted by the emotions of another.

 

To the times later on, when she was older and her duties longer, cutting their free time shorter, where he would join her on the stool and they would play. Whether the piece was intended to be happy, sad, or bittersweet, when their hearts poured into the ink that formed the sheet music they brought to life, they could produce the most beautiful melodies. By and large they were sombre. Elegies to monsterkind's freedom, to innocence lost. But the Angel knows the two of them were also able to make one another decidedly happy.

 

At least her presence, the vulnerable exposure of her heart playing music demands, made Asgore beyond elated. He can only pray his company was positive for her as well.

 

He left every lesson with the hope that his notes had not betrayed what he attempted to keep inside. Vulnerability is an art Asgore lost practice in as much as he did piano during so, so long. There is no reason for which he should burden her with his sorrows. Or, even worse, with knowledge of how profoundly he cares about her. Something he always pushes to the back of his mind when it comes save today. Be it because he is sensitive, because she is obviously sad, both, or neither, and all he can think about is that he does not know whether she is aware she is loved.

 

He never asked if she understood the words his fingers spelled out with sound. Not when she was younger, and certainly not today. Music either connects or it does not. If she understood, there is no need to try appending words to the most abstract yet concise form of communication. If she did not, no words could explain it better, so Asgore has nothing to add and nothing left to hide.

 

As her duties increased, their time together faded and dwindled. But this afternoon, after an odd day, once more their emotions intertwined and became something new. For the first time in his life he heard fear and hesitation in her music. The perfect accompaniment for his own after such a day. After the initial unloading of fear and stress, though, he tried his best to make his affection for her manifest. He has never told her, and it struck him as imperative to do so.

 

She cannot think herself to be alone. She is not. Not while Asgore breathes. At least his life is not a complete waste. Sometimes, when people believe they are alone...

 

“Dad... It hurts to breathe. H...Help... Help me st--”

 

…

 

There is no way to know if his music reached her and burrowed into her soul, linking her emotions to his. After they were done playing and the final note faded to silence, when Asgore opened his eyes, her hands were trembling lightly. Not from the strain, she is much stronger than that. It was a quaking Asgore is much more familiar with. The sort that serves as the epilogue for a profound session of feeling and expression emotions which run so deep nothing else could graze them.

 

Whether it was a step forwards or not, a small opening to undo the damage Asgore imprinted on her which has lead her to turn her back on life, only time will tell. From that point onwards, though, her mood lifted slightly. She thanked him for visiting her as if he had done her a favour by spending time with her, as if it were not the only thing that still makes sense, and she promised she would see him for dinner, provided he still wanted her over.

 

What kind of question was that? He always relishes her company. Does she truly not know that?

 

Is he so bad at showing it?

 

...Asgore missed out on the first ten years of her life, hardly knowing she existed, being aware of her as one of the many monsters he saw in passing when he walked around Waterfall. He was more familiar with her mother than her; especially after her husband's death. As much as Undyne is not tied to him in any way beyond a deep friendship, for some reason it is saddening to him to have missed her first words, her first steps, her first day of school...

 

He had the same sensation with Ch--

 

He always relishes her company, longs to have more of it as if to compensate for that decade she was not part of his life, but today it was... it was odd as well. There was a comforting element to having her in his sight and hearing her no matter how run down she looked that both fended and fed into his anxiety. As if by virtue of keeping her close he could keep her safe. As if he had ever been capable of protecting those he cares about.

 

"And now we wait."

 

Yet seeing her so... so forced, so disingenuous in acting as herself... It made his concerns worse. What is going on with her? Is she alright? Why does she not talk to him of her own accord? Does she truly not know? Is she also like--?

 

"Chara, you have to stay determined. You are the future of humans and monst--"

 

Why can he not find the words himself? Is he that much of a failure as a guardian and mentor? As a friend and...?

 

...Heavens, he is sensitive today. There is no point in pondering emotions so much, it leads nowhere productive. Where is his head? It is unlike him to entertain such trains of thought. Everywhere they take him is but a dead end.

 

Be that as it may, her demeanour lightened even more when she appeared at his door an hour early. She asked if she was a bother, and he reassured her she could never be. She said he was the one who looked off, so she thought coming over earlier might help keep him distracted.

 

Is isn't so much distracting him, as it is her presence alone which brings him peace. But the words to correct her he did not know, so he let her help him prepare dinner and, since they finished the soup earlier than anticipated, she asked how he felt about a sparring session like they used to have when she was still incapable of landing a hit on him.

 

If Asgore lacks the vocabulary to be unguarded with her, it is double the case when it comes to denying her something she wants. Asgore has never known the word "no" in relation to her, for better or worse, so he relented and they made their way here. His strain remained through it all, though, and has come with him, between the folds of his cloak, into the training room.

 

In a selfish way, sparring with her might help him clear his mind as well. While nowhere as expressive as music, there is something relaxing and bonding about going through stances and strikes. Again, this room specifically is full to the brim with moments that made Asgore smile and still bring him joy if he recalls them. He is always safe here, and it feels like she is as well. With training weapons, locked away from real dangers.

 

As much as she seems to have shed the downtrodden aura, he stills worries for her. That it happened at all is indicative something is wrong. Something he is too incompetent to address, something she either cannot, or knows not how to vocalize. Perhaps seeing her in her element, acting normal, as herself, will help convince him danger has passed?

 

...And still... He is expectant. The double doors to his right, the sole entrance to the building, painted grey and mounted on sturdy silver hinges, are almost magnetic; he cannot stop gazing at them from time to time. As if he were expecting somebody to knock at any moment; just how this morning he was convinced a thunderstorm had been predicted in the news for New Home despite none coming.

 

Nobody will knock at this time; everyone is either mounting guard or has gone home. But the rapping of knuckles on wood has been haunting him as much as the silence following a slaughter battle does for life.

 

...Something is not right. Not right with him, and with her. Perhaps between them, or also around them. In the air, along with the moisture and the dust, and slithering even deeper under the earth than they are.

 

Is it just the fear of her becoming Captain? Nobody deserves it more than her, but there is nobody Asgore would be more terrified of losing. Her promotion is the pinnacle of his achievements and mistakes. He helped her bring her dreams to reality. Said dreams will carve the path to her death, most likely. In his intent to teach her to protect herself, he taught her to die.

 

Hinges creak and groan as a door opens. Gasping, Asgore looks at the door--

 

...It is closed. It--

 

"Changing rooms are here, old timer," Undyne teases from the opposite end of the room, clad in armour. She is holding her helmet against her hip. "Directionally challenged by old age?"

 

Does she know? Does she know her life is the most important thing in the world to at least one person? Does she know her life is not some meaningless, replaceable thing to sacrifice at the altar of freedom carelessly? That she is cherished and cared for? Important, loved?

 

Has anyone ever told her? Or was the last time she heard that the same as the final time she spoke to her mother before heading off to school on that blighted day?

 

He stands, picking up the steel trident he had forged to spar with her eight years prior. It is heavier than the ones he conjures in battle, but also incapable of causing fatal damage.

 

"You kept me waiting so long I almost fell asleep," he quips back. She did take a bit longer than usual, but that was not the reason for his disorientation.

 

He would rather not explain, though. He could not put it into words if he tried.

 

Her amused grin is wide and genuine, the same precious smile he has strived to protect all these years. Whatever was clinging to her all day long unhanded her through the fleeting art of music. He loves seeing her like this. If the world were a fair and just place, she would only ever be happy.

 

May it last. May her life last.

 

"Yeah yeah, I get it." She places the smokey helmet on her head. "You're getting old."

 

Despite himself, Asgore smiles back. He does not force it, she draws it out of him naturally. She is the only person who can anymore.

 

"You can simply admit you were too scared to get beaten in a sparring session, it is fine."

 

Her expression sours, unamused, as she gets her own sparring spear from the shelf behind her and walks to the center of the room. She rolls her eye and shakes her head.

 

"Come get your ass kicked, come on."

 

...Her energy is contagious. Her vitality and determination spread. There is nobody better to carry the hopes and dreams of monster kind; anyone who says the opposite is an ill-intended, heartless, purposefully ignorant dolt.

 

Asgore holds his trident in both hands. Specifically within this setting, with this particular soul for company, is the only way he can do it without shuddering with repulsion.

 

"Think of it as a trip to the dent--"

 

"Taking advantage of an old man like that is unbecoming of a Captain, don't you think?"

 

She makes the first move, clashing her weapon against his in a deafening motion that pushes him a few steps backwards, almost off balance.

 

"Good thing I haven't been promoted yet then, right?"

 

And so it begins. They duck, weave, avoid and strike. The same way they did when she was a child, with tenfold the skill if not more on her end, and no restraint on Asgore's. The tension in his muscles, focus on the moment, fends off more than her parries. The foreboding disquiet which was stuck in Asgore's fur, snaking in and out of his chest, is evaporated by the adrenaline and focus in the battle. The strain in his body, the force he exerts, his startled blocks and avoidances, the clanging of metal...

 

When they began her training she could hardly lift her weapon, let alone use it. She improved and improved through grit and hard work alone, growing closer and closer to striking him down each day. Getting up after every fall, learning from every defeat, never giving up.

 

The day she finally accomplished her self-imposed task of beating him up six years after vowing to destroy him, blaming him for her mother's death, far from accomplished and delighted she looked alarmed and regretful that she had landed a blow on him which would have been fatal had they been using real weapons. She just blinked, sporting a concerned frown, and asked if she had really done it or if he had gone easy on her.

 

He could not have been simultaneously prouder and more terrified. He was elated for her, for her hard work and dedication paying off. He was scared for her life and safety.

 

After all, her hard work and dedication had paid off. That only meant her military career would go in earnest. His teachings had worked, he'd made a soldier out of her.

 

Her life would always be in danger.

 

As happy as he was, all things considered, that she had managed to defeat him in such short time at her young age, he never dishonoured her by going easy on her. It took her another year to defeat him again. From then until now their record has been pretty even in terms of outdoing one another, pushing the other to improve and keep up.

 

Needless to say, as always, he will have no courtesy with her today. That would be a disservice to her prowess and capabilities.

 

He catches her weapon in between the prongs of his trident, twirling it to disarm her. Her spear remains firm in her grasp, though, and raw strength is something he cannot compete with her in. She pulls upwards, away from herself to free her weapon and pulls him off balance. She drags him in the direction of her tugs for a couple of steps before he catches and steels himself, widening his stance to weather and counter her defense.

 

She is strong, though. The word itself feels too small to do justice to the force in her muscles. Unfortunately, her strength can be used against her. Come her next pull, he pushes as well, twisting his trident harder. She topples back, catching herself with one leg before losing balance. She still does not let go of her spear, nor does Asgore manage to tear it from her grasp.

 

Impressive. Still though, he is leaning over her, not allowing her to fully stand. She either got a bit cocky with the sparring session or she is still affected by whatever was besetting her earlier today. Either way, she will not recover from this. Right now she is still standing because she is holding herself up by her spear. If Asgore managed to disarm her or let go of his trident, she would fall.

 

Her eye shines through the slits in her helmet, determined. She is having fun after all. Alright, Asgore can do her one better then. He grounds himself before putting all his weight into pushing forwards. Undyne's foot slips as she tries to keep herself upright, but he's destabilized her too much. Her grasp slides from her spear and falls to the floor, armour clattering as she prints new marks into the worn floorboards.

 

Asgore removes her spear from his trident, throwing it off to his left, away from her. It falls against some boxes, toppling one over. Undyne leans up against her elbows, but before she can finish his trident as lodged itself in the space between her helmet and breastplate, above her gills.

 

Asgore grins down at her. "Checkmate."

 

She groans, tossing her head back dramatically. "I only said that when I was ten and didn't know any better. Are you never gonna let me forget?"

 

There's an inherent intimacy in sparring with someone. In allowing them to put a weapon, no matter how blunt, close to one's body. In being tossed, pushed, and being certain the other party will not overdo it and harm you.

 

Asgore is holding a weapon to her gills. Those are so delicate that he could cause serious harm. Yet she does not flinch, nor try to get away. She smiles at him, all the trust in the world held within her warm expression. She does not doubt for a second Asgore would never--

 

Something rams into Asgore's back. His armour clatters as he is knocked off balance, falling atop her. Her eye widens in sync with his trident penetrating her throat through her gills. By the time it reaches the back of her neck there is no neck. Just a hollow suit of armour filled with dust.

 

...No. No no n

 

*

 

Back in the garden, morning once more, Asriel ruffles his petals under the Sun. It feels nice even as a flower, of perhaps especially as one. He sighs, content, unable to keep from grinning. He would have loved to regard her death a bit longer, but dad's melodramatic reaction would've ruined it.

 

If the king cares about his guard dog so much, he can kill her a few times. It's about fair retribution compared to the pain he's causing Asriel, as well as the sin of having replaced him in the first place. He sheltered a thief. Now he pays for it. Killing her repeatedly until she vanishes as Asriel did that annoying goner kid was an option, but the most boring one. This is entertaining and just. Do dad and that little twerp not care so much about justice?

 

Asriel sinks into the earth and navigates his way to the living room, popping out between their feet under the table. It's breakfast time once more, and their conversation is taut and punctured by the looming anxiety of an impending argument if they don't get on the same page about the meaning of the phrase "day off."

 

Their punishment has only begun. Now it's time to have fun together again, all three of them. Over, and over, and over.

Notes:

Prompt: Accident.

Thanks to everyone who's interacted with this fic btw, it means a lot to the author. I hope you all have a lovely day; see you on Sunday ^^

Chapter 13: Nuisance

If she runs any faster she's going to get injured, but if she doesn't she's going to die.

 

...This is one of the worst days of her life. Not as a hyperbole, not in a figurative sense. Legitimately, today is a nightmare she can't wake from. Technically she awoke into it this morning and has found no respite since.

 

Always behind her. Always waiting for her to--

 

She's had days like this before, but not this bad. She'll get better though; she just has to keep moving until it subsides. It always does.

 

She's stronger than it. It can't touch her.

 

Dread was hanging from the walls in her house like the cobwebs she never cleans in the empty rooms, permeating every surface. Going to Asgore's place was about as appealing as crossing Hotland by foot, but seeing as he'd already made time in his schedule for her, Undyne had to see him. It was less being with him and more so the journey from her place to his. The Riverperson, New Home... Much like the house, looming disquiet hung in the air around them.

 

There was no safety to be found in her house, as ridiculous as that is. All rooms were wrong, every piece of furniture a threat she could not vanquish. As if that thing were hanging from the rafters behind her, still swaying with the weight of--

 

“For my sweeth--”

 

As if it had escaped her memories and nightmares alike and followed her always from the rear, where she couldn't see. Present yet invisible.

 

Casting its shadow over her. Clicking right into her--

 

And, while every surface in her house seemed to be the source of death itself, every dark shadow a portal to hell, there was a magnetism to her piano stronger than usual. So long as she was around it, far from the usual, fleeting thoughts of dedicating just five minutes to it, or solely tuning it, it seemed to be calling out to her, demanding her attention. As if, if not here and now, she would never again have a chance to play it.

 

...Tempting as it was, she knows better than to give in. There's no life to be had in the rocky claws of death. So she got ready faster and left, because it was egregiously hard to resist. And the price to pay if she doesn't is one she will never give up.

 

Asgore was pensive all throughout breakfast, lost in thought. She wanted to ask what was wrong, if she could help, but the muscles in her throat wouldn't move. There was something else in the room with them. An incorporeal presence she had brought with her. A silent stalker watching from the roof, through the floorboards, the walls, everywhere.

 

The place she craved to be in most of all when she was a child, where she felt listened to and cared for, important and valued, became menacing. Remaining in New Home as a whole was unthinkable. Every white building, a work of architectonic art as they may be, more resembled a jagged tooth within the dark maw of the Underground than the sights of the city she otherwise loves.

 

Walking through it generally gives Undyne renewed determination to ensure every last one of those people can be free, lifts her spirits. But today there's just... something wrong.

 

Something wrong with her, specifically. And she can't allow that. So she won't.

 

"Aw, your daughter is so similar to you she's practically a mini-you, Sy--"

 

It's not going to get her, too, whatever sparked it. They are not the same. She must keep going. The air is getting cooler; Snowdin is almost in sight.

 

After the unnerving aura of New Home came the river again. Then Waterfall, and her own house. Surely there's really nothing following her, hiding in her shadow. Ergo the problem must be her. It is her, no doubt.

 

She'd just like to know what the hell triggered it this time, and why so hard.

 

The Underground is a prison. A damn beautiful one, but a cage to break out of all the same. Undyne has lived with that knowledge living passively in her mind, as a detail she heard from time to time, since she can remember. It's been an active goal, a tangible reality for her, for the past ten years, ever since she saw what trying to live under an ocean of rock can do to a person.

 

"Sweetheart, come and--"

 

The Underground always feels like a threat. A dam about to burst, a volcano a breath away from erupting. A cage she can't bust out from, lacks the means to break free. And yet never has she felt as trapped by the rock encasing her on all sides as she does today. It's crushing her lungs and her heart, threatening to implode her ribcage and fill her soft insides with shards of bone.

 

The pain is almost palpable, as if she'd ever shattered a bone beyond repair and felt the little splinters left embed themselves deep inside her muscles. Even thinking about it makes the insides of her legs tingle, for crying out loud.

 

In a way... It's almost as if she'd lived this day before. Everything is bizarrely familiar, echoing some moment in time she can't remember. Odd instances of déjà vu assault her from the most arbitrary of places. And that's... that's new. The feeling of being watched, of having both that thing and her breathing down Undyne's neck... It's always been there. It goes dormant from time to time, but it always returns. It's her punishment, in a sense

 

But not like this, and with senseless premonitions to boot. What caused this?

 

She was going to fend off this sensation of being observed, followed, in danger, on permanent high alert, with her original workout routine. Feeling like this is no excuse to slack off. If anything, it's a bigger motivator to get a damn move on. Sitting back won't save her.

 

"Why... Why don't we go somewhere fun today, mom? We can try having fun, right? Just try? For me? ...Why don't you get out of bed anym--?"

 

Everything went as well as it could until time for climbing came. Something about that cliff face, so familiar Undyne could draw it with her eye closed provided she had any artistic talent, was just as bad or even worse than being in New Home was. The same cliff she's scaled several times a week for the past two years, the one she can see her own house from, emanated more wrongness than anything else around her.

 

She did it all the same, of course. Because giving up would only let the thing stalking her gain on her, and she can't allow that. It's why after she was done, instead of stopping for lunch and giving it a head-start, she decided to go on a walk instead. But still, all this begs one question:

 

What the hell is happening to her? It... It feels like the usual dread. The knot in her stomach, the questions she has no answers for nor desire for knowledge of, the presence of that thing behind her aiming for her neck, the hot and cold. Little wonderings, like... Was... Was this what...?

 

...How does it feel? To lose...?

 

"Your mother just lost hope, lassie. It wasn't your fau--"

 

Wherever she goes, fear follows. As if it were her shadow, tracing her steps from beneath her. The streets of New Home flooded with peril, the cliff sides in Waterfall promising danger, the Riverperson's boat casting dread, the darkness of the alley next to MTT's hotel calling her with the ill intent of a siren.

 

She doesn't believe in déjà vu, premonitions, or anything like that, yet her day so far practically demands one of those as an explanation. And that's... That's not how her typical demons operate. While the dread, looming anxiety, all that jazz are the same, the manifestation is different. Why?

 

Is... Is she really like...? Is it one of those things that runs in fam...?

 

...

 

Alright, fine. If all her typical spots are full of writhing ethereal sources of senseless discomfort, Undyne figured she'd go somewhere else. Discounting Hotland, the only place left to go's Snowdin. Might as well go there.

 

The cold should be grounding, a walk should do her wonders. She likes the actually living trees that grow down there, the feeling of snow melting against her scales. It's a charming town she used to visit with... her. Yet even here the tension building up painfully in her muscles, contracting them, remains. As if the source of her concerns were not in the air behind her, actually, but rather spread out like a giant circulatory system under the earth she steps on.

 

Asgore called ten minutes ago, said he went over to her place for lunch but she wasn't there. He was worried, damnit. She made him waste time and energy on her and she wasn't even there. Some Captain she is. He's going to regret promoting her and he's going to be right. Hell, she asked him how they were fairing with the storm in New Home that she would have sworn her life on the weather forecast mentioned either last night or this morning, and he told her there was no chance of rain today. Just where is her head?!

 

Dodging the n--

 

But it's alright. It's alright because this thing won't win. It never does, and it's been coming after her on and off for the past decade. She's demonstrably stronger than it, and she's going to beat it out of her body through exhaustion and pain if she must. It's always worked so far. Just because it's presenting itself differently this time and without a clear trigger doesn't mean it'll win.

 

There's nothing she'll stop at to feel better within an hour tops. She'll never give up. She's not like--

 

"Sweetheart, come here with momm--"

 

Snowdin is up ahead. The dark blues and cyans of Waterfall give way to pearly white dotted green and red. Little pinpricks of colourful light gently nibble at the darkness attempting to stifle them. The red, green, blue and yellow lights of Snowdin are mesmerizing from this far away. An unfinished weave of colour melding into a tapestry of lights, bringing joy to the inmates trying to make a life in the place where mere existence is already a tall order.

 

Undyne slows down. It's so hard to breathe even with the crisp, snowy air leaking into the final meters of the mesmerizing swamp Undyne calls a home. Her own breathing fogs ahead of her despite being cold-blooded; the temperature in Snowdin is insane. But in the good way, not like Hotland.

 

Fairy tale-like houses perched on the sides of a main road. Colourful lights spilling onto the snow beneath her, embellishing it. The scent of firewood escaping houses through open windows where pies are left to cool down... Undyne generally enjoys watching the people whenever she's here, too. Their simple civilian lives, their smiles and their young are everything she aspires to protect.

 

Theirs are the hopes and dreams she wishes to nourish by carving their way to fresh air and sunlight. Even if they reflect the life she could have were her duty not so primordial they're always a sight for sore eyes. Not a point of jealousy, but one of relief. When the upcoming battle feels insurmountable or terrifying, visiting Snowdin and basking in the warmth its people share motivates her. It reminds her of the many times she'd be dragged here by m--

 

"Oh sweetheart, I need more yellow thread. Do you want to come shopping with me to Snowd--?"

 

The town's cold slithers under Undyne's scales and crawls through her pores into her flesh, freezing even her bones. She underdressed on purpose, in hopes the biting cold would snap her out of whatever this is. Anxiety is unacceptable for the likes of her; her head must be cooler than the frigid air biting her lungs with each breath. She will feel better. She has no other choice.

 

If she stops moving it'll catch her like it did m--

 

The air carries the warmth of fires here and there, as well as the voices of a group of children playing with a ball to her left. The charming wooden houses of Snowdin light up the dark with the warm candles behind their thick windows.

 

Monsters speak of the weather, the upcoming holiday they'll decorate the big tree in the center of town for, prices rising and falling. She catches beginnings and ends of sentences over the crunching of her footsteps in the snow, little fragments of people's daily, domestic lives. A hint of laughter here, awkward teen flirting there, three children discussing their school project as they shut the Librarby's door closed behind them.

 

...There are so many books in there. So many Undyne's yet to read. It would be nice if...

 

...If she were on the Surface, where there's a ton more books humans are hoarding like the greedy bastards they are. Right. Reading these books here... Undyne can do that on the Surface, too. She doesn't have the time for anything like that; not while monsterkind is imprisoned.

 

She'll live later. There's no life to be had here and now. But still... She could at least walk inside and peruse--

 

Undyne walks faster, away from the allure of knowledge. These peaceful lives... Undyne will have one one day, too. She has to focus on survival and freedom now to live, truly live, in some yet-distant tomorrow. One filled with sunlight, with fresh air and not a trace of overcrowding. Where all the people around her can watch their children run around ecosystems the Underground can only dream of, playing with animals they've only seen in pictures in books, or heard about from the tales passed down by their elders. When they're making crowns of flowers they've yet to see and everyone's finally happy and free, that's when Undyne will grant herself the privilege of a life.

 

When she's safe.

 

She'll have the time of her life. She'll play piano for as long as she wants when the sun illuminates her sheet music. She'll read by a window with a cup of some tea she doesn't know the name of because it doesn't grow down here. She'll have her personal indoor gym when she has the time to spare to work on it. She'll have a TV when she can tune into different channels instead of being stuck with MTT's crappy program.

 

She'll have a life and not an existence. To attempt to plant roots down here where nothing grows would only lead to despair. Her life awaits in some other place, some other day, but there's no doubt within her she will get there.

 

When she's safe, she'll live the life of her dreams. No more prison cells, no more suffering around her. Just freedom and safety for all. It's a simple desire, all things considered.

 

She just has to survive that long and she'll be fine. Survive now to live later, but live fully. Really live.

 

Snowdin's just as charming and its people as endearing as she remembers. They belong to a world Undyne can only ever look in on as an outsider. For now, of course. She'll get there. One marked by companionship, strong bonds, and fleeting attempts at living; but it's a beautiful sight all the same. And still...

 

Behind her. Beneath her. Everywhere. She can't escape--

 

...Wherever she goes she expects to trip, to get caught in something. That feeling in the pit of her stomach when she misses a step going downstairs, it's in the back of her mind and the depths of her bowels with every pace. She can't even see where she's stepping now; not with snow up to her ankles. It's ridiculous, it's pointless, it's downright pathetic and inexcusable, but it's as if her skeleton were scratching her from the inside, begging to turn tail and run. Where to, though? Every location she left behind caused the same anxiety she's dominated by now.

 

...There's something very wrong with her head. Either worse than usual or something else entirely. But whatever it is she's nipping it in the bud. She is not like--

 

"For my sw--"

 

Maybe... Maybe her promotion's getting to her in some weird way? It's her dream coming true; of course it's going to have some effect on her. This is what she's trained for, what she's worked tooth and nail for. She needs it to be perfect for herself and, most importantly, for Asgore. But ever since they told her to "invite friends and family..."

 

Nobody will be there. Nobody bar the rest of the Guard and Asgore, and her supervisor damn well knows. But that's fine, it's all good by Undyne. Nobody's obligated to like her and she's been quite a handful all her life. It doesn't matter down here anyway, this isn't where her life is. But ever since they did...

 

...M... She's, been on her mind. That's all. A little more than usual. And that... That has to be it, right? What else could...?

 

Behind her. It--

 

Yeah, she's probably overthinking. It has to be the same old; there's no reason for it to be anything else right? So it's fine. It's fine because she's still moving. Because she didn't stop, and...

 

...She's crossed the town and hasn't dropped an ounce of unrest. It still feels like the world is folding in on her, crushing her. Damn. The feeling of shock and self-preservation that blooms in the mouth of her stomach whenever she trips on something is still burrowed inside her as if she were one second away from getting her foot tangled on vines and...

 

...Vines?

 

Nothing of the sort grows here. No, no vines in Snowdin. Or anywhere in the Underground for that matter. Besides Waterfall, but those don't tend to spontaneously burst from the earth. Undyne just... She needs to keep going until her head clears. She's like a shark; if she stops, she dies.

 

And dying isn't an option. Not down here, not without giving her death some meaning in helping Asgore fulfil the only worthwhile goal of them all. Not without having yet lived a real life in freedom. All this sacrifice, it's in favour of saving everyone and living. She can't, won't die, without having done both those things. Otherwise what the hell is she fighting for?

 

She stops at the entrance of town, blurring the cliffs and forest surrounding the town with a large, trembling exhale. She could go back home already. Her piano-- She could, but that thing will still be following her.

 

She'd sooner work herself to death than let that happen. She is not like her.

 

It's decided then. Clenching her fists, she moves forwards. The banner welcoming people into Snowdin slides above her as she moves out into the forest.

 

The perpetual sea of white and red brick gives way to tall, thick tree trunks crowned by thick evergreen leaves bejewelled by shimmering snow. There are no lamp posts here as there would be in cities, nor is there a glowing pit of lava or a slew of bioluminescent flora. Instead, an opening in the cave's ceiling provides nourishment for the tall trees populating the forest. The light filters through clouds, snow and trees, becoming but a warm, gentle glow weaving in and out of leaves and trunks, casting an elaborate lattice shadow on the snow below.

 

Between Undyne and the forest is the chasm. A black hole sucking downwards where the tops of trees vanish into darkness. The suspension bridge crossing it is minuscule compared the sheer size of the gorge it's hanging across.

 

It always gives Undyne shivers, this drop. It seems bottomless from up here, a void swallowing trees and light alike, unending. A hole within a hole, the deepest pit of the Underground, the closest point within it to Hell.

 

It... Sometimes it makes her wonder... In the back of her head, not giving it too much attention... But still questioning... The people who decided to... to find out what lays beneath, but didn't... they didn't use any of the safe means to get down there... What... What were they thinking? What... was going on in their lives that... that all the flowers, and drawings, and hugs in the world didn't...? What did it feel like for them to conclude they had to...?

 

"Aww, sweetheart! Is that for mommy? Here, let me see what you--"

 

It's breathtaking, this scenery. Yet the only think taking Undyne's breath away is strain.

 

She's going to walk this damn feeling off or die trying, time to get a move on. There's no in-between, she can't afford to feel like this. It's too pathetic. Asgore needs someone competent, brave and unfaltering by his side. If she can't be that person he'll have to replace her, and he can't. Well, of course he can, but no. He doesn't hate her or anything, so she's not messing up too bad. It has to be her. Nobody else could do it, though nobody else knows him as well as she does. She has to be strong lest she end up like--

 

"For my s--"

 

They aren't the same. Undyne isn't weak, she would never abandon anyone who depends on her. That's why she's a soldier.

 

"Why do I have to go to her funeral?! She left me!! Why--?!"

 

Undyne presses forwards. It's time to go. Every time she isn't moving towards the future the thing following her gets closer. She will not succumb.

 

-

 

Only whichever entity surveils this wretched corner of the universe knows how far Undyne is from Snowdin.

 

She must be closer to the Ruins by now than the little warm town she left behind. She's surrounded by tree trunks and shadows on every side, dappled with the cool remnants of sunlight from time to time. The usual darkness above her is covered by moist foliage dripping mesmerizing, shimmering snow.

 

Despite covering up any visual trace of the coop monsterkind was herded into, the feeling of pressure building up against Undyne's scales remains. If she doesn't get over this she won't make a good Captain. She'll let Asgore down, fail him in a way he would never fail her or anyone. The only person who's ever cared about her, the most solitary and hurt man in the Underground, needs her to return the favour in the only way that matters. If she's a wreck, who will help him carry the weight of the world? She can't become useless again, damn it; and this is as good as.

 

To be someone like... like this, all the time... Is it really the same old? Or is it the beginning of...?

 

"Madness runs in families, you know? The reason you can't play with us is 'cause your mom was cra--"

 

All her life she's needed him. Pathetic of her, she knows. This is beyond embarrassing. She doesn't have anyone but him, and he's never abandoned her even when she was a stupid, useless child. He's just her boss, sure, but he's still the only one who cares. He's never had a purpose for her, keeping someone like her around only out of the kindness of his heart, but now he might. She's at the doorstep of becoming necessary and meaningful to him, too, of providing a service to justify all the time he's wasted on her. She is not going to allow this to ruin her chances. Even if it's something else, she won't let it win.

 

Was... Was this asphyxiating anxiety what lead mom to--?

 

Something crunches in the snow to her right. She isn't alone.

 

Two spears come to life in her hands. Rhythmically the snowy landscape fogs up with every breath. Who--?

 

A blurry dash of orange is beneath a tree, no taller than three feet at the very most. It... seems to be a child?

 

...Though so close to the Ruins... Could it be a human?

 

Undyne keeps still as the trees around her, slowing her breath. The splash or orange sticking out comes closer, more snow crunching under their feet. With a sigh, she dispels her weapons.

 

Of the odd crimes the Underground has to offer, homicidal children is yet to be one of them. Playing hooky doesn't constitute a criminal offence, either. Otherwise Undyne would be serving life sentence.

 

They're far from any populated area though. While they probably know these woods well, provided they live in Snowdin and have grown up around here, there's no harm in asking if they need help. On or off duty, it is her moral responsibility to assist them.

 

"Hey, kid!"

 

The child squeals, turning towards her. They're an orange reptilian monster wearing a red and white striped shirt and matching pants, holding... an orange and brown sweater? Maybe? In their spiked tail, as they lack arms.

 

...Has she seen this kid somewhere before? Are they from Waterfall, actually? Perhaps she's seen them on their commute to school one day? Are they a neighbour?

 

"Can you help me?!" they yell, running towards her as fast as their short legs will allow. They can't be older than four.

 

...What's a freaking toddler doing here by themself?

 

There goes that feeling again; that she's been here before, in this exact same situation. Except she hasn't, because she's never encountered someone who was an infant two sneezes ago running around a forest unattended.

 

What the hell is wrong with her?

 

They stop before her, catching their breath before craning their head to look up at her. "I've... lost my friend." They're breathing fast, panting. "He said he could... he could help me find this sweater's owner, but... he left me."

 

The sweater in question is also child-sized, but for someone around the age of ten, too large for this child. It's orange and brown and it has no sleeves. Why... Why is it so familiar? Is it something mom made before...? Can't be; none of these kids were even born when she still had the shop.

 

Alright alright, time to think. Presumably there are two more children here: the one the toddler got separated from, and the sweater's owner. She has to find them. In this climate, sooner rather than later.

 

"Where are your friends?" She bends down a little; it's best not to loom over children. "How long have you been out here for?"

 

Their little slitted pupils move from one side to the other, pensive. They shake their head. "We left after lunch? He said he could tell me who this sweater belongs to."

 

Every muscle in her legs is ready to take off running. There isn't a reasonable explanation for this situation she's interested in listening to here and now. But there are two more kids at large and Undyne would never abandon a kid who relies on her.

 

"Sweetheart--"

 

"Is its owner here, too? Or is it just you and your friend, then?"

 

Her fingers twitch, ready to conjure a spear at any moment. Why is this kid here? Who's this mysterious, disappearing friend?

 

She has to get the kid out of here. Herself as well.

 

Behind--

 

The kid shrugs. "I guess both. I don't..." They look down, kicking around in the snow. "I don't know who this sweater belongs to. It was in my room, on the spare bed, and it's too big for me or my sister, and mamma doesn't remember buying it. I feel all happy and warm when I hold it, but I don't know why." The way they frown contains more sorrow than any child so small should be acquainted with "Then I made a friend today who said he'd take me to the owner so I could meet them and return their sweater, but after walking around for a while he just left."

 

A new friend, previously a stranger, approaches a toddler, exploits their curiosity, leads them to a forest, then vanishes?

 

Time to go. If there are two other kids here, if they're kids at all, and this toddler wasn't going to be tormented and later attacked, a rescue team is better suited for finding them than Undyne. She has one kid here and now who she can save. If she wastes any time looking for the others, provided there are any, she might be putting the child at risk.

 

She smiles at them, mouth closed, teeth caged. "I'm a member of the Royal Guard. Let's go to the nearest outpost and get you home. From there we can also organize a rescue mission for your friends."

 

The child beams at the mention of the Royal Guard and finally a speck of anxiety evaporates. It never gets old, the adoration in little kids' faces when they trust her to keep them safe.

 

And keep them safe she will. The takes the child in her arms and their legs fasten around her waist as their tail wraps around her arm. They weigh nothing. Alright, that's been a long enough walk for today. It's time for a run and then back home.

 

Snow crunches beneath her quick, heavy steps. Who lead this kid out here? A human maybe? Unlikely; there are many Guard posts between the Ruins and the town. The Guard knows what humans look like; someone ought to notice the presence of a human. Even if they didn't, the likes of those creatures wouldn't sneak into town peacefully and harass a random child. They would come in with their weapons out ready to exterminate, to finish the job their ancestors left to time and overpopulation.

 

What kind of monster would do this, then? Criminal life in the Underground is so mild it's hard to think of who--

 

Something gets caught around her ankle.

 

Not from above, but from below. Same principle, still a noo--

 

Inertia bars Undyne from stopping herself before stumbling. The child yelps. They speak more, they're saying words, but those don't matter much right now. She has to break free. She can't be restrained, she has to get out of here. She isn't letting any sort of noose catch her, damnit.

 

She's going to live.

 

...Dramatic much? Of course she is. She just... She got caught on a v-- A vine? No, that can't be, A root, most likely. It's not that deep.

 

Not behind her, beneath her. Stalking h--

 

She conjures a spear in her hand. The kid wails. They're crying, writhing in her arm, but Undyne grasps them tighter.

 

She isn't wasting any time trying to disentangle herself. This problem she's cutting down in the most literal sense of the word. Undyne places the spear's head in the snow, leading it closer and closer to her leg. Gently, so that it bumps into her ankle instead of slicing through it. There. The sharp edge of her sp--

 

Green, snaking tentacles erupt from the snow with a muffled crunch, sending white puffs of it everywhere with dull, muted poofs. The pulverized snow hangs in the air like haze, muting the frail sunlight and entombing her and the child in twilight. The kid squeezes her arm with their tail, crying and sobbing as the writhing tendrils, now darkened shadows in the mist, grow higher and higher in the air, forming an archway above the kid and her.

 

She isn't dying today, and neither is the kid. Not when she has a child to save, not when her life hasn't even begun, not when they've got their entire life ahead of them.

 

Undyne presses the head of her spear flush against her leg and cuts down. Along with the restraint she cuts the surface of her skin open. It doesn't even hurt, not when the shadowy tentacles are converging three feet above her head like the bars of a cage.

 

A cage, huh...?

 

She drops the spear onto the snow. It fizzles out. She raises her free hand and summons a circular cage of spears around her. The child whines in the back of their throat as her weapons hum to life. She pats their back as another hoard of spears materialize, a tight grid above the protective enclosure she's trapped them both in.

 

"I've got you, kid." And she isn't letting go. But she has to get moving, because the pulsating circulatory system prowling beneath her all day long has proven to be more than the madness she may have inherited from mom, and she can't protect herself or the kid from the entrails of the earth.

 

She runs. Her glowing prison bars follow, feebly eating away at the supernatural gloom. The child trembles against her chest, burying their head in the nook of her neck. They'll be fine, she'll make sure of it. This is why she wanted to be a soldier, this is her purpose.

 

Even if she isn't living right now, her life still has meaning. This is it.

 

Alright. Alright alright, time to think. This thing... Is it just in that one area, and by running away she's safe? Who knows; she won't count on that. The spears above her still have holes in them. It's a grid, not a solid wall. She couldn't focus on so many spears and keep them all summoned. However, she has much bigger problems, like the fact that the attack came from under the earth. She barred it, presumably, from attacking her from above, and maybe by running away she's doing enough, but she isn't planning according to the best case scenario. She needs protection from below, but how...?

 

...How can she conjure another grid beneath her? She'd trip all over it. A solid wall of spears, then? She can't focus on those many, she'd have to sacrifice the ones around and above her. The tentacles reached high enough in the air that she can't risk that. But at least from above she can see them coming. Right, alright. Alright, they're gonna make it. She's getting out of here alive, she isn't dying here. Not when she never even got a chance to live.

 

Mom and her noose can stop following her for a while. They won't be reuniting today. Undyne won't give up. She is nothing like the woman who conceived her.

 

The top of the defensive enclosure fades and dies. She opens her palm and the spear stockade widens, making room for what comes next. With her next step, Undyne jumps instead. The grid re-materializes beneath her, snug between the ring of upright spears. She lands at the crux between two vertical and horizontal spears crossing, increasing the surface area more than if she'd tried to land on two separate spears. Still, the gap between spears is large enough her toes could get caught in--

 

Her right foot slips, but she holds on to the spear in front of her. Way too close.

 

...Alright. Alright, this won't stop it from attacking from below, but it'll limit the size of the vines it can employ, whatever it is. She just has to make it to the next Guard station. Once the kid is safe she can stand her ground and terminate this threat. How she'll manage to get it out from under the ground, or fight it there somehow, she'll figure out later. Securing the kid comes first.

 

She commands her spears to move forwards, back towards Snowdin, and they follow faster than she can run. How did she never think of this before? A spear sleigh; it's almost fun. Would be fun in any other circumstances. She left the vines behind a while back and they've yet to attack. Maybe they can't follow her?

 

No, they can. She's known something was escorting her all day long. It's thinking how it will attack, maybe. From which angle to ambush her, how to get past the spears. But a blow will arrive.

 

Undyne summons one final spear in her left hand. The kid whimpers again, sobbing warm tears into her sweater. Whatever tries to attack the pair of them she's going to eliminate.

 

A slim tendril bursts from the earth, in the space between two spears. It tries to wrap around her leg, but she cuts it in half. The part she cut off falls behind the spear cage, limp. The other one, still protruding from the ground, tries to wrap around her ankle still. It isn't fast nor long enough, though, and it's left in the dust.

 

...Just a little longer. She just has to hold on a little longer. She's got this.

 

A much thicker vine comes from the back. Undyne swerves to the side and twists her left hand. The standing spears spin in turn, pulling the vine back and around the cage. She hacks away at it with her spear until little pieces of green fly off into the smog and become nothing but shadows.

 

Two descend from the top. She cuts them off before they can dream of even caressing a single scale on her or the child's skins. The flaccid vines drop into the snow behind her.

 

...A bit more. It can't be that far, right? How deep did she go into the forest?

 

If it keeps sending so many vines she's won't be able to parry it eternally. Not within the confines of this spear cage. A cage of her own making is a trap all the same. Should she stop and fight? But fight what? It's under ground, how could she make it pop out? The kid is with her; what's she going to do?

 

She needs reinforcements. For that she needs to protect this cage until she reaches the nearest Guard station. The child cannot be sacrificed.

 

It's still behind her, hanging from tree branches. It never left. It's mom's punishment for--

 

Three vines come from above. As Undyne segments them, a fourth bursts from the side, an inch away from her ribcage. It wraps around her as two thin tendrils snake in from the bottom, sinking their thorns into her legs like a hungry beast's fangs would into flesh.

 

The cage moves on, but Undyne's tethered.

 

Spears slam into her back, her feet slip from their holds and into the empty space between spears. The grid of spears continues pushing forwards, pulling her to her knees and ripping off the fabric covering her calves and the scales beneath it alike. It burns. Her head hits the spears in front of her. The blow takes her hearing away, replacing it with a high-pitched whine. There's nothing beneath her, not anymore, and her body slams into the snow, rolling across it and losing her grasp on the child. She rolls once, twice, thrice, hitting every log and stone concealed by the layer of soft snow.

 

She lands on her back, struggling to breathe. Her right arm won't move, it's limp beside her. Her legs have to be broken, but she forces herself to sit all the same. Two snapped ribs grind within her, poking against her muscles from the inside and searing with a pain only comparable to hellfire.

 

The child. She has to find the child. She can't let this thing take them again. She has to kill this creature, whatever it is, before it reaches Snowdin.

 

...She has to stand up. This can't end like this. Not now, not before she's had the chance to live. She didn't want to see mom again anyway. Not after she abandoned--

 

The earth quivers as hazy shadows break free from it. Some loom over Undyne, others wrap tight around her. Her shoulders, her waist, her arms and legs, pinning her down against the hard, lumpy earth beneath. She struggles, but thorns break out from every last vine. They burrow in her throat, her bone marrow, her tendons and muscles. Under her scales, in her scalp, through her forehead and under her nails.

 

She screams. Only a puff of silent air comes out. It fogs the other vines, the ones above her, as they become larger and larger, descending so fast they--

Notes:

Prompt: Tomorrow isn't promised.

There are actually little updates of my bingo card over on my tumblr, clockwork-demon-00. Feel free to give it a follow if so desired ^^

Have a great weekend everyone, and take care. Thank you for your time

Chapter 14: Their Fault

In a sense, emotions are like a language Asriel was once fluent in, but lost proficiency in after ceasing to speak it for a while.

 

He watches from the ceiling. Their voices carry up here just fine. It's a bit odd, seeing the tops of dad and the weed's heads (and the room from this angle as a whole), but Asriel's view is unobstructed up here and he's pretty much safe from being spotted. The broad strokes of their conversation he can make sense of, but there's a burning question within him that will never be answered.

 

...Why does she keep coming back?

 

It's happened over and over. With one single exception, in which dad went over to her house instead regardless, she always comes home and he opens the door. It's obvious both of them are beginning to associate their mutual company with anxiety. It's written clearly in their tense pauses, the odd glances they cast one another when the other isn't looking, and their overall tense demeanor. For her, it's the strain of death. For him, that of seeing his little toy die over and over. Regardless, although with every reset it gets a little worse, they insist on staying together.

 

...Was love so addictive to Asriel, too? Was it something he'd risk his integrity and sanity for time and time again?

 

"Azzy!! Get back here!! You only found me because you got lucky, but I'll win next round, nerd!! Hide or else!!!"

 

...

 

...Discovering his ability to erase monsters by killing them enough times was a thrill. It still is. It's new, it's entertaining, it's good enough. It didn't work as well as he'd expected, though. For one, because as soon as Asriel reset, his progress was gone. That stupid kid wasn't grey anymore, and everyone remembered them. It seems this only works within the same timeline, so Asriel's stuck with only loading for now.

 

He killed the stupid goner kid over and over in this timeline again, just to be sure. They screamed so much, it was pathetic. But Asriel only did it because he had to, of course. Because he needs to understand this mechanic better if he's to implement it with the weed.

 

It's in this second round of obliterating the darn kid from existence that Asriel's found the hole in his strategy, so it was a necessary evil. Functionally, nobody remembers that stupid kid. Not even their family, it's great. It's exactly what Asriel needed to delete the useless weed from his home.

 

However, those who were close to the dang goner kid still retain a sliver of recognition. Their little sibling for instance, another stupid monster kid, won't let go of their older sibling's sweater. They were already carrying it around from place to place, asking the people of Snowdin if they knew whose it was, when Asriel first returned to their house to see just how forgotten that goner kid truly was. Load after load, the dumb monster kid continues to look for its owner as if anyone could still remember them.

 

Emotions are so stupid.

 

“Best friends forever, Azzy. You and me. I'll never leave you. I promise.”

 

...Sometimes, at least.

 

It stands to reason the same will happen with the usurper, right? Dad won't remember her. He'll forget her and he'll finally be Asriel's again. He can get what little's left to salvage of his family back and try to get his emotions again. Without committing any real murder, without losing hope and engagement in life.

 

And still, if the pattern is to repeat, that just means whatever kind of affection dad totes around for his useless plaything now will continue to live on in him. Just like that stupid monster kid still has some vague, shapeless recollection of their sibling. Even if Asriel erases dad's little pet, like the leech she is she'll still leave her mark.

 

For that reason, erasing her in and of itself isn't enough. Asriel has to make sure dad only associates her with horrible feelings. She'll leave a scar in him, but Asriel's gonna make sure it's so ugly dad has no desire to revel in it or relish it.

 

If he can't erase her completely, getting dad to abhor her is the next best thing.

 

So killing her won't suffice. It's about how he goes about it. It's time for Asriel to get creative to make sure dad will subconsciously associate any emotion she leaves behind like a toxin in his soul with guilt and horror.

 

That, and dad deserves the agony of killing her, honestly. He deserves it for forgetting his children and wanting to replace them. He deserves it for not having enough love left for Asriel because he wasted so much on her.

 

The plan so far is have dad kill her often, but not all the time. It's really hard to use those two's bodies as puppets to maneuver something like that. Last time in the training room it took Asriel three loads to plan the weed's murder appropriately; and it was relatively easy only because dad beat her within the first minute of sparring, but Asriel still had to live through the whole day three times after loading.

 

So the times where dad kills her are a nightmare to plan. For the times dad doesn't kill her, and instead stumbles into her remains, Asriel has to make a spectacle of her corpse so dad is absolutely disgusted and horrified. Guilt and horror are the key to muddling the wounds she leaves in him, it has to work.

 

If Asriel can't erase the love dad has for his stupid play toy by literally erasing her, he'll entomb that unforgivable affection in guilt and disgust. Either way, he'll win.

 

Some people consider murder a form of art. Chara always said so, how humans think of things as heinous as "passion crimes" and "creative expression through murder." It always made Asriel sick a little when he was alive, but maybe the killers Chara spoke of had a point. He does to the weed's body what an artist does with the materials they need before assembling a collage. The canvas here is dad's mind, and making sure nothing that remains can make him feel the slightest bit warm towards the worm he took pity on.

 

...This is all their fault. Asriel isn't a murderer, he's just a scared kid who wants his feelings back. This isn't fun, it isn't personal. His only shot at life is with dad, and this useless girl won't stop trying to wedge herself between them, where she doesn't belong. Killing her is self-defense, it isn't murder. And besides, dad's technically the one killing her every other load. What is it about dad that draws her in, anyway?

 

His warmth. His sense of humor. How clueless he is. The affection he has for everyone and everyth--

 

Okay, maybe dad's gravitational pull is comprehensible. He's a shadow of his former self, weak with so many brittle emotions, but still lovable to anyone with a soul. It makes sense.

 

...But what about him? Why...? What did he see in her? She's another serial number in the Royal Guard. An overachiever maybe, like Chara was. She's disgustingly nice and kind, and she shares dad's goals. But besides that she's just a stupid, pathetically terrified girl living with a noose's shadow hanging over her. Imagine being so weak.

 

Asriel had to hold his sibling's corpse, watch them die slowly, have his soul taken over, die, and he turned out just fine.

 

What she sees in dad to want to be his friend makes sense, more or less, but what the heck does he find in her? He must have been really desperate to fill a void if he settled for something as pointless as her. Which is uplifting enough, at least? Yeah, dad replaced Asriel specifically, but only because he was unbearably desperate. There's no other reason to want a thing such as the usurper otherwise.

 

That means... Despite everything it means dad missed Asriel a lot... right? It means Asriel still matters. That, once he removes the useless puppet forever, everything will be alright again.

 

This nightmare will be over.

 

It'll take a while. Especially if Asriel's going the route of waiting for dad to either have an opening to kill her "by accident," or to find her severed remains; or at least hear of them. It'd probably be over in a couple of hours if he killed her as quickly as he killed the useless goner kid, load after load without preamble, but it'll be worth the wait. Dad won't remember anything but the echoes of something painful and oozing, repulsive beyond comprehension when Asriel's done.

 

Then he'll be a good father again. A little weed grew in his heart in Asriel and Chara's absence because he missed them so much. The weed should have never been there, should have been pulled out, but dad's heart was so barren after losing him and Chara even a weed was better than nothing. As inexcusable as it is, it's a reality. It's Asriel's job now to eradicate that weed forever so dad's love for him may bloom in full and, with it, Asriel's heart.

 

Then life will stop being so dang bland that even something as bad as killing brings Asriel entertainment. He'll be fixed and normal again. He's not enjoying this, of course, it's just something he has to do. But he'll be able to be repulsed by the thought alone again, as he would have when he was still alive, when his feelings return.

 

Which they will. They have to. Asriel has to hold on long enough to meet Chara again. He'll never give--

 

"I was thinking," the obnoxious brat speaks in her stupid, annoying voice, "I could uh. Come a bit earlier for dinner tonight?"

 

...That one's new. She often just does that without telling dad beforehand. What changed in the last few loads?

 

She looks off to the side. "If you don't mind. It's fine if you do. I just--"

 

"I would love that. It is always a delight to have you around, old friend."

 

...

 

Tearing her arms off and watching her hurt. Getting her caught in a landslide. Eviscerating her. Pushing his vines through her blood vessels and tearing her heart up from inside. Carving new paths in her organs. Giving her a nice brew of buttercup tea. Maiming--

 

...This is all her fault. Asriel never... he wouldn't have caved in if she hadn't insisted on taking his place. Killing is what she forced him into. What he has to do. He must see the outcome of dad having never met her, or the closest thing he can achieve. He's curious about it, getting creative with it, because his existence right now in this wretched body is tethered to entertainment. Otherwise Asriel would never do nor think any of this. He just has to, because if he doesn't...

 

...He's soulless. It'll... It'll just be eternal darkness and silence as profound as the void his soul used to fill.

 

He'll give up, and he can't. He'd be a failure, let Chara down. And they'll come back one day, of that he's sure. Even a weak crybaby like Asriel could do it, he just needs to wait, be patient. If he hangs on, he'll see them again.

 

Then again, to last that long without succumbing to his own mind, he needs the boost of some feelings. Those only dad can provide, and while he's right there, there's a roadblock between him and Asriel.

 

All that stands in his way is dad's pesky little weed.

 

That despite their turmoil dad smiles at her the way he does makes Asriel seethe. What, he wants to see her die again? He wants to kill her again? Asriel will provide.

 

What will it be today? Dad already cried his eyes out yesterday when he was told there were several dust piles in Snowdin after the stupid monster kid's parents reported them missing. So, will he kill his little pet again, or should Asriel make him receive ghastly news once more?

 

The storm is a hassle to manage. It was fun the first time, but there are too many variables to contemplate when Asriel can be done with her with half the toil. Back then killing her directly felt weird, too much, a step too far. It still does, but now Asriel's become as numb to it as he has everything else in his miserable existence. At least his body's good enough for that, since his sensitivity in it is limited.

 

He has to favour efficiency now that he has a clear plan. It's a step in a larger process, a means to an end. He can hardly be held accountable for pushing this world to its limits when there's so little to do and the weed is so darn annoying.

 

Okay, no storm then. Getting into the doctor's lab is all too easy after having befriended her so many times in the past. So is infiltrating the CORE. But every other step of that plan's too cumbersome. So what then? What will Asriel use to wipe those damn smiles off their disgustingly happy faces?

 

He could just hide under her bed and kill her in her sleep and stage her suicide again; he can make it over to her place right before her alarm clock goes off. But where's the pragmatism in that? He needs dad to associate her with agony, not anguish. Not just her death; all of her. She, the mere thought of her, has to fill dad with dread and disgust. Once he's gotten that, Asriel wins. He just has to hold steady until then.

 

...The buttercup tea was just a stray thought earlier, but there might be something to it. A long, drawn-out death dad feels responsible for because he won't know Asriel switched out his perfectly safe tea with a buttercup brew could help him. But isn't that way too cruel?

 

Asriel's not cruel. He's not a cold-blooded killer. He's just stranded. There's no need for something like that.

 

Not yet at least.

 

They stand up to clear the table, the usurper says she'll help with that before leaving. The tops of their heads grow bizarrely in size from this perspective. The two of them, distracted with their stupid little feelings, reach out for the maple syrup bottle. The second their hands brush up against each other they both retract like they were electrocuted.

 

What the heck is wrong with them? Why are they like this all the time? They can hardly touch each other but they're worse than a moth and a flame when it comes to wanting to be together. Darn it.

 

Dad chuckles awkwardly. His laughter provokes a strand of hers. Which in turn tears a look of adoration from dad that needs to be eradicated from his stupid face.

 

Asriel will show them. He'll drag them down to the pit of hell he's in, deeper still, and use their sunken lives to hoist himself out of this agony.

 

-

 

They're in the training room again. Dad gets to kill her today as a treat, for that one look full of undue love he seared into Asriel's retinas this morning. This is his punishment.

 

She's in the changing room, getting into her armour or whatever. Dad's outside, sitting on the floor like last time. He's only directly killed her once and he's already reacting to the environment. He's eyeing his training trident oddly, as if he could still see her dust and scales on it from last time they were here. Face all scrunched up and pensive, regarding the familiar object as if he were holding a bomb.

 

It must've really scarred him for one single death of these to leave a mark, huh? Usually the ways dad reacts to past loads and resets are almost imperceptible. He didn't, for instance, avoid the Music Hall after he saw her get crushed there. He let her participate in the storm rescues all three times that scenario played out. He played piano with her again despite having been killed there once. Out of all of them, this is the only one where dad's having a major reaction.

 

Good. It means it's working. Settling for this death was a good idea.

 

Asriel would pay to get into dad's mind and read his thoughts. See how he feels about her, if he's starting to link her presence to unease, to guilt and horror. Since that isn't an option, Asriel will have to wait and see. His patience'll pay off in the end.

 

At last the little weed walks out. The clinking of her armour and its heavy steps don't accompany her footsteps though. She merely changed into something looser, more athletic. An old sleeveless tee that shows off how strong she is and some baggy pants, both garments grey.

 

Dad stands up, disproportionately tall from Asriel's place right above the floorboards, and walks up to her, equally concerned. "Is everything alright?"

 

She shrugs. "Yeah, it is. I just figured we haven't done any hand to hand combat in much longer than weapons sparring. Would you mind if...?"

 

Dad throws his trident to the floor. It rattles so much Asriel might as well be stuck in a small earthquake.

 

"You read my mind. I was going to ask the same."

 

Her relieved smile is more disgusting than watching her body unfurl at the seams Asriel's vines sews into her when he kills her directly. "Great minds think alike."

 

As they make their way to the center of the room and take their stances Asriel retreats under the floor. Crap. Crap crap crap. How's he going to get dad to kill her without weapons involved?

 

He closes his eyes-- No no, he can't save. Not until she's all greyed out; then he can save. Otherwise if he needs to go back to the beginning of today for any future scenario he won't be able to, since he can't reset. This means Asriel's gonna have to load to his save spot all the way back in the garden this morning if something goes wrong. Heck. If he sees her smile one more time he's gonna find a way to make the flower vomit, darn it.

 

Asriel needs to think. Dad's strong, very strong, so weapons aren't a requirement to kill her. But it's gonna be harder. Worst case scenario he has to wait until tomorrow, or any other day to end her. Let them have their little session and find another way to off her in the morning. But waiting so long...? Eugh, no. Asriel needs to finish this as soon as possible. Seeing them going about their daily lives is torture. He needs to break them before erasing her, dang it.

 

...They deserve this. They brought this upon themselves for being such pains.

 

There... There's one thing he can try that might be quicker than waiting to memorize their moves and loading all the time. It's risky, he wouldn't want dad to associate him with his little dog's death, but if done correctly dad won't even be sure what he saw. Like that one time in the storm where dad saw him by accident and was so shocked he stopped in his tracks. Back then dad almost got himself killed; no such risk in here. If Asriel pops out just for a second to distract him he might... Who knows? He could do something stupid.

 

Besides, the danger is almost negligible. Dad doesn't remember what happens between loads or resets. Even if he saw a golden flower, he's not gonna mistrust Asriel for the rest of eternity. He's thinking too much about this. There's not much to lose, and a lot of time to win if it works out in his favour.

 

It's a long shot, but both of them are already apprehensive about this one chain of events. That's extremely quick compared to others. Who knows what other chances Asriel will have to get dad to kill her without having to work inordinately for it? Their voluntary sparring sessions are the best opportunity he has; it's worth a shot.

 

Making them trip is another option if Asriel wants to take advantage of this sparring match, but she'll probably save herself with her stupid shields. But unless dad's literally an inch away from a very weak spot, like he was last time they were here, Asriel won't count on it. Her reflexes are obnoxiously good. She does deserve to be Captain.

 

What she doesn't deserve is to live and be remembered. Not pleasantly, at least.

 

...Dad is too good of a warrior for this to work, but Asriel has nothing to lose. He's going to lose this scenario after enough resets, when both of them associate it with pain and misfortune. Might as well do all there is to do on this stage before its actors stop coming.

 

So Asriel waits. Patiently he observes the intricate dance of flying fists and legs. The ducking and dodging, the dull thuds of blows and the way the floorboards groan. She pushes dad into a wall. He trips her and makes to stomp on her chest, but she rolls out of the way. He tries to punch her, but she grabs his arm and pulls him to the floor. She goes in for a kick as he stands, but he grabs her leg and tosses her across the room.

 

...Huh...

 

Asriel's seen dad train himself a lot over the years, both before and after dying. Dad's holding back with his little pet. Why? Is it how they've always trained, being careful not to actually hurt one another? Or are the memories of killing her here last time restraining him?

 

...Whatever it is, it's time to make him lose all restraint. Time to show his little dog the King's true strength.

 

The timing has to be perfect. This is already unlikely as it is; if Asriel chooses any arbitrary part of their session to distract dad he could be shooting himself in the foot. Roots? Whatever.

 

Their confrontation rattles the floor. Dad's trying to corner her against a dumbbell rack towards the back of the room. She's putting up a fight, trying to gain on him, but slowly but surely she's losing ground.

 

Perfect.

 

Asriel shoots through the floor and up the wall. He emerges in between two dumbbells several times larger than his body, framing the top and bottom of his field of sight. He changes his face to the one that scattered, and stares at dad.

 

Fierce and seasoned warrior as he is he doesn't take his eyes off his opponent. Eventually, hopefully soon, he's bound to take a quick look at his surroundings. Taking advantage of those and incorporating them into one's battle strategy is important, too. Dad never trained Asriel, said he was "too young" when he was alive, but he spoke about self-defense and battle sometimes. So far as mom the vile serpent he married wasn't around, that is.

 

The weed loses balance. She doesn't fall, but she drops to one knee. For one second if that long, dad stares ahead and his eyes clash with Asriel's. Good; this is the moment of truth. Asriel makes sure to don his most agonizing, terrified expression and shed a tear.

 

All of dad's inertia evaporates, leaving him staring at Asriel with his mouth agape. Asriel returns inside the walls, popping out between two boxes to the left to watch.

 

As dad stands limp, unaware, the usurper stands again, using the impulse to power a punch in dad's direction. Eyes wide and startled, he punches her hard.

 

The wet crunch and crack of bones fill the air as her broken body smashes into the dumbbell rack. The metallic ruckus mixes with the splintering and groaning of the floorboards where the hefty weights penetrate the floor.

 

On impact there's only dust.

 

...Holy. It worked. It worked much better than Asriel thought. That was amazing! It--

 

The floor rumbles when dad, breathing hard, falls to his knees. He stares from the dust that used to be his favourite toy, to his fist, to the spot Asriel taunted him from. He blinks a few times, processing. Before he can, Asriel loads.

 

-

 

Birds chirp as the frail sunlight caresses Asriel's petals. What a beautiful day it is. Sighing, content, he slithers into the earth and under the dining room table. There are two pairs of legs there. Just delightful.

 

His day's about to get much better.

Notes:

Prompt: one punch can kill.

Since this chapter's kinda short i was gonna update two in one go, but they cut the power off in my area because of maintenance in the building .-.

I'm not discarding uploading the other chapter later today, but no promises. I'm doing good on time to finish the challenge before year's end anyway, provided i keep updating two chapters/week from now on.

Anyway, hope it was worth your time and you enjoyed it. Thank you, until next time. Take care, everyone, and have a great day ^^

Chapter 15: Wait, For Real?

Notes:

Hey hi, sorry for the lack of updates last sunday and yesterday. I deadass forgot about this fic, oops. That means i'm one chapter behind my update schedule to finish this challenge before 2024, so expect a double-update at some point in the future to compensate for that. Thanks for interactions as always; i hope this chapter's worth your time ^^

"I'm just fine. I promise."

 

Asgore crosses his arms. He's frowning lightly from across the table. Great, now she's made him worry. He takes time out of his schedule for her and all she does is ruin his day.

 

"That is very obviously not the case," he insists, gesturing at all of her top to bottom. "Is it me you are trying to fool, or yourself?"

 

Coming here today was a mistake.

 

Dread has tailed Undyne since the moment she opened her eye this morning. It was everywhere, around and inside her. But she's been here before, so she pressed forwards. Stopping won't save her. On the contrary, it's the fastest way to losing.

 

That... That she can cope with. It crops up from time to time no matter how unexpectedly. It's within the standards of commonality for her. It's fine, it's normal.

 

What isn't is feeling this agitated around Asgore.

 

Whatever's wrong with her affects her perception of him as well. Every time he moves unexpectedly, even when he picked up a knife for his pancakes, she flinches. It's hard to look him in the eyes, uncomfortable. It makes no sense, but her gaze bounces off of his whenever they meet.

 

Being this jumpy is already unlike herself. That her closest and only friend is the one instilling these emotions in her is the second most disquieting thing Undyne has ever felt. What the hell is this about?

 

It's almost like... Almost like she's afraid of him. Which is stupid, because he's Asgore. She loves him.

 

He wouldn't hurt a fly. He cares about everyone and everything around him, he's the best person in the world. He's even capable of caring about kids whose parents don't want anymore. Whatever's happening, she shouldn't have brought it to his doorstep. Now he's wasting time and energy being concerned for her, all because she's a dismal actress when it comes to hiding her feelings no matter how stupid and baseless they are.

 

She stands up and grabs her bag. She slings it over her shoulders and grasps the straps tight. She shouldn't have come. Not in this state. This is ludicrous.

 

"Undyne..." He sighs more than says her name. She knows it. She knows she's a failure and he shouldn't have promoted her. How everyone who has a problem with her being the next Captain is right. She knows it, there's no need to be this obvious. Her best isn't going to be enough, it's never been. She's not good enough for Asgore, he's going to leave her too. Undyne's "best" wasn't even enough for mom to keep liv--

 

"Mommy... Please don't cry. Look! I-I drew you a pict--!"

 

She needs to leave. This isn't the time or place to be going through this. It's happening, sure, whatever. It'll pass like it always does, but not in front of Asgore. She can't disappoint him, she can't make him think she's weak. She's not, she's just-- It's nothing, it happens sometimes, it doesn't matter. She always overcomes it either way because she's not like her.

 

"She even holds her writing utensils like you did. Undyne is undeniably your daughter, Sy--"

 

"I'll see you for dinner." She's speeding over her words as much as she's rushing to the door, tripping over her shoes and her words alike.

 

Asgore sighs. Yes, yes, she gets it. He's pissed off and disappointed. She'll have to come up with something convincing to explain away her behaviour from here to dinner so he doesn't decide she's no longer the best candidate for--

 

"There is obviously something wrong today, Undyne." ...His tone isn't angry or exasperated. Not even defeated. It's just sad.

 

Somehow that's worse. She can't make him sad. Last time she failed to cheer someone up--

 

"For my s--"

 

"If you do not wish to tell me what, I will not force you. But I am asking you to stay where I can see you. Do not go off like this. Please, stay."

 

...

 

Behind her, still at the table, Asgore's eyes are doing the thing again. The one where they're sadder than is possible. His stare is an unabashed plea for her to comply, to stay with him.

 

But she can't. She can't stop and let it catch her, and she will not let it even touch Asgore. If it's behind her again she has to keep moving. Staying still is what--

 

"I... don't feel like it sweetheart. Sorry. Next time--"

 

There's something thick in the back of Undyne's throat. She swallows.

 

"I really can't. I'm sorry. Don't... Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I promise it'll be fine, I just need a moment."

 

Pathetic. Pathetic and weak, just fantastic. "Needing a moment?" As if the Captain could ever take time off for herself. This is ridiculous, she needs to get a grip. She can feel unsafe, stalked by death anywhere but in these walls. Here there's just Asgore, and hurting him, bringing him distress in any capacity, making his burden worse, is unacceptable.

 

Being the Captain was all about him, after all. About being there for him, returning the favour in the only way that matters, becoming useful at last. Why the hell would Asgore keep around someone like her if there weren't a purpose for her presence? He's the nicest person in the world, but he doesn't need her if she doesn't make herself convenient.

 

Nobody does. It's why mom--

 

Taking a deep breath to settle her racing heart and trembling hands, Undyne offers Asgore the best smile she can. Even if looking at him is hard for no good, justifiable reason, something within her withers and dies when he looks this downright miserable.

 

And it's her fault. If she hadn't come, if she'd followed her quiet instinct that her meeting with him would go awry, this wouldn't have happened. But no. She just had to because otherwise it's the same as stopping. And stopping means death and she can't die, but also she can't do this to him. Being afraid of him, of his voice, of the sight of the only person who's cared, is inexcusable no matter what bloodline blight is causing it.

 

"Is... Is it in me, too? If I'm just like mom, will I also--?"

 

"...You don't need to worry so much about me, you know?"

 

She resumes her pace towards the door. His heavy footsteps follow.

 

As thoughtful of him as caring about her is, he has enough unspoken suffering to deal with without her adding onto that load. After unlocking the door, she grabs the doorknob and turns to look at him over her shoulder. It's just a moment before her eye shoots away from his, but it's long enough. He's still sad and worried.

 

If she's a problem she'll remove herself. Simple and easy. Perhaps if she'd done so ten years ago--

 

"Are... Are you sure?" His voice is so quiet. So so small. He never raises his voice, not at her at least, but even if his normal tone is soft this is... It's heartbreaking. He has enough to deal with; she shouldn't be making it worse. Why the hell did she come here feeling like this?

 

"If-If you wish to stay with me, I could work from home." He lifts a hand--

 

Hers pushes down on the doorknob. It grinds and creaks as the door slides open, allowing the chill of New Home to wash into the warm entrance hall.

 

Why did she do that?! Why did she do that? Why on Earth did she do that?! He didn't need to know he's the source of her unease. He didn't do anything to deserve that. She did that without thinking, without putting a single neuron into it.

 

...This... This is what happened to her, isn't it? This feeling. It consumed her and made her life unliv--

 

Asgore blinks at Undyne, puzzled. He lowers his arm -which was only gesticulating, not threatening her in any capacity- to his side. "...Undyne?"

 

There's no rage biting his voice, no resentment. Only concern and, if anything, a smidgen of sorrow.

 

As if he didn't have enough. Turns out every person who said she isn't qualified to be Captain was right. What thehell was that about?

 

"...Is it something I did?" His expression is so pitiful it almost makes her step back inside and close the door behind her. Almost. Nothing could make her go back in there. Not just because for some unforgivable reason the house feels like a mousetrap designed for her specifically, but because there's absolutely no way she's going to continue ruining Asgore's day.

 

She's already done enough.

 

"Are you angry at me? Did I bother you?"

 

What the hell is wrong with her?! Hurting Asgore is a sin. He's the best person in the world, he only deserves kindness and warmth. He needs someone to support him, not go haywire on him. Isn't sacrificing his mortality enough? Isn't his hard work and his inescapable destiny sufficient of a burden?

 

"Of course not." She shakes her head. "I just..."

 

...Just what, exactly? What is wrong with her? 'I woke up wrong again, it hasn't happened in years, but it's happening again and for some reason I'm not smart enough to make out, it just so happens you're making it worse. I'm being punished and I made it your problem. Instead of keeping my emotions in check I just went off the deep end and got jittery and made you worry about nothing.'

 

She can't say that. That's not an acceptable answer for her boss. Just how the hell is she going to finish her sentence now? Why is she so stupid?

 

...There's a reason mom didn't love her, isn't there?

 

"Mommy, I brought you flowers! I think-I think they'd look so pretty in your hair, and--"

 

It's obvious he's not having a great day, either. She noticed it as soon as she walked through the door. He's quiet and pensive, and he's looking at her with all the warmth in the world all the same despite everything. She isn't the only one hurting today, but she's the only one managing it as well as a toddler would like the pathetic loser she is.

 

Everyone's right. She isn't cut to be Captain. She isn't cut out for anything. The only thing she's ever reliably been is useless.

 

"Mom... Is it because of me? Are you angry at me? You don't smile anym--"

 

"I'm not angry at you, okay? You didn't do anything wrong, this doesn't have anything to do with you."

 

Just with her, and it's making her not cross, but scared of him, as ridiculous as that is. Which is, incidentally, infinitely worse.

 

"I just... have to go. I have to go."

 

Stellar excuse, just fantastic. That certainly won't concern him more, make him waste more energy being worried for her when objectively, there is nothing wrong.

 

Behind her, beneath--

 

She steps out of range the house. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

 

She's already screwed up enough. It's time to leave him alone and get away from here not to feed into her senseless fear, but to get a grip, pull herself together, and be all fine and normal for her promotion next week. If there's even a promotion next week.

 

"Wait, wait," Asgore insists, leaning against the door frame. "...You... You know that if anything is bothering or hurting you... anything at all, you can talk to me, right? You know I am here for you?"

 

The gentle warmth in his voice as he offers to support her as unconditionally as he always has clots up in her heart, almost making her tear up. Why is she tearing up?

 

...He's just saying that, it doesn't mean anything. They've never... That's not the kind of relationship they have. It's not one where Undyne burdens him more with her objectively meaningless problems. They've never done this and they're not starting now. He's nice, the sweetest, but it'd be inappropriate to take him up on that offer. He's her boss, after all. She wouldn't know where to begin, it'd be shameful to say it out loud, and worst of all it'd be adding problems to his life instead of removing them.

 

He's being nice to her. The nicest thing she can do in return is smile wide and assuage the meaningless concern she's infected him with.

 

"Thank you," is all she manages. "I'll... I'll see you later for dinner, as planned."

 

By then she'll be better. She'll be better if it's the last thing she does.

 

Hesitant, still frowning, Asgore nods. "Do... Do you promise? I will see you later?"

 

...Damn everything. She made him worry a lot. Nothing she'll do can compensate or justify this. If he decides he'd rather literally anyone else be beside him during his ascension and the impending war, she'll understand. Toddlers with temper tantrums are best suited for kindergarten, not positions of supreme responsibility where they're in charge of lives.

 

She was the reason mom caved in, wasn't she?

 

"Mom, mom, wake up. I had a nightmare. I--"

 

She nods, smiling as wide as she can. It's the one convincing lie she can tell, the one that doesn't involve words. "I promise. I'll see you later, and I'll be just fine. You don't have to worry about me."

 

"Alright." He grabs the door but stops before closing it. "I will call you this morning, if that is alright with you."

 

"Of course. But don't bother with that, don't waste time. I'm fine Asgore."

 

She doesn't need to be looking at him full on to realize he's giving her the same disbelieving look he gave her when she insisted she hadn't been the one to break his accent table. As if there were any other spear-summoning eleven year-olds around who'd been told explicitly not to summon spears indoors.

 

"I will call you. That is not negotiable. I want to hear from you, I..." He looks down. "I care for you, you know?"

 

...

 

Of course he does. There's no reason to be feeling all soft inside or for her throat to get tighter; it's not like it's special. There's no reason for someone like her to be special to him. He cares about everyone, that's his whole deal. It's not special.

 

He cares about everyone.

 

She nods. "Worrywart. I'll be alright. Everything's good, old timer. I promise."

 

Still saddened and unconvinced, he nods. "Take care."

 

He hesitates before closing the door, but shuts it at last, bathing Undyne in the lukewarm trickles of the heaters inside.

 

...

 

...She needs, most of all, to calm the hell down. Immediately. She can figure out the rest later.

 

-

 

Did it really get better if she's been unable to talk to Asgore on the phone?

 

It's... It's the same old with a slightly new spin. Undyne's no stranger to this... feeling, inside her. She's had it on and off since she was ten; she used to think it was a punishment. And who knows; maybe it is. It's always present to a degree, but more often than not she can ignore it and it goes away. The stronger episodes such as this one mostly disappeared after her eighteenth birthday. That was the last time she co-existed with this nightmare until now.

 

She's in Waterfall. Right now she's home, where she grew up, the only place that feels the slightest bit safe in this damn penitentiary.

 

She's always lived here. The rocky deep blue walls bejeweled cyan, the glowing mushrooms and echo flowers, the thick scent of the swamp... It's the best part of the prison. It's the one location besides Asgore's house and the training room where she can relax. Every corner is familiar, every path and cavern. The swaths of grass taller than her close in from the sides but they're not looming or threatening, they're comforting.

 

When she was a child and she was overwhelmed she'd sit in them and hide. Nobody had any expectations from her where they couldn't see her, or so it felt. The thick curtains of navy blue engulfing her always made her feel like just for a moment she was free from everything.

 

The eyes of people scrutinizing her for being a rambunctious child at first. The pitying, condescending gazes later. The judgmental ones in more recent times. The only way to make them vanish from the back of her eyelids was to disappear into tall grass for a while. Then she could just be.

 

...She could... No. It's ridiculous, she shouldn't. She's no longer a carefree child nor an angsty teenager. She's a fully grown adult with adult responsibilities. She's the youngest Captain in the history of the Underground, she needs to get a grip.

 

It's... This damn feeling, it's imploding and exploding at once. Freezing and burning. It's the same sensation she had ten years ago, when her neighbour walked in and found her in the same position she must've been in for hours.

 

Standing there in the orange living room, looking down at mom's remains, at the letter buried in them. Undyne followed every trace of black ink with her eyes, the three words indicating who it was addressed to. "Sweetheart" was only visible up to the h, the rest covered by mom's dust. She'd been wearing the orange dress, the linen one with golden flowers embroidered around the hem. The one she asked Undyne to choose a sash for. She chose green because she has no sense of fashion, but mom accepted it all the same.

 

The dress and sash along with the brown fuzzy slippers, her golden wedding band and the locket were strewn across a pile of dust. Half of it was on the floor, the other was scattered over the wooden chair she'd used to hoist herself up to the noose. All along, the overhead cast the noose's shadow over Undyne. Its length hit around where her eyes were, since she was still rather short.

 

She tried not to look at it. Dhe knew it was right there, she knew what it had done. It was above her, so she kept her gaze down on mom's remains against the red floor, paralyzed. She stared and stared until their neighbour, the old widow whose name started with an S, who always knitted scarves for the orphans and would soon be knitting onre for Undyne, came home to return mom her cupcake molds.

 

She took Undyne by the hand when she found her. She'd left the door unlocked after school, going straight to mom to tell her about her day, and then she'd stayed in the living room, watching the dust as if it would rematerialize and mom would say "Just kidding, sweetheart, I'm still here."

 

In that moment, with her hand in her neighbour's, being more or less dragged out of the room, was the first time Undyne felt it for the first time. A cold sweat for her soul rather than her body. A frigid nausea in the pit of her stomach. Something frozen solid in her throat, making it impossible to cry or speak or do anything but let herself be pulled away.

 

The more she walked out of the room, the closer her neighbour lead her to the entrance hall and then outside, she couldn't see the noose anymore, but its shadow was still there. It didn't cover her eyes, but its shadow was strewn on the floor ahead of her. She had to walk through its shadow, through its shape, to leave the room.

 

At a certain point the rounded part, the one mom had hung from, fit perfectly around Undyne's head's shadow, and she knew she was doomed. The cold sweat, cold nausea, cold silence, erupted into hot red repulsion and fear alike, and no matter how far she walked away form the house she could still feel it behind her. Still hanging there, swaying, inviting. Taunting her, beckoning her, becoming her siren call.

 

Her punishment for not being good enough. Her blight. Her own personal ghost.

 

...It's not there, obviously. It's never been. It must have been taken down before the house was sold again. And then it was tossed into the garbage, or it was burnt, or sold, or remade into a dress someone wears unaware it might as well be the reaper's tunic. But from time to time throughout her childhood, and lesser so through her teens, Undyne's been filled by the same emotion where her world collapsed into rubble and rebuilt itself in a different way in the span of a second.

 

A new world without mom, where Undyne was alone. Where no matter how much she'd tried to make mom happy again she failed, and mom died. Because Undyne wasn't good enough, or too stupid, or too needy and annoying.

 

The world had been warm once, reliable, and then it wasn't. And it was her fault.

 

It was cold, freezing cold, within and without her. Suddenly it was searing hot, then cold again. And there was nowhere safe, because her own living room was infected with the stench of death. Death was everywhere, in the most unexpected of places, in the rafters of houses and among dresses once sewn with love.

 

In the people she most trusted, most loved, most needed. And nothing was ever the same. Her first dalliance with death has been an unwanted passenger in her head ever since.

 

She takes the first step towards the tall grass. This is ridiculous, but then again so is the notion that a noose removed a decade prior is somehow stalking her for life; and no amount of rationalizing that has ever made it go away. Hell, after two years of peace, of never again contending with the noose's shadow caressing the nape of her neck, it's coming back with a vengeance, as if to say "Did you miss me, sweetheart?" in the voice of the woman who thought death was preferable than living with her daughter.

 

Screw the guy who told her to "invite friends and family" knowing damn well she has none. He stirred something in her, didn't he?

 

That's it, right?

 

...Undyne's tall enough now that, if she stands inside the grass, she isn't immediately blanketed by the soothing darkness she craves. Little shards of Waterfall's blue light filters through the tops of grass blades.

 

How embarrassing it is, to be sitting here now, at twenty years of age. That's how old Asgore was when he was crowned king. His father was killed by humans and he, sole surviving heir of the royal bloodline, stepped up to lead his people to the Underground and, from there, proceed to make a functional society out of a prison of rock where only a statistically negligible percentage of the population ends up losing hope and--

 

"For my sweetheart."

 

Fuck statistics. For their families it's not "negligible." Then again, it isn't Asgore's fault the situation is so dreadful, unlike what the literal shit-for-brains subset of monsters who don't think Asgore's a good leader seem to believe.

 

...The cold feeling imprinted into her mind when she saw the dust, and the searing hot overwhelm when she was taken out of the room, the fear of knowing the thing that stole mom from her was behind her and what felt like attempting to reunite her with mom... It's just. It's everywhere today. And while she's felt this before, it's never been like this.

 

It's usually after some stressor or trigger. A reminder, a sentence, an old neighbour, another nightmare of standing there, looking down at what had once been mom's body, as the noose's shadow closes in tighter and tighter around Undyne's neck. Something more than some asshole being a douche; she's more than used to that.

 

It's not supposed to come from random places, like the Riverperson's river, or an arbitrary cliff in Waterfall, or the dark alley on the side of MTT's hotel, or the ground in general. And it's most definitely not supposed to emanate from people.

 

Let alone Asgore.

 

...Asgore's the only person who cares. The only one who didn't see an annoying orphan in her who was acting out to be difficult, who didn't think she was a lost cause and her only hope would be to age out of the system and find some menial, meaningless job. He saw something in her that he bothered to polish and refine. He's the reason she has the closest thing she can to having a real life down here. Being afraid of him...

 

Undyne closes her eye. It doesn't make a difference down here, on the damp and rocky floor of Waterfall. Sitting she's completely surrounded by darkness. She doesn't exist in here. If she doesn't move, if she doesn't betray her position, she just is. Not the Captain, not Asgore's protegée, not the seamstress' orphan, not the resident problem child. She just is and isn't all at once.

 

It's the best state of being.

 

...It's not even that she was afraid of him. It was the visceral pain in the gills of the right side of her neck. The sensation of tendons and muscles being severed. Also a dull ache in her head, the front of her face, across the bones of her back. Shoulder blades and skull, spine and eye. As if she's been... shoved, or something, into some hard surface. As if she'd been hit so strongly the roof of her mouth had been splintered.

 

Asgore made her feel that. Which is insane, because of course he wouldn't, he would never, but it suddenly hit her how, as the king, he can technically do whatever and be fine.

 

And that's unforgivable on her end. Asgore would never abuse his power to hurt people, or for any reason for that matter. To feel that way with him is beyond farcical. It's disgusting, it's repulsive, it's inexcusable.

 

Even... Even when mom... Even when mom couldn't love her... He still cared.

 

Of having a father--

 

Okay, this is embarrassing. This is so fucking embarrassing. Then again, so is being terrified of a noose stuck in the past. The thoughts Undyne usually swats away like flies are trapped in her head today. It's being such a day, isn't it? Fucking hell.

 

Undyne's never known much about fathers. Dad died shortly after her egg hatched; an accident in the CORE. Mom hardly spoke of him; Asgore went to his funeral too. Undyne was just a newborn, but she was there when he gave mom his condolences. She must've been, years before her brain wasn't developed enough to even understand who he was, or just how vital he'd be in her life.

 

She can't disappoint him. Because although to him she's another serial number in the Royal Guard, if anything one he once pitied more than the others, to him she's all she has left.

 

It's her fault. She shouldn't feel like this towards him, it's preposterous. She's twenty, she doesn't need a family anymore. This is pathetic beyond belief; but it's where she's at it seems. What a nightmare.

 

...Alright, she can't think like this. She swore off it when she was fifteen and she told him about her girlfriend dumping her. She realized after the fact, too late, how out of place that was. How wrong and selfish it was to do that. For one it was simply improper. Friendly as Asgore might be, he's still her boss. His kindness doesn't supersede that no matter what he says.

 

Secondly, he already had kids. He doesn't need a useless idiot like her for anything. If he knew she'd ever considered him the closest she could get to a parental unit after mom left, he would hate her and rightfully so. Just because Asgore's the only person kind enough to tolerate Undyne doesn't mean he has to feel anything remotely familial towards her. They are boss and employee, they're friends. Anything else is pushing it, and Undyne's succeeded at shoving it to the back of her mind until today.

 

...But what caused it? Why now? Was it really just the instruction to bring loved ones to the ceremony? Did she... Did she have a dream again? Another nightmare or something? But if she did, why doesn't she remember? Why isn't this episode the usual? Just the vague sensation that she's stalked by death, that whatever befell mom is doomed to repeat with her, as always?

 

There's something like the feeling she gets from the noose's phantom radiating from beneath her, as if the ground could curl around her neck and pull until it breaks. And also from Asgore, as if he'd ever hurt her or something. And it's never been like this, or this intense. It's never come with echoes of recognition in every corner of the Underground, as if Undyne had lived through every moment already and proceeded to immediately forget.

 

...There's something really wrong with her. Maybe she's coming down with something.

 

"What's the word... genetic? Is it genetic? If mom lost hope, will I also--?"

 

...Bringing that back too, huh? Her head's searching far and wide for ways to torment her today. This fixation with death, feeling it everywhere like an inescapable force of nature hiding in every nook in cranny, is one she hasn't had since she was ten, in the direct aftermath of mom's funeral, and she was oh so kindly introduced to the concept of madness running in families by some kid older than her at the orphanage. It obsessed her for years, the idea that whatever mom felt, what lead her to think death would be better, would stalk Undyne, too.

 

It's... Maybe the most normal part of everything is that, after mom's funeral, all Undyne could think about for a while was death. What it felt like, if it hurt, if mom had been able to think and feel anything, what she'd experienced leading up to that forsaken day that lead her to believe death was the correct way out, if she'd left because she hated Un--

 

"And if she loved me, why did she leave? I tried so hard to make her happy ag--"

 

Yes, there was a time, one very, very long ago, when Undyne feared what happened to mom was hereditary. Everyone said mom and her were similar both physically and in temperament, and back in those days Undyne too wanted to follow in mom's footsteps and become a seamstress herself. It stood to reason, to her stupid kid logic, that if she and mom were so alike, Undyne too would end up like her. If not as some sort of bloodline blight, some ineludible destiny hard-coded into her bloodline, then as a punishment.

 

Losing hope little by little, slowly and agonizingly, until she was cursed to give up... Feeling so bad death was better without regards for who was left behind... It got stuck in Undyne's head and, while it left in time, it still resurfaces occasionally, for some reason or some other. And that's laughable and all, but sometimes when she can still feel the noose hanging behind her that belief buries itself in her bones until her head unscrambles itself and she's normal again.

 

Yeah, she can die. She's a soldier; big shock there; it's not like she didn't know the risks the job entailed. After all this time this shouldn't be hitting her so hard again. It shouldn't be happening at all; there's no reason for her to see painful death everywhere she steps foot, this is beyond unreasonable. What's the deal with that?

 

...Who would even care except her?

 

She doesn't... She doesn't want to die. Not now. Death is part of what might happen to her in her line of work, but... Undyne hasn't even lived yet. She's just on standby, waiting until the moment where it's actually safe to live. Because trying to live down here is fucking stupid. Just as stupid as the dumb kid who thought hugs and flowers would make mom want to live again. As stupid as the darn idiot who thought hopelessness was hereditary. As stupid as the useless kid who nobody gave a crap about except Asgore because she spent her every waking hour wondering what had happened to mom, exactly, to want to die.

 

All morning long... All through her workout, for the first time ever... Undyne wanted to give up. She wanted to go back to the house and play piano for a while; every fiber of her body begged of her. Staying where she was supposed to be instead of dropping it all in favour of a piano session effective immediate was like pulling teeth.

 

Her fingers craved to tune it, get lost in it, not know how much time passed until her wrists started hurting. Just like when she was a kid old enough to be sitting here after another bad day at school nursing another bruise or black eye. She wanted to cook something fresh, clean up the house a little, get a book from the Librarby. Those are all things Undyne wants to do, things she grapples with more often than she cares to admit.

 

But, much like everything else today, not to this degree. Not with the intensity that seems to scream this is her final chance ever to live. That she'll never make it to the Surface, that if she wants to live she best do it here and now if she doesn't want it to pass her by. Which is stupid, because there's no point to living down here. This corner of hell sucks the life out of absolutely everyone foolish enough to try living in it.

 

It's one thing to miss doing the things she loves, to crave having a moment for them even if she rationally knows no amount of time dedicated to anything but the liberation of monsterkind is justified. But to need it like this...? It's just... another weird form of fearing death, huh? Not so much death, as much as not having lived. Two sides of the same coin neither of which makes a shred of sense without a clear detonator. Not like this.

 

Undyne wallowed for hours and hours as a kid in thoughts of how tasteless and bad everything had to be for death to feel better. Like the sane, only acceptable way out. She pondered it until she cried, and then she made a scene and the other kids in the room got upset and told her to shut up. So she'd get into fights; make herself more of a nuisance, more unlovable, and Heavens, suddenly it makes sense that mom hung herself just to get rid of--

 

"She didn't lose hope, idiot. She was trying to get away from you because you're so loud."

 

...Hereditary madness... The noose stalking her... Thoughts of death... Being a bit too attached to Asgore... It's been so long. It's been so, so long since she's had any of these thoughts. She's tried to ignore them all day long, but even after finishing her training and all it's still here. It hasn't even soothed itself a little, it's present in full force. In her chest, about to implode and explode at once, as if not a minute had gone by from the moment she saw her shadow mingling with the noose's.

 

She presses her hands' heels against her eye and the empty socket beside it. Asgore wrote. She got shivers when he did, the tingling in her gills and her skull returned, but she managed to reply. Answering verbally when he called though, hearing his voice distorted through both their phones, was a different story. She tried to answer to his questions, to say she could hear him, but she ended up chickening out and texting him her signal was bad.

 

It wasn't. She was just afraid of him for no good, valid reason.

 

Afraid of Asgore. Afraid of the only person who has ever--

 

She stands. Her heart hurts from the ceaseless, pounding palpitations it's subjected her to all day long. Sitting here's doing her no good. If anything, communing with her child self, invoking her by partaking in the same childish, ridiculous ritual of "vanishing" into darkness, is making everything worse. That kid was stupid and pathetic anyway; it's a good thing Undyne grew up and left that useless freak behind. She--

 

Something touches her shoulder.

 

She turns around, manifesting two spears in her hands. Their hum and the rustling her sudden movement caused fill the silence, echoing until they die out. The spears' light is torn by the blades of grass engulfing them.

 

...Did she imagine that? Was that--?

 

She's not risking it. She's never had tactile hallucinations before no matter how bad the episode was; it's not worth assuming now. She starts walking backwards, keeping her spears ahead of her. Her footsteps and the whispering grass are quiet. Too soft to cover any sound preluding danger.

 

The turquoise light of her spears turns the darkness into ribbons of light and dark. Long, sharp shadows deeper than hell are cast by the grass blades brushing up against her weapons and body. They contrast violently with the brightness of her spears' glow, sliding and shifting as Undyne forces her spears through.

 

Undyne squeezes the spears. She wills another six to appear around her, imprisoning her. It should be a deterrent for--

 

It taps on her other shoulder twice.

 

She whips her head around, spear clashing with the solid beams of cyan light she conjured for protection. ...Behind her. It went from being ahead of her to behind her without making a sound...?

 

...Under ground. It's coming from beneath her. It's the source of her anxiety, of her looming dread. She's been feeling it from the ground all along. How did she know...?

 

No time. She has to run. Being silent be damned; the enemy already knows where she is. Undyne faces forwards and dashes to--

 

Her leg is pulled back violently by something attached firmly around her ankle. She slices through it so fiercely she cuts through her own flesh, sucking air through gritted teeth as her eye waters in pain.

 

It's behind her. Where it's always--

 

Fuck that, no. There's no noose behind her; never has been. Mom isn't calling out to her, demanding her to--

 

Undyne stands up and resumes her run. She promised Asgore she'd be there later, that it'd be alright. No matter what bizarre, inexplicable emotions have taken hold of her, she wants to see him. She has a lot to do, there's a long way ahead until they're all free. She can't... She can't die here. Not without having first--

 

Her other ankle is tangled. She was running so fast the impulse knocks her to the ground. Her knee cracks against the rocky floor hard. Doesn't matter; she twists around and swipes at the vine entrapping her again. As she severs the ties something pushes the back of her head, smacking it into the rocks as well-

 

Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. The spears' lights glow diffused; her eye's out of focus. Fuck. She stands up using her left spear for support.

 

Mom wants her to--

 

No, no! Undyne's not like her; she's not going to die. Not now; it's too soon. Besides, it wasn't her fault? Or was it? She's almost out. Almost. As soon as she's out of here she's going to conjure spears around this patch of grass. If whoever is toying with her is a jokester they're going to pay for it dearly. If they're a genuine threat, they will never leave alive.

 

She'll see to it.

 

The blue light of an echo flower squeezes itself through the blades of grass ahead. Almost--

 

A tight tangle of vines wraps around her abdomen. She cuts--

 

Shit. Thorns. They have thorns digging under her scales and into--

 

Behind her to the right a voice sounds. It's quiet, barely a whisper, but its disturbing, high-pitched giggles filter through the humming of her spears. She lifts a hand. A burst of light shredded by the grass emanates from the spot she lifted six spears into.

 

She'd never conjured them from so deep under the earth. She'd never needed to before.

 

The voice quiets to a shuddering gasp and the vines recoil, falling limp to her feet. Undyne holds her stomach as soon as it does. Something cold and moist sloshes against her fingers with a squelching sound. That smell... What the hell is that? It seeps into the very tissue of her lungs until she gags. That's---

 

...Those are her innards. Hanging out of her, against her hand. That thing tore her apart. It--

 

Never mind that; she's getting the hell out of here. She can't think about it right now, that's all. She needs to ensure the enemy has been subdued and then she can seek help. At least... At least they're not completely falling out of her. She can hold this waterfall of organs and fluids in the palm of one hand. She has a very small incision, all things considered.

 

She's not going to die. Not here, not today. She did it, she survived. She gets to live.

 

She staggers and stumbles more than walks towards the source of the laboured breathing and wheezing which replaced the giggling. She pushes blades of grass out of her face, allowing the full brightness of her weapons both blind and guide her to the exact spot the fiend lays.

 

Swatting away the last of the grass, still hunched in pain, Undyne looks down--

 

...

 

That's...

 

Her spears, crisscrossed in every direction, are holding up the penetrated, convulsing body of a small child. They can't be older than four, coughing up something dark that drips from the sides of their mouth. Their little eyes are wide open as they struggle to breathe.

 

She...

 

Undyne opens her mouth to say something, but her voice is missing. She reaches a hand out as the child trembles and explodes into dust. It gets caught in the grass, sticks to her hand, and falls to the ground.

 

...There's... There's no way the child was the one who... They couldn't...

 

Her spears vanish, and with them the light.

 

...She killed a child. An innocent kid, in such a gruesome way. She took the life of someone she'd sworn to protect. Her paranoia, her dismal mental state, made her attack without being sure first. She acted without thinking. Now she's a murderer.

 

A child murderer. She killed--

 

Something slithers in the distance. The grass rustles, closer and closer until--

 

*

 

One hit? Seriously?

 

How disappointing.

 

Asriel recalls his vine. He doesn't even get to pull it out of the usurper's body; she turned to dust the second he went through her. What a shame.

 

Well that was underwhelming. He went through all the hassle of befriending the dumb monster kid and see how the weed would react to killing them just for her to fall so soon? She kills one person by accident, without any genuine ill intent, and she loses all hope?

 

Asriel sighs. Darn, she's useless. Dad was definitely desperate to replace Asriel. He took whatever came first without looking for any real quality. What a waste.

 

Alright... Moving forwards he can stop wasting time befriending the dumb monster kid. Asriel's been able to see for himself just how much they still remember their sibling. They're willing to follow Asriel literally anywhere, including the forest in Snowdin and the most distant of grass patches in Waterfall, if Asriel promises to reunite them with the dang sweater's owner. Now that he's had the thief kill them herself and see her reaction Asriel has nothing left to do with that stupid kid. From now on he'll spare himself the pain of getting close to them.

 

He loads again.

Notes:

Prompt: famous last words

Chapter 16: Trial and Error

Notes:

Belated update; was pressed for time yesterday. Enjoy!! I hope

Waterfall is as beautiful as ever, but it is not soothing tonight.

 

A sliver of it is visible through the window in Undyne's dirty, white kitchen; half of an echoflower against the never-ending navy blue rock cavern wall. Undyne let Asgore do the dishes at last, he finally convinced her to take a seat and relax. She is sitting at the table still, since she does not have a couch. Truly, she should get one.

 

Then again, convincing her to make a life down here is about as productive as repeatedly headbutting a wall. She is allowing life to pass her by without engaging in it, at a distance.

 

"Excuse me. Do you want to know how to beat me?"

 

It is his fault. How fitting.

 

...She is not alright today. Worse than usual. He noticed something this morning, when she phoned to say she would not be able to make it to their breakfast date. Everything was already prepared, out on the table. It is unlike her to cancel a plan so suddenly for motives so vague.

 

If that was not bad enough, her voice was flat. Her voice, which is loud, vibrant, full of the life pulsating under her scales, lacked vivacity.

 

She insisted on her asinine plan of going through with her needlessly intense workout instead of taking care on her day off. At the mere suggestion of staying indoors and sleeping in for once, her tone darkened as she said she had to continue and nothing would make her stop.

 

Asogre had the impulse to visit her. It formed deep within him, as if seeing her were a core necessity. She was not alright and she was going to force herself. He did not dream he could stop her if her mind was made up, but he could at least try. Try to keep her safe, from hurting herself, offer her support if she wanted it.

 

...Then again, being the reason as he is for her lack of interest in life in the Underground, being the sole culprit for her eternal obsession with postponing life until she can live it under the sun, he is the least indicated person to try assisting her in that regard. Was he not the one who validated her desire for conflict?

 

How could he help her with the problem he himself caused? If she believes taking care is optional, that her life is a worthy sacrifice in the name of freedom, was he not the one who planted such ideas in her head?

 

There is never a child under his care--

 

"Hey, dad... Can... can you help me? It hurts so m--"

 

To make matters more concerning, Undyne did not pick up the phone when Asgore called her during his lunch break and afterwards. She only replied to his messages. She said she was alright in all of them, yet Asgore could not find an ounce of truth in her words.

 

He carried his worry for her all day long, weighing down on him in his office and silent house alike. It even managed to overshadow the vague yet disquietingly familiar melancholy he woke up with. The one he cannot count on to predict the arrival of a human, but which echoes the faint déjà vu humans' time foolery leaves behind. His worry for Undyne's well-being was such it temporarily exiled the dread for another gruesome murder and the war it would bring with it.

 

The remaining blue eye, unseeing, peering into Asgore's very soul--

 

Asgore contacted the Guard and Dr. Alphys all the same. Yet again, predictably, his desolate emotional state was the product of his own actions and memories. And, relieving as that is, the restlessness within him did not fade.

 

He needed to see her. The impulse to go visit her entrenched itself in Asgore's mind and refused to let go. It peeked at him as he tried to focus on work, converse with his secretary or his citizens, and reply to phone calls and letters. Omnipresent, reminding him she was unwell and she was, worst of all, alone.

 

...She has nobody besides him. Even if he is the worst company for everyone her, even if he is to blame, leaving her to her devices could prove dangerous. Sometimes people need someone to rely on, someone to talk to. If they keep their feelings barred within their soul for too long, the pain just might...

 

"Asgore, come quick. Chara is bleeding from the mouth. They ate--"

 

He enjoys Undyne's company, he always seeks it out. For the majority of their days where both their schedules do not allow for an in-person meeting, calling or texting her is as fixed a part of his schedule as breathing. Yet today far from longing for her presence, he needed it. The looming dread of knowing something was wrong with her would not leave him be.

 

He is perfectly acquainted with one of the potential outcomes of emotions never being aired out. As Undyne has constructed her life down here to be anything but, she has also made it her mission to alienate anyone she might grow the slightest bit attached to.

 

His sole respite as the day progressed was the certainty she would come over for dinner and he would see her. That in the end, after worrying for hours, she would be in his sight and he could rest assured she was as fine as she insisted she was.

 

Then she texted she would not come, either, that he was right and she was tired, and the ghosts haunting his silent house fell quiet. Yet the anguish within rose.

 

...She is not his. He took no responsibility for her. He could have taken her out of the orphanage yet he did not. She is not his, he elected to keep it this way, he protected her. And still, he cannot help but worry for her the same he did for--

 

"Young man! Young liege! Listen to your mother and stop running around the hallway, plea--"

 

It would be a lie to say having thoughts of such caliber is novelty. It is not. They happen more often than Asgore would like, which, considering how marvelous she is, is hardly his fault. Typically he is able to cast them aside, out of sight where they belong. She is not his, after all. She would never see him in such a light; she already had parents she profoundly loved, even if...

 

"She left me. She didn't want--"

 

Surely this is wrong. It cannot be right, it is for the best that she is not his own. But today the fear surrounding her absence has not allowed Asgore to shy away and redirect his mind. On the contrary, the more he attempted to focus on the paperwork before him, the more thoughts and concerns for her safety and wellbeing popped into his mind. Trying to ignore his sentimental thoughts did nothing but amplify them.

 

Last time someone he loved as dearly as he does her bottled up their emotions...

 

"Asgore... Asgore, Chara's not breathing. Why aren't they--?"

 

It must be her silence. Her bizarre disappearance in the morning, the vacant intonation in her voice, her apparent inability to pick up the phone and speak to him, missing dinner... It was concerning. More so, though, was not knowing the motive behind her sullen mood.

 

After all, Asgore always knows what causes Undyne to falter. It is one of two things: her mother, or the desire for freedom itching so deep within her she can never scratch it. The bloodlust he bestowed upon her keeping her squirming, the anger burning inside her, giving her eye the light she seems to have lost.

 

Looking at her, to Asgore, can generally tell which one is the source for her unease: if caused by her mother, Undyne tends to be more anxious, more focused, more driven. Enraptured by anything and everything around her to keep herself from feeling an iota of the pain she has repressed for the past decade, determined.

 

When it is freedom concerning her, counter-intuitively, she becomes more quiet, calmer. She is perfectly aware justice for her kin is a waiting game and despairing will not help. Her speech becomes more paused, her mannerisms gentler. Not in a sad, hopeless way way. She is merely pragmatic. For all her impulsivity, she is fantastic at containing it when she knows nothing will come of excessive eagerness.

 

...But this? Last Asgore saw her like this she was ten years old, approaching the locket covered in her mother's remains and fastening it around her neck. Five minutes later she would spring to action and try to "show Asgore who was strongest" in retaliation for the weakness she perceived in him; for losing the war and leaving her mother trapped in a prison that killed her. And ever since, Asgore has seen Undyne angry, violent, sarcastic, irritating, even.

 

But never quiet. Not like this.

 

It is only natural, taking her worrisome behaviour into account, that Asgore had to see her personally. If she was tired he could use that as an excuse to come by her house and visit her. Help her with dinner, with whichever chores she insisted she had to do before bed time despite never dedicating a second of her life to anything of the sort.

 

He may be the source of her bleak outlook on life, but he will not leave her alone. She is not alone, and it is vital she knows that.

 

Every child should know they are important and valued. Otherwise...

 

"Asriel? Asriel, where did you go? Why did you take--?"

 

Asgore started getting ready, gathering some ingredients for dinner and tea afterwards, since she would not have any groceries, when a stray thought crossed his mind and remained stuck there until this very moment.

 

All he saw was blood drenching his fur, warm and glistening under his white kitchen light, and he wondered with his fingers still grasping the cupboard's handle how he could prepare anything for her, help her, with the same hands he reaped the lives of six children with. That, if he cares for her as much as he does, he should steer clear of her to keep her safe, as he convened with himself nine years ago.

 

For Undyne there is nothing more important than protecting the innocent. Yet slaughtering them until their spirits break is Asgore's specialty.

 

"Please... I just want to go home! I--"

 

...Asgore has taken precautions. He did not take her in when he had the impulse to. He put distance between them, he has kept her safe. Parting himself from her any more would mean leaving her entirely, and that he cannot do. Especially not today, being perfectly aware something is amiss. So he closed his eyes to ignore the red tint his mind cast upon his hands and finished getting ready to come here.

 

"Your Highness, we found one. The first human since--"

 

She was safe and sound in one piece, opened the door without any visible injuries. Her mind, however, was far from her house. Her vacant stare gave it away. Her attention was beyond where her mother's memory takes it, or where her lust for freedom directs her. Somewhere Asgore cannot reach, and a new sort of dread flooded his lungs.

 

...Undyne truly is alone. Besides him there is no one in her life. He has known that for years, yet the realization did not sink in so profoundly until an hour ago, when she opened the door and her wide smile failed to reach her eye.

 

"Dad... Help me--"

 

As much as he has firmly believed all these years staying away from her irrespective of, or precisely because of, his affection for her... Who does she go to when she needs to speak? Who does she share her thoughts with if her perpetual chase of freedom forces her to shake away any and every chance to establish meaningful connection as long as she lives down here?

 

Is it more dangerous to have someone such as Asgore close to her, or to be isolated with thoughts and emotions which tear her to shreds?

 

"Friends and fam--"

 

Neither of them excel at big, emotional conversations, so they have strayed from them in an unspoken agreement all this time. Ever since the beginning of their friendship, profound dialogues have been banished from their usual subjects and interactions. He never mentions, for instance, her mother. Even, especially, on the anniversary of her death.

 

In turn, Undyne never breathes the names Asgore himself buries in silence himself; not even when he can clearly see questions about them forming in Undyne's throat. She always swallows them back and changes the subject, respecting their mutual arrangement of keeping heart-to-hearts at the door.

 

...Is that truly for the best, though? If the end result is that Undyne is miserable today and she does not know she can talk to him, or she does not trust him enough to be comfortable with him, did separation work as a means to protect her, like Asgore envisioned? Or did it leave her more vulnerable and isolated than she already was?

 

Does she even know she is loved?

 

Then again, Asgore is a hex on every child he cares about. Every--

 

Unseeing, dead, frigid blue poking from under--

 

Every child in sight, more accurately.

 

...

 

...If he is the reason for her one-track mind, if he did everything wrong when what she needed was a coping mechanism, should he help her at all? Can he be a healing presence when he is the reason for the ailment to begin with? And what is worse? To leave her to her thoughts, or to approach her on a more personal level despite knowing for a fact he has been nothing but a curse to every person he has ever loved?

 

"I'm going to wherever you won't find me, and I'm taking Chara with me!! What, do you want their resting place to be the same palace where you intend to slaughter every last one of their kind who falls here?! Just be thankful I can't take Asr--!!"

 

He would never forgive himself if he hurt Undyne. If his teachings, his rage, were the reason life became more painful for her than it inherently is, Asgore would not be able to live with himself. Yet if he abandoned her knowing she has nobody else to rely on he could not tolerate himself either way.

 

...Doomed if he does, doomed if he does not. As with everything.

 

"Every last man, woman and child. It is the last time hum--"

 

Soothing as it was to see her at last, ever since Asgore arrived things only got more bizarre. The way she observed him was stranger than her behaviour all day long. Her gaze was laced with... mistrust, almost. As if she knew or feared something about him, specifically, she dare not speak. Her eye was on him the entire time, yet she did not make eye contact once. She observed him closely, as if she could not allow herself to miss a single one of his movements. Why?

 

Something about Asgore made her weary of him. As if she had found out...

 

"My name is Miguel, I'm nine years old. Can I please go home, Mr. King? I miss my fam--"

 

No no, that is impossible. There is a reason no records were kept of the passing of humans through the Underground. The only person alive who remembers is Gerson. Undyne and Gerson get along, but they are not close. While she admires him and he respects her grit and determination, they are not friends.

 

Asgore and Gerson do not see eye to eye, they have not for the past five centuries. Gerson has every reason to resent, despise, or even hate Asgore. But would Gerson be capable of...?

 

...Of course, if Undyne had hypothetically discovered the ""threats"" reduced by previous members of the Guard she is so proud to be a part of were humans whose ages did not reach double digits, or barely so... It stands to reason her opinion of Asgore would plummet.

 

And all dinner long, she regarded him as if she feared him.

 

If anything, her reaction only made Asgore's throat close up more. The words he craved to say forged by concern, worry for her safety, and the dawning realization in trying to protect her with distance he has essentially isolated her, were pushed down by yet another sort of tribulation.

 

This is all a large assumption on his end. Undyne could be alert for any number of reasons. Asgore could be misreading her conduct entirely. It is unlikely, he knows her mannerisms and gestures, but he is not arrogant enough to believe his deductions are infallible. Still, it was so reminiscent of how she observes him during sparring sessions. Eye trained on him, on his every movement, as if she were trying to predict his next action because her life depended on it.

 

Yet that cannot be correct... right?

 

Layered over that, the avoidance. The impossibility to make eye contact with him, to answer his questions directly or even pick up the phone. It is as if she could hardly bring herself to see him and him imposing his presence in her house had made her beyond uncomfortable. And if that is the case, it begs the question of why?

 

Asgore's sins are infinitely horrible and inexcusable, yet there are few of them. Six murders are not many, but one of them alone suffices to damn Asgore's soul to Hell for the rest of eternity when death comes find him. There is simply not much about him which would make someone as kind as her be weary of him. The one secret there is to discover, though, is more than enough to change any decent person's opinion of him forever.

 

These... These are all assumptions. Not an hour ago he began to come to terms with just how distanced he is from Undyne. How, for all he knows he cares for her, there is a significant chance she does not. That she believes she cannot rely on him, or that he feels far more inferior towards her than he ever could. And still he cannot keep himself from ruminating over her behaviour instead of just asking.

 

It would be so simple. The words form fine in his mind; it is upon exit where they tangle up.

 

Provided she discovered it somehow and she now hates him, or cannot look at him the same... That would be fine. It would be comprehensible. In all honesty, it would be worse if she justified his actions. If upon discovering he has committed the most vile and unforgivable crime of all, she found it to be warranted.

 

In that case, it would be Asgore who could never look at--

 

No. No; she would never. She would never because her alliance is to the innocent and to justice. Supposing his wanderings are correct and he is, if not the source, a contributing factor to her dreadful state, she does not seem to be happy with him.

 

...Then again, she has no need to have found out his true nature for her to despise him. That is far-fetched even for Asgore's old mind; the product of the repulsion he feels for himself projected onto her.

 

Asgore hurts everyone he cares for, everyone he should protect. His largest talent in this life is sewing misery and pain wherever he goes. The people surrounding him always end up harmed in one way or another, and Undyne is no exception to that.

 

Despite his best attempts to spare her the agony of being in her life by limiting his proximity to her, he has already hurt her. There is a permanent mark of it on her face neither she nor anybody can forget.

 

Her missing eye is representative of much more than the injury proper.

 

It is an indicator of violence, of proficiency in weaponry. Of how Asgore took a bright, angry and mournful little girl, and fanned the flames of her anger. He could have protected her, attempted to deter her from seeking the bloody conflict he himself cowers from. Instead he gave her the necessary knowledge and taught her all the skills required to be in battle.

 

Her obsession with freedom, her inability to live down here, are all his doing. He was her mentor and executioner all the same.

 

The memory he had earlier, of his hands being covered in blood, have her dust as well. She is alive, of course. But the person she could have been, the one she would have turned into had she healed from her grief instead of using it as the fuel of her slow self-destruction, is dead. And the person who killed her, who stifled that child's potential recovery and growth, was Asgore himself.

 

He impaled her on the same spears he taught her how to conjure. He snuffed out any chances of her thriving by getting her inebriated on the fumes of conflict. Her life is permanently at risk because of him. There is no telling if she would have retained this searing rage for a decade had he not encouraged her desire for war. Perhaps right now she would be a healthier, happier person had she been allowed to be a child instead of growing up far to fast at the tender age of ten.

 

"If I train hard enough, will--?"

 

His presence in her life, as well as in everyone around him, is a curse. And yet at this point, he is all she has. The only person she has left is the same one who doomed her. Is there anything more dastardly than that? Does she need any more reasons to mistrust him, dislike him, or hate him than those?

 

...And still. Being unable to talk to her, silenced by his own winding thoughts and emotions, suspecting he is, at minimum, part of the reason for her unease, knowing he has harmed more than helped and through his distance has hurt her even more, he has not found the strength to leave her.

 

"Mom, dad... I... I'm sorr--"

 

He cannot bear to let her out of his sight. Not like this. She is suffering profoundly, and while he is too useless and cowardly to find the right words to aid her, the least he can do is not leave her alone. She is not alone. If he cannot tell her, then he will show her with actions how much he cares about her for as long as his voice falters. He wants her to be safe, to be well. To know she matters, that her life is invaluable.

 

There is nothing he would not do for her.

 

Scrubbing the final plate clean and leaving it on the plate rack beside the sink, Asgore closes the faucet. Much like the ones back home, Undyne's faucet squeaks as well. Odds are it is for different reasons.

 

She does not mind the empty space and dead silence of her house, after all. There is no basement from which--

 

"This is your fault. You killed--"

 

"Undyne." Asgore turns to face her. "I have finished..."

 

...She is leaning forwards on the table, resting her head against her arms. Did she fall asleep? Here, at the table?

 

Was she truly tired? All the concern embedded in Asgore's bones all day long, his ruminations... Were they all unfounded?

 

That cannot be. Or can it? Wouldn't it be better if it were?

 

He prepared her a cup of golden flower tea before coercing her away from the kitchen. It is empty now, slightly to her left. With nightfall settling into her weary body, perhaps the tea did its job and helped her unwind?

 

He sent her to bed immediately after she finished her cup, but she refused to go. She thanked him for coming over and helping her, but decided she would wait until he left.

 

She is adorable. Seeing her so peaceful, without being hunted down by her mind and the future always out of reach is a rarity Asgore seldom has the privilege of witnessing. Genuine happiness or ease unmarred coming from her are things he last saw when they still had time to play piano regularly together.

 

Sweet girl. Perhaps... Perhaps it was all in Asgore's mind. The guilt clinging to his legs, chaining him down, has distorted his perception of his dear girl all day long. Seeing within her the self-loathing he can never shake off does not sound outlandish.

 

There is a lot to hate about Asgore. More people should despise him. Especially her.

 

...And yet... Seeing her so still, so quiet, is so immeasurably uncommon it makes Asgore's heartbeat pick up its pace. He should wake her and leave. Whatever is inside him, reminding him of his victims, stirring up his emotions, begging for proximity to her and more distance simultaneously, he should take far from her. In the end his initial assertion was the correct one. She is probably better off at arms' length from someone like him. Even that has proven to be too close.

 

Asgore walks up to her. His hand hover an inch above her shoulder.

 

He pulls it back. He cannot touch her with blood-stained hands. "...Undyne?"

 

Her shoulders rise and fall with slow, profound breaths. The half of her face not burrowed into her crossed arms is obscured by her fringe. She let it grow when she lost her eye, to cover the eye patch a little. But has it always been so long? It drapes over her bicep and onto the table. She should consider trimm...

 

...?

 

...Her hair is growing...? The amount of red on the table expands like...

 

"They're vomiting blood. Asgore, we have to take them to--"

 

...

 

...That is not hair.

 

No. No no no. Asgore kneels before her. Indeed, what had initially seemed like vibrant red hair is a string of crimson fluid pouring from her mouth and pooling on the table. She is breathing, but it is laboured.

 

Buttercups. The same happened to Asgore when he was poisoned. Tori-- She thought he was bleeding when he got poisoned. It is not blood. It is the magic inside the body's reaction to being profoundly ill, similar to inflammation in humans. In theory monsters, not being composed of matter, should also not be able to have a fever, nor any symptoms of illness.

 

But when Asgore presses his hand against her forehead, she is burning up. Just as he was when--

 

"Dad, we're sorry!! Chara and I didn't mean to--!"

 

No. No, how? How did--?

 

"Help m--"

 

No time. He will not lose her. A third child's funeral would end him. His heart would continue beating, relentless, but everything else would die.

 

Asgore hoists her into his arms. Strong as she is she weighs nothing. As much as the little girl who jumped on him to attempt pummeling her with her tiny fists.

 

Her face is scrunched up and tense. The secretion trickles down her cheek just like Chara's blood. Her heavy, raspy breathing wheezes and gurgles just like Chara. Her fever is such her body feels warm even through both her shirt and his against his chest just like Chara. She's convulsing just like Ch--

 

Asgore cradles her close, heading for the door. Her fate will not be the same, he will not allow it.

 

Not again.

 

"Hang on in there," he whispers, kicking her front door open. "Hang in there, my girl. I know someone who can save you."

 

Not the hospital. Never them; they know nothing about saving poisoned people. He entered that cursed building five centuries prior with his child and came back home with a corpse. But if not the doctors, who?

 

Her limbs spasm and contract in reaction to the poison. She twists in his arms, elbow pressing into his chest and knees jerking up to his shoulder. She will not survive from here to New--

 

No. She is strong, she can make it. New Home is decidedly too far away, and he will not give the sawbones in there another child of his only to take her remains back home. They cannot save her, they will only make it worse.

 

What about Hotland? They are hardly minutes away from there. Is there anyone in Hotland...?

 

...The doctor. Dr. Alphys has studied monster anatomy inside and out for the Determination experiments. Asgore trusts her with the fate of monsters and caring for the bodies of those fallen down. If anyone can help Undyne it is her.

 

He takes off as fast as his legs will allow. The spasms and writhing on her end get worse. The liquid does not stop pouring.

 

Just like Ch--

 

"You will live. Stay with my voice, you can do it. I believe in you, my dear. You have to stay det--"

 

"You are the future of humans and m--"

 

"...I promise I will keep you safe."

 

He will save her if it is the last thing he does.

 

-

 

...Asgore always thought her house was empty. Now, without her in it, the true meaning of "hollowness" unfurls before Asgore in utmost, heart-wrenching clarity.

 

His hands. They have no blood on them, she cannot bleed. But the shade of the emissions her body created in reaction to the poison might as well be.

 

He cannot clean it off, he cannot move. His body does not react to a single order Asgore issues.

 

...He left her alone. He went out the door and came back here, and...

 

Shortly after he arrived at Dr. Alphys' lab, the scientist informed him it was most likely buttercup poisoning. She had nothing prepared to tend to an ill monster, only to hold the bodies of those who have fallen down, but she improvised as quickly as she could.

 

It must have taken Dr. Alphys less than five minutes to set up the cold, hard stretcher Asgore left Undyne's body on. So uncomfortable, so painful, for someone who was already suffering so much. He held her close all along, as the coughing fits worsened and the red-tinted liquid made her breathing difficult.

 

Buttercup poisoning is about as close as one can come to being tortured without a third party tearing into one's body. The pain is unbearable, blinding, mind-fogging. And the dehydration--

 

"Asgore Dreemurr, you are not dying on me. I need you. Asriel and Chara need you. The Kingdom needs--"

 

He stayed with Undyne for a while. He remained beside her, being unable to do anything but watch. One more time, being confined to the role of silent observer as one of his children twisted in agony before him. Asgore has been there, he knows. He knows what it's like to spend that time as the victim and as a spectator. As the poisoned person, the pain of buttercup poisoning makes the sanest of minds crave death.

 

As a bystander, as someone who can do nothing but hold his child's hand for them to squeeze when the pain spikes, push their hair out of their eyes, and whisper vacant words of affection and reassurance through tears and emotional pain to match their physical one, it is infinitely worse.

 

Asgore would rather be the object of the poisoning to having to rely on time.

 

This time he couldn't even do that. His hands and voice alike were frozen. All he could do was watch. Watch as the strongest, most dear person to his heart succumbed second by second to a poison tearing her apart from the inside out.

 

Dr. Alphys did all she could. She had whatever is required to counter the poisoning on hand. Asgore knew its name once, when it was administered to him at New Home General Hospital after his children's baking accident. But when it was applied to Chara and they died the same, the substance's name was wiped from Asgore's mind along with half the memories of their hospitalization.

 

"All we can do is wait and see how your child progresses, your Maj--"

 

Watching the same be given to Undyne while knowing how fallible it is, that it is no guarantee of survival, for a moment transported Asgore to the white hospital room where Ch--

 

"I want to d--"

 

Time is merciless. Its passing may be measured in standardized units, but it dilates and contracts as it deems fit with little regards for the sanity of mortals. If one is in a hurry, it flies by faster than they have time to finish their task for. When one is waiting for news, for any sign of improvement coming from their ailing child, it stretches out into infinity. Seconds become hours, all of them filled with raspy breathing, groans of pain, and bodies turning in agony.

 

Dawn rolled around and Asgore had yet to move. Seeing her writhe in pain, hearing the agony leaking into her breathless groans. He envisioned speaking to her all along. Stroking her hair, holding her hand no matter how hard she constricted his, telling her that, whether she felt it appropriate he sees her as his daughter or finds it offensive to her mother's memory, he cannot help but care for her in the most profound of ways. That he is sorry he is such a coward. He regrets having set her on a military path when he should have taught her most anything else. He regrets the war declaration altogether. A more competent monarch would fight until they could find a third option, but he is a failure at everything; and at parenting his ineptitude reigns supreme.

 

He imagined saying he loves her. He said it over and over in his head. That her life was not meaningless to him. That watching her throw it away for the cause he created in a bout of rage haunts him as much as the ghosts from the basement and the ones in his house. That without her the silence would kill him, and he hopes, needs, nothing but for her to wake up so he can tell her again and she can know. That he is sorry for everything and will be until the day he dies.

 

But nothing would come. Not from his voice, not from his unresponsive muscles. It all clogged up within him, rendering more useless than he normally is.

 

Asgore has never touched her before. Not to help her up when she fell down sparring, not to pat her back in congratulation, not even to hold her hand when she was in the hospital recovering from losing her eye. The only way his hands have ever made contact with her had been through punches and shoves when sparring. As if showing her the slightest bit of affection and warmth could make his resolve to keep his tenderness for her at bay crumble and turn her into yet another victim of his presence.

 

"...Why did Asriel leave us too, Asgore? Why did Chara leave us? Were we such bad parents they both chose to--?"

 

In that moment, with her straddling the fine, fine line between life and death, he could not control it any longer. He loves her, damn it. He has loved her every day for the last decade. More and more with every passing second, with each heartbeat. As it happens, the children Asgore loves end up dead, and for it he decided in all his brilliance it would be better to keep her as far away from his affection as possible.

 

Ever since that day in the throne room, when he first showed her the Sun, he has known. It has taken for her to be on the brink of death for him to realize how wrong it is to silence affection when life is so short and has such a nefarious tendency to rob people of their loved ones.

 

And still it did not come out. Not the soft, comforting touch she needed. Not a single word of affection, appreciation, nor reassurance. They built up like water under the earth, ready to burst, but Asgore did not crack.

 

After all, the reason for her suffering is him. The motive she never built any meaningful relationships is because she was too busy pursuing the war he promised. Once isolated, the reason she never heard she was loved, she was emotionally neglected, was Asgore's choice to separate himself from her.

 

The reason she was sick at all is him. Everything is his fault. Had Asgore not been a selfish waste of air, he would have left her alone the instant he realized her he loved her more than sunlight, freedom and justice combined.

 

Every child under his care dies. The best thing Asgore could have done for her would have been to give her space. Yet he could not, because when he is without her it is hard to breathe. He may be the motor for all her pain, yet she is the driving force behind the only goodness in his life.

 

The symptoms which followed as he watched silently he knows far too well. Breath slowing down, spams easing to an end, muscle tension weakening. It is either the sign of improvement, as it was for him, or the infamous terminal lucidity, as it was for Ch--

 

"I... I feel better... A little bett--"

 

The end of this story is near, and as shameful as it is, Asgore is a coward who cannot bear to watch until the curtain falls. Not again, he would not survive it again. He was strong for Chara, held their hand until they stopped breathing, but whatever snapped within him that night never healed. He cannot do it again. If his daughter is going to die he could not handle bearing witness.

 

The price of his cowardice was leaving her alone. That if she is in any capacity still aware, conscious of who is or is not around her, she knows Asgore left. That she feels lonely and abandoned. As much as she has for the past ten years, since her mother left her to her fate when she was still a child.

 

But he cannot. He did not decide to leave her. When he came to he was here, in the middle of her darkened living room, wondering why he was here when the light of his life is in Hotland, fighting for her life.

 

And now he is here, buried alive in silence. The silence she left behind, the one which will add onto the one in his house. The quietness produced by the voices of those who can no longer speak nor scream. The silent echoes of all of Asgore's errors and sins, all of them...

 

He takes a step. His body moves, for some reason, and his mind, stuck inside his head, has no choice but to follow. His legs are taking him to the kitchen table, where the red fluid her body produced to enact the dehydration buttercup poisoning demands remains. It has dripped off the edge of the table and onto the floor.

 

...Why did it have to be this shade of crimson? Why could it not be brown, as Asgore's was? Why is magic so forsakenly arbitrary and unpredictable?

 

A foot away from it, on the table, is a plastic bag. The same one Asgore brought the ingredients for warm soup and golden flower tea. His hand slithers into the bag of its own accord, shaking it and warding off the silence with its rustling.

 

There are no golden flower leaves in the tea box. Buttercups, though, there are plenty. Both are yellow flowers, but by the Angel, Asgore knows the difference between them.

 

...

 

"They ate some buttercups. I-I don't know why they did that, but we have to take them to the hos--"

 

...How? How did he do that? The buttercups are not near anything edible. They are in the back of the cupboard, out of sight and out of reach.

 

His... His head has been scattered all day long. The conviction the seventh human had arrived, for as unreliable as déjà vu is, must have made him want to end it all, instead of delivering on...

 

"Every last man, wom--"

 

A lapse in judgment, being too much in a hurry to help his daughter last night, being distracted by the nagging sensation either a human is here or he is going insane. The fear for her safety, for knowing he she is alone and her only company is the embodiment of a curse. It culminated in giving her the same poison that killed both his children directly and indirectly.

 

The firm belief proximity to him would kill her was not paranoia. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

Through this all, Asgore should be feeling something. Anything. But all that is nestled between his lungs is a gap. He is not sad, angry, disappointed, disgusted or horrified. He is empty, he is nothing, and no other emotion would be so fitting.

 

For without her, without his children, he himself is hollow.

 

His phone vibrates. In his right pocket. He should... She should see what it is. Even if it is the news he dreads, he deserves nothing but to suffer the consequences.

 

He takes the phone in his hand and unlocks it on the third try. His hands are trembling. He cannot feel it.

 

An update from Alphys. Predictably, Undyne has not survived.

 

"Hey, hey, old timer. Look at this. I'm gonna balance this spear on--"

 

There isn't... "I've got your back, Asgore." There isn't a single child he can keep safe. "For no reason related to your birthday coming up, what's your favourite colour?" He neglected his own "Don't be so sad, it's just an eye. I mean, there's a reason we have two, right?" He failed every human child who fell into the Underground. "When we're on the Surface we're gonna be the best pianists ever, with all that time to practice." He failed every monster child who has been born and raised in darkness.

 

And now he has killed his daughter.

 

"What are you gonna wish for?"

 

...

 

He is still breathing despite having no will to. His lungs fill with air of their own volition, suffusing another empty, quiet house with the rhythmic breathing of a man who, by all meaningful variables, should have already died.

 

"Humans won't know what hit them if you and I work together. And we will. I'll be there with you, I swear."

 

Asgore's determination to see his children and wife again carried him through his own poisoning. The love he had for them, the family life he wanted to protect. But for Undyne, whose entire life is-- ...was, based in some obscure future she may never reach in her lifetime? Who had no significant bonds, who Asgore was unable to be gentle and genuine with even on her deathbed...

 

...What... What did she have to fight for?

 

"I'll have time for all that on the Surface. Down here there's noth--"

 

This empty house? The eternal pursuit of freedom? The long, exhausting training days? The many people doubting her capabilities? Her non-existent family life?

 

The man who never, not even as she died, told her her life was invaluably precious? The same one who she was uncomfortable around yesterday, who is the reason for her disinterest in the life she had?

 

...She should have been strong enough to survive a teacup, no matter how concentrated the leaves were. If she had anything to fight for, anything to live for, she most likely would have. Asgore would like to be angry at her for that. To be beyond irate that she gave up. But in all honesty he cannot blame her.

 

With a sigh, he conjures a rid trident into his hand, points it at his chest. It is sharp against his pectorals. Good. He never imagined his end would be so quick, so painless for a sinner of his magnitude, but he does not have it in him to take another breath in a world without his children. In the end all his enemies were correct. He is weak and a coward, and he most definitely has no desire to deliver on the war he promised. Without his daughter, after the loss of a third child, he has no desire to live at all.

 

He cannot blame her. For he, too, gives up.

 

*

 

Asriel's petals are still trembling, new load and all. The Sun's warmth and birds' songs do nothing to calm him down.

 

Yet again... dad...

 

He didn't do that for him and Chara. He could still live with himself after they died. But the darned weed goes ahead and dies and he can't take it?

 

...To be fair... He did kill her. As far as he's concerned, at least. Perhaps... Perhaps he would have done the same if he'd been the one to kill Chara and Asriel...?

 

Nonetheless... Nonetheless, Asriel needs him alive. With dad dead, he can't try to revive his feelings one last time. And without that, the end will be inevitable. He'll be forced to murder more to see what will happen until every monster in the Underground is even less of a living being to him than they already are. Then boredom will consume him until he becomes as much of a whiny crybaby as Chara said he was and goes ahead and dies.

 

Even if he didn't have a practical use for dad, Asriel would still like him to live. His love for dad must be somewhere even if he can't feel it, right? He doesn't want dad to die.

 

...Okay, Asriel needs the old geezer breathing. As much as killing the weed fills him with guilt, it also gives him more pain than he ever had for Asriel's death. That's not only torture for Asriel, it's also counterproductive to his plans. He needs dad alive.

 

It might be about time to get creative.

Notes:

Prompt: murder-suicide

Chapter 17: Murder Can Be Art

She cancelled her plans with Asgore. It was irresponsible of her to even try in this state.

 

Behind--

 

The anxiety that awoke her, the sticky strands of nightmares still caught between her eyelashes as she opened her eye, is but a fraction of what the Underground combined is feeling with every passing day, right? Everyone... Everyone feels this. It's the pressure of all the rock atop them. The feeling it's gonna cave in and they're all going to die at any moment. It's... It's normal, right? Or at least not that bad?

 

"For my sweeth--"

 

She runs. The jog was meant to clear her mind, but nothing's working. She even took a different, less travelled route to avoid having any form of interaction that could distract her from outrunning the stress. The people she would otherwise encounter... They're all her responsibility. Their fates are in her hands; she took an oath to protect them. The smallest misstep, the slightest mistake, and she could end up hurting them instead of saving them.

 

Which she knows, of course. She's known for as long as she's wanted to be in the Guard. It was a big part of the appeal of being here to begin with. It's just... It's hitting her now, maybe, with her promotion so close, how much responsibility that is. And with how weird her head's being it's becoming harder and harder to shake off the sensation she's going to hurt someone.

 

...Her thoughts and feelings are being so weird today. Even working isn't getting everything to just be normal again. The tension in her muscles doesn't dissuade the noose threat emmanating from every single rock in this prison; nor the pressure of keeping every heart beating in the Underground safe. Something is horribly wrong in the here today.

 

Undyne would sooner die than be caught unprepared.

 

She couldn't stomach breakfast, but that's no excuse to slack off. Besides, that's something she can't afford. Not when she's feeling like this. She's been given a day to herself, to be ready when the time comes and it matters most, and ready she will be. Ready and in top condition; not wracked by irrational anxieties.

 

About death, of all things. Others', but also and more pahtetically her own. About what it feels like to die, and--

 

"Your mother lost hope, lassie. It wasn't your f--"

 

Of course Undyne will die; death finds everyone. And when she does, she will do so honourably. She will face death with a grin and the inner peace of knowing she did everything in her hands to procure freedom and justice to her kin. She won't be like--

 

"...Why don't you get out of bed anymore, m--?"

 

...

 

...Mom was kind and sweet. She helped everyone she could, she was a fantastic neighbour and friend. People fluttered to her naturally because she was warmer than the Sun and brighter than every echo flower in Waterfall. But she wasn't... She wasn't cut for life down here. She thought she could live, that any form of meaningful life was attainable buried in this glorified collective ditch, and when she realized it was impossible, that she would never know life at all...

 

"Mom, you don't look so good... Do you want me to make you some soup? Do you want me to call the doctor?"

 

"...Don't leave me, mom. Please?"

 

"Mom, I'm home! ...Where are you? Are you in your room? In the living room?"

 

...She...

 

Abandoned Undyne.

 

...She lost hope.

 

When Undyne was a little girl, when "overcrowding" and "despair" were words she only heard adults mention in passing as she ran outside to play with her friends and she genuinely believed she was leading a decent life, before reality came knocking, she wanted to be a seamstress like mom.

 

Mom was her entire world, after all, and mom genuinely believed life was possible in the barren wasteland they're all trapped in. So Undyne wanted to grab bundles of fabric and thread and turn them into wearable works of art just like mom did. As she did her homework Undyne would sit next to mom, listen to her hum as she cut, sewed and measured. She grew up amid scraps of colourful fabric and needles, looking over mom's shoulder and asking everything about her craft.

 

Very shortly, perhaps a month before the amount of rock she was living under crushed mom's life from her lungs, she began teaching Undyne. One night Undyne was so close to finishing her first skirt that she was still working on it as mom braided her hair for bed time. It was her dream to be as talented as mom was, to use fabric as her canvas and needles as her brush.

 

But that skirt remained unfinished, interrupted, much like Undyne's life was after she found one can also make a noose out of vibrant fabric when mom--

 

"For my sweetheart."

 

...Mom's mistake was trying to make a living in a coffin. No matter how much she decorated it, how many layers of frilly dresses she hid it under, or how many cupcakes she baked to stave off the bitterness of the Underground, it was still a mass grave. It has always been burial grounds for monsterkind.

 

Undyne is different, though. Mom's betrayal death taught her that lesson concisely. She cannot live in a tomb no matter how pretty. There's no life down here, the only way they can all live, truly live, is up there in freedom. She's dedicated every last second of her life since she became aware of this inescapable truth of the world to achieving that freedom. To make it a solid reality from the abstract concept it currently exists as. There's no sacrifice too great in order to save everyone.

 

The way Undyne lives down here, or survives, more accurately, is something Asgore's chastised her for more than once. Never in a serious, condemning manner, but he's made it manifest he'd like it if Undyne found time for other things. Maybe, just maybe, if he weren't such a massive hypocrite, she'd at least consider it.

 

As it stands, Asgore is just as bad as her when it comes to taking time off. He works his ass off every single day without fail, regardless of whether it's a holiday or not, to be certain his people are as well as they can be, looking for solutions to their problems, possible accommodations, listening to their pain, and seeking out the best ways to ease them.

 

To many, this may not be living. Then again, nothing Undyne does down here can be considered a life anyway. It's an existence, and hardly an acceptable one at that. The only way for Undyne to live is on the Surface. That this cage killed mom, the person most full of life Undyne ever knew, proves that beyond a shadow of a doubt.

 

This place is barren. Nothing grows here. Not hopes, not dreams.

 

Not life.

 

Undyne's hopes can never be crushed if she never had them in the first place, right? She doesn't have to worry about her friends losing hope if she never bothered making them. She can never surrender to hopelessness like mom did if she had no dreams at all.

 

Because if this place, if this gouged out cavern in the earth, could snuff out mom's light? It can do away with anyone's. Undyne isn't special. Mom was special, and for it now she's dead.

 

"Oh, sweetheart. Come here. Did you scrape your knee? Does it hurt, my g--?"

 

...Mom was the brightest person Undyne ever met. If the walls around the Underground were tall and oppressive enough to overshadow her light, if Undyne ever dared shine her own, it would get swallowed in seconds.

 

And she knows this. She knows there's no point in trying to live down here. There isn't even a point in remembering mom; that won't bring her back. So why is it with every stride Undyne takes it feels like she's running from both the noose and yearning? Yearning for what? There's nothing down here; the Underground has no life to offer. The sensation is so foreign yet painfully familiar.

 

Maybe... Maybe the noose and the yearning are one and the same. Had mom yearned for nothing, she would have never made the noose. However it is, whatever's wrong with Undyne today, is just... It's tugging at strings she shouldn't have left at this point.

 

She doesn't want to be here. Her repulsion to being here, now, in this instant, running, is what caused her stomach to close up this morning. The itch to create, to use her hands for something less destructive than war, to compose and read and learn instead of fighting and killing, is stronger than ever within her. Writhing, trying to force her to do what mom did and try enjoying a life she can't have within the confines of hell.

 

Why? Why today? It's never been this strong, it's never compelled her to become lost in the joy of creation, in the exhilarating action of inception, and lose sight of the only acceptable goal down here: ensuring mom was the last monster to ever end like that. To make sure no matter what, no more children grow up knowing their parents lost hope, wondering if whatever snatched the most important person in their life from them can get them, too.

 

In a way, it's... It's almost like some part of Undyne craves the certainty that she won't end up like mom. That all the things she wants to do today as if something within her were whispering into her subconscious this is the last day of her life--

 

A metallic snap slices through the air as something sharp embeds itself in her ankle.

 

The acute pain knocks her down into the jagged cavern floor. A couple of scales from her cheek are scraped off by the moist rock. She has to get the vine away from her. She has to cut it off no matter how bad it hurts; otherwise she'll die. She can't die without having truly lived; she's never even had the chance to. Panting, Undyne pushes up with both arms--

 

Any slight movement hurts her ankle so badly with serrated, burning pain she has to bite the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out. Thorny vines don't grow in Waterfall. What is this?

 

Not behind her, but under--

 

Undyne twists her neck as far back as it goes, shuddering from the hot, piercing pain pulsating and radiating up to her hip. The all-encompassing blue of Waterfall's wall of rock is broken by shiny silver clamped tight around her ankle.

 

What... What the hell is that? It looks like a metallic mouth biting down on her. Is that... a hunter's trap? Hunting is illegal in the Underground. There's no need for it, that's not how monster food works. These were banned centuries ago. Who still has one?

 

Why is it here? It... It wasn't there a minute ago. Undyne would swear on it; that wasn't there. She's been running in a straight line all along; she would've seen it... right?

 

...But, if it wasn't here then... Where? Metallic contraptions don't tend to sprout from barren rock. What...?

 

Alright. Alright, alright. She has to think. She shuts her eye tight as if doing so would impede the nauseating waves of pain coursing up and down her leg from fogging up her brain. Alright, staying here isn't an option. She also can't walk away; in the best case scenario she'd sever her own foot. Right now... Right now she's probably got a shattered bone and some torn ligaments and muscle. It'll be a rough recovery, but she hasn't perpetually disabled herself.

 

She needs to get out of here, though. Whoever set this out has no good intent. Being trapped here's only making the sensation of death breathing down her neck worse. Danger pulsates around her, an invisible force pushing under her every scale and entering her body from the many open wounds in her ankle. It's suffocating her inside and out, constricting her chest and abdomen with tension.

 

Maybe... Maybe what mom felt like leading up to her death was something like th--

 

...No, no... Mom was lovely, but Undyne and her aren't so similar. Not anymore, Undyne saw to it. She discarded every hope and dream at the funeral; she's kept herself safe. Undyne won't die. Not... Not like this. All she has to do is call someone and she'll be fine. The single upside of the Underground being so small is that emergency services always arrive on time.

 

Not fast enough to stop mom from--

 

Alright... Alright, Undyne needs to move to get her phone out of her pocket. It's flush between her leg and the ground, so she'll need to wiggle quite a bit. It's going to hurt, but she has to do this and fast. Her heart pounds.

 

It's descending from the dark. It's going to get her neck as it did when her shadow--

 

She isn't dying, damn it. Not before having lived. She refuses.

 

Undyne places her right hand as close as she can to her hip bone. Taking a deep breath, she lifts her midsection a bit--

 

Shit. The pain strangles the breath out of her lungs. It leaves her hyperventilating, eye watering, heartbeat racing, but she doesn't collapse. She won't, no matter how bad it hurts. She presses her trembling hand against her pocket--

 

...It's empty. She always puts her phone in the same pocket, but... Today, since her mind was scattered, it stands to reason she put it in the wrong one, right...?

 

Coming closer and clo--

 

Undyne lets herself fall, biting the inside of her mouth to keep quiet. The last thing she should do is alert any stranger of her current position. Who knows who set this up? She can only trust the Guard for this.

 

She repeats the process with her left hand and left leg this time, unable to keep in a muted whimper from forming in the back of her throat. Every time she moves she's tearing her injured tissue deeper and--

 

Unproductive thought; worrying about that won't lessen the extent of her injuries. She palms her pock--

 

...There's nothing here. It's flat.

 

She doesn't have her phone. She left the house in such a hurry she forgot it.

 

Fuck. Damn it. All this thinking about mom, this ill-fitting desire to live down here in hell, these useless emotions brought on by nothing, made her make such a stupid mistake. A rookie moment, something that might cost anyone else their life.

 

Not Undyne, because she can't die. Not without having first lived. Not when her whole life's been nothing but standby waiting for the moment she can breathe real air.

 

Alright. Cutting through a damn trap won't work. Not all the spears in the world could do that for her. Realistically she can maim herself, but that should be a last resort; she's not in a life or death situation. Why is she even thinking like that? What's wrong with her?

 

It's going to close around her neck any min--

 

No, damnit. No. This is... This is the Underground. Someone's bound to walk by at some point. If the owner of this illegal item walks by with bad intentions she can reduce the threat even from down here; that's where her training comes in. Unable to reach the Guard, a passerby is her best bet right now, risks and all.

 

She just has to hang on. The trap is biting into her, reaching deep into her tissue with its teeth, but if she stays really still it won't injure her any further. It's just a trap. It's not that bad, all things considered. It's not like some one-hundred armed tentacle creature spawned from the earth and restrained her tight to it. She'll be fine.

 

If she doesn't run it'll catch up to--

 

Hell, maybe crying out for help will work. Someone has to be close enough, right? This is a prison cell, it's small by design. Humans knew exactly what they were doing.

 

...The soon-to-be Captain screaming for help after she jogged herself into a trap. How charming.

 

"That girl has been a calamity her whole life. To put the hopes and dreams of the Underground in her hands--"

 

"Is anyone... Is anyone there? Can you hear me?"

 

...

 

...

 

"...Hello?"

 

She tries a few more times, louder and louder, until her throat is raspy and weak. The only reply is the echo of her own voice. The reassurance there are walls around her, and that the space they enclose is hollow.

 

She's running out of time. If she can't move--

 

It's... It's still quite early she's running out of time. As the morning progresses more people will be out and about they'll stumble into her dust--

 

Why the hell is she feeling like this? Vulnerable, chest trembling, heart racing, grieving the life she knows better than to try having in the Underground. She's contended with this sensation before, and her current situation isn't ideal, but... but there's no way...

 

...There's no way she's losing hope too, right? That, much like mom, she too is...

 

"Your daughter is like a mini-you, Sy--"

 

No. They're not the same. Not anymore. All the hopes and dreams, the desire to live mom had Undyne stomped out of herself. There's no reason to grow attached to anything down here, to try to do anything besides getting out. Because when one tries it only culminates in becoming so despondent they don't even care if in their sorrow they're abandoning--

 

"I needed you. And now you're gone. I hate--"

 

...Damn it. This... This is why Undyne can't stop moving. If she does, it catches her. It's been stalking her since the instant the noose clicked with her shadow and mostly she's been able to push it back, to not let it claim her. Mom did. Mom stopped, mom allowed it to creep closer and closer until it had her in a death grip. But Undyne isn't like her.

 

There's... There's something wrong with her today. Something wrong with today. From the moment she woke up it felt like her house was folding in on her. Like there was nowhere safe, as if every shadow held some potential evil and the only solution was to give in to sheer, senseless insanity and indulge in the things she wants to do, as opposed to those she must.

 

When she thought of visiting Asgore as scheduled, conversely, the panic doubled, and as much as he's made time for her and all, nothing would justify sharing this pathetic spectacle with him. This beast she has to tame on her own.

 

Everything was a level of overwhelming that wasn't only exaggerated, but unknown to Undyne. It's never been like this, everywhere, spread out across the ground, associated with Asgore's voice. She had to get out, to move and stop thinking, to get on with her empty life until it subsided.

 

It's never been quite so persistent before, though. And it usually happens for a reason. On the anniversary of her death, or after seeing something that reminds Undyne of her. Nightmares of being small, too small for feelings so big, of needing mom's hand and only having her locket to close her fingers around, also tend to trigger it. But distracting herself from it, moving forwards, doing something meaningful with her life, like trying to save everyone, instead of attempting to decorate the prison with lace and icing like mom did, puts distance between the noose's looming shadow and Undyne's neck.

 

...What's wrong today? It's... It's almost like she knew. It's like she knew something bad was going to happen. But how?

 

Premonitions and signs she isn't too fond of. There can be too many factors interfering with those things. Those are more a matter of faith than reason, and Undyne divorced herself from faith ten years ago. She likes tangible things, the ones that can be proven by science, empirically. It's why she appreciates the story behind the legend of the Delta Rune, but doesn't believe it to be true, unlike most of the inhabitants of the Underground.

 

No angel is coming to save them. Nobody is. If they want to breathe again, it's up to them to make their own path forwards.

 

The Angel mom prayed to every night wasn't there when Undyne walked in on--

 

"For my s--"

 

Whatever's wrong today is... There's this emotion baked into everything. Into hearing Asgore's voice and being in her own bed. The piano in the living room and the cliff behind her house. The sensation something was going to go awry was almost like... hopelessn--

 

...No, right? It can't be. Mom wasn't-- Undyne isn't like her. Mom was convinced she could be happy down here, that there was something worthwhile buried under all this rock, away from fresh air and sunlight. Reality was bound to catch up with her at some point, and when it did she couldn't cope with it. Instead of doing something so remarkably stupid, Undyne has always put all her hopes and dreams in the land above. The life she wants is up there waiting for her, she just has to carve a path to it.

 

So far as her hope is outside of this coffin it can't be snuffed out by its sharp confines. As long as her life isn't set down here, it can't be suffocated like mom's was.

 

There's nothing to do down here but die. It's why monsterkind needs out effective immediate. Life isn't something that blooms under the earth, in shadow, with nothing but hopes and dreams to help people trudge through their day and distract them from the reality surrounding them. Life is what's waiting for Undyne on the other side, out of this cage. There's no life to be had if monsterkind isn't free. Not for Undyne, not for anyone.

 

...Reasoning with herself is accomplishing nothing. She's still one second away from bursting into tears, pathetic as that is, and she's still trapped. She needs to get a grip lest she prove right every person who said Asgore choosing her as the next Captain was nothing more than political propaganda to make himself look better.

 

Employing an orphan girl as a shield to protect himself from the accusations of delaying monsterkind's freedom is the least Asgore-like thing in the world. Some people have rocks in their head.

 

She calls out again. Her voice returns to her pristine, mixed in with the faint gurgle of water from the stream a few yards behind her. Not an amicable conversation between friends on a walk rings through the cavern, nor a child's laughter as they play tag with their sibling, or even the lonely steps of one single monster who decided to go out on a walk. Undyne has a shattered ankle, a trap she can't break free from without cutting her fingers or foot off, and the distinct sensation she's currently prey unable to escape from whatever fate a predator has in store for her.

 

She's not prey, damn it. If anything, she's the hun--

 

...It... It doesn't hurt as much. It hardly hurts, actually. Undyne turns around--

 

Her neck moves, but her shoulders and torso don't follow. The searing, open wound in her leg doesn't hurt anymore.

 

No. No way. What in...?

 

It found her.

 

Undyne pushes herself up. Her arms don't move. She kicks with her free leg. It doesn't move. She tries to bend the injured one.

 

It doesn't move.

 

Mom's here again.

 

A paralyzing agent? What? No. No, no, this isn't right. Alright... alright. She can't-- She can't do anything but scream. So... So that's what she'll do. Because at this point having anyone find her is better than laying low. If she stays here she's going to die, and that's not something she's going to do. Not today, not here, not without having lived.

 

She fills the air with sound waves. They bounce off the cavern walls, reverberate and come back to her. Over and over, again and again. Nothing else breaks them, nothing interrupts them.

 

Undyne is alone.

 

...It wasn't supposed to go like this. If she was to die young it was meant to be with purpose, to achieve something relevant. If she was to die before ever reaching the life waiting for her on the other side of the Barrier and the ensuing war, at the very least it was by Asgore's side. Not like--

 

For crying out loud, she is not dying today. Not from this. Her heart's about to stop, its speed's starting to make her vision fuzzy, but she's still the strongest monster in the Underground, Captain of the Royal Guard for a reason. Asgore chose her. She... She can hold on. Help will arrive eventually. This is a prison, a coffin, people are bound to walk by. And until then, Undyne isn't going to become so hopeless she dies spontaneously like--

 

...

 

...In the least funny way, at least if Undyne dies today, she isn't dying like mom. At least she can be sure they were nothing alike. Both got a stupid death, there goes the family resemblance, but Undyne didn't give up. To her hypothetical final breath she's trying to keep hope.

 

She... She really might, huh? If whoever set this finds her before an innocent monster, or if the poison does more than paralyze her... She might just...

 

...

 

This realization was meant to bring her a bitter, sarcastic smile; not the pressure of unreleased sobs in the back of her throat. What the hell? When was the last time she cried? Years ago, when she was a child? At mom's funeral, maybe?

 

All Undyne's wanted her whole life has been confirmation that she isn't like mom. That whatever chased mom to seek refuge in a noose's embrace couldn't ever scrape her. Yet now, here, contemplating death a very embarrassing conversation with Asgore explaining how she skewered her ankle and got herself poisoned a week away from her promotion, with death potentially catching up to her at last, Undyne...

 

...Maybe she wishes she'd been a bit more like mom.

 

“For my sw--”

 

Maybe.

 

...Yes, mom made a crucial mistake. Her hope was so vast it couldn't fit in this cage; it killed her. She tried to accustom her soul to living in a coffin and predictably she ran out of air. But other than that... She was so alive, for crying out loud.

 

Her smiles when she worked on her craft were genuine. The bonds she formed with people, were they friends or close acquaintances, were real. They weren't transactional or purely born from convenience. She didn't only talk to her clients when they needed something sewn or fixed. Generally speaking they'd come to her for other things, too. Advice, sharing a pie they just baked, offering support when she started--

 

"You look a bit sad, mom. Can I help you?"

 

...She danced in the kitchen when she made dinner, she hummed when she dusted the shelves and mopped the floor. She smiled so big when she held Undyne close, when she listened to her go on and on about school and her dreams of the future. Her laughter was so bright Undyne would have never guessed she was growing up incarcerated.

 

Mom's life was short and fragile, but it was so full. Or it looked like it. Something went horribly wrong, obviously, but it doesn't seem like whatever it was had to do with the relationships she had with others, or the menial joy she managed to scavenge for in this forsaken place. Before it got bad, it was so, so good.

 

That's... That's Undyne's perception, at least. Considering how it all ended she could be wrong. Perhaps it was all smoke and mirrors, an act put on to convince her burden of a daughter that everything was alright, but Undyne would bet her life on that not being the case. Mom had friends long before she had a child to reassure. She even found time to find love down here in hell and marry dad.

 

"Your father loved you. A lot, my sweeth--"

 

It's so messy. Because all of those actions, all that effort put into making sure the prison cell she was trapped in was livable, was nothing but a cobblestone leading to her eventual demise. To her realization that no matter how hard she tried to make a life down here, it would wither and decay. But simultaneously, from her current predicament, with all her emotions exposed and vulnerable for no good reason, feeling death closing in on her, Undyne...

 

...Maybe... Just maybe perhaps... Wishes that were her tale.

 

That she'd made time to have people who cared about he as much as mom's friends did. That she'd taken a bit of every day to play piano, or talk more to Asgore. They hardly see one another, they have to slot in their meetings in between his duties and hers, which is a ridiculously small time frame.

 

Of finding love Undyne hasn't thought much, but it'd be nice to find someone to share her life with just like mom did. She never spoke too much of dad, but they look so happy together in their wedding photo.

 

If... Alright, playing devil's advocate for her own demons. Provided what Undyne has today isn't a massive, exaggerated panic attack and there's something to it. That the bone-deep feeling of death stalking her means something more than just the echoes of what she felt that day coming back to her in this empty cave...

 

If she was going to die in such a meaningless way regardless, why the hell did she restrain herself so much? Why did she fight the urge to play piano just ten minutes before bed because she should be either tending to her mortal needs or working, nothing else? Why did she repress herself every time she thought one of her co-workers was nice because any time "wasted" on hanging out could be better dedicated to working towards their freedom? Why the hell did she reject dates with Asgore on so many occasions on account of having to train, or take on an extra guard, or getting paperwork up to date?

 

If her life was going to be useless in the end no matter what she tried, why did she refuse to actually live it while she could?

 

...

 

...From that lens, the one imposed upon whatever lurks in Undyne's subconscious mind, the one making her long for creation this morning, both of them missed the mark, right? Mom aimed so low she dug her own grave. Undyne aimed so high she threw her life away for a cause she may never be able to take part in.

 

There has to be a happy middle. Some point in between both of them that allows both to live and to work for a life worth living? Undyne ran so far from mom's ever looming noose she horseshoed all the way around into not living either way. Into dying every day while there was still breath in her lungs and hope in her soul. In drastically different ways, both mom and her sacrificed their lives for, ultimately, nothing.

 

Playing devil's advocate for her own demons still, Undyne's life has been all used on nothing. But that's stupid, so she's going to stop no matter how hard her heart is thundering or how much her eye burns with tears she won't shed. This is all happening because she's stuck here, unable to move. Because mom also stopped moving when she started finding it hard to get out of bed. What snuck up on her is finding it easy to sneak up on her daughter now, too. But there's nothing genetically wired in them to end up like this, right? Hopelessness isn't hereditary.

 

Closing around Undyne's ne--

 

Of course, there's a chance it wasn't hopelessness, as everyone thought. Maybe it was some form of madness, but... Can't be. Mom was the most normal person ever. She didn't... She didn't seem mad, for sure. Then again, sane people don't tend to...

 

"For my sweeth--"

 

...What did mom find so lacking in her life to throw it away like that? To abandon her daughter like she meant nothing? All the people who cared about her, all the passion she had... They couldn't save her from herself.

 

Undyne couldn't know how that story would end, but as soon as she realized mom was feeling sad she tried everything she could to cheer her up. She begged mom to get up and do things, to be happy and smile again over and over and over, and mom left all the same. Undyne's felt worthless about it for so long she can't remember what it was like to not feel useless and unlovable. All the things that should have tethered mom to this world are the ones Undyne has only been able to dream of up until the end of her life. The ones that, as her heart seizes and races, she wishes she could hold onto.

 

All she wanted was to live somewhere where it was safe. Where the hopelessness that took mom, the one that isn't hereditary, can't catch Undyne no matter how much the memories of a noose's shadow locking with her own insist it's inevitable. In her search for that ending, for one objectively better than the one mom got, Undyne forgot death isn't so polite as to wait for one's dreams to come true before claiming them.

 

She won't give up though. Not... Not until it's really the end. All she's ever done she's done so in the name of life, even if she placed said life in the future. Getting her to give up's gonna be a bit harder than that for whoever set this up. And when Undyne gets her hands on them she'll see to it they never again do something similar or even think of it.

 

There are smaller prisons than the Underground. They have a great one over at New Home for crooks of this caliber.

 

She calls out a few more times, but the walls can't reply with anything but her own voice; an ironic confirmation that she's indeed alone in every aspect of her life. There's nobody else here. Not even the trap's owner wondering if it caught anything.

 

Or maybe they are, and watching this slow descent into madness is the spectacle they were seeking. Once someone's twisted enough to conceive of something this messed up Undyne won't put anything past them.

 

The only memories she can try to hold in her racing heart are those of Asgore. Then again, the recollections are covered by a thick film of bitterness and regret. For one, Undyne pushed him away, too, in order to focus on helping him in the only way that matters. And perhaps now she'll never manage that. She won't be there for him when he needs her the most and she rejected his company countless times to that pointless effect.

 

Secondly, they were never a family. Asgore never saw her like that; he's been nothing but the unknowing, and most certainly unwilling recipient for all the familial love that oozed out of Undyne's heart when mom wasn't there to accept it anymore. At the end of it all, she has a friend and little else. She's thankful for him, of course, but this wasn't the life she dreamed of.

 

It wasn't a life at all.

 

The life she wanted, the one she fought so hard for she wound up tossing aside, is still somewhere on the Surface. Out of reach.

 

Up there... Up there, where she placed all her hopes and dreams, she had a little one she hardly acknowledged even to herself. While Undyne doesn't want to be a seamstress anymore, she'd still like to learn to sew. She always thought maybe the thread between her fingers would one day be enough to make her feel connected with mom. That one day she'd learn to sew when she has a clear view of the sky above her and the sheer beauty of it could convince her that there is indeed a Heaven where souls rest and mom could see her from.

 

But if someone doesn't come soon, not just that dream, but all of them, might just...

 

...

 

...What the hell happened to her today? She woke up with a start, uneasy, scared. She wanted nothing but to stay in bed until her heart stopped racing. But when something scares Undyne, she faces it. So instead of gathering her thoughts, she got changed and began with her routine as planned.

 

Her feelings were so damn abstract. It's only now that she's peering into death's gaze and seeing herself reflected in its glassy pupils that she finds some semblance of clarity. To boot, said clarity is nothing but regret for the life she's denied herself. Until now, though, all she felt was anxious confusion. Danger emanating around her, from the very idea of talking to Asgore, from remaining in her house or going outdoors.

 

She'll never know why. Granted, this cavern is as devoid of others as it's been all along. Nobody's coming to save her, are they? How poetic, it starts as it ends: with Undyne alone.

 

She has a theory, though. What if all she felt upon waking up was nothing but a conglomeration of everything that's ever given her anxiety? Disappointing Asgore, not being up to par, not being good enough, and most of all, ending up like mom. Something in her sleep chased her awake, out of the house, and into this damn thing.

 

...All things considered, if this is her level of self-control, it's better for monsterkind that she never became Captain. Her meaningless death proved right all who were opposed to her right.

 

Had she not been jogging with the sole intention of putting distance between herself and the noose she carries in her heart, Undyne would've looked where she was stepping. Had she not been so focused on thinking about mom, fearing her, loving her, missing her, hating her, the emotions that lead her to die, she wouldn't have ended up dying here today. Had Undyne not been so irrationally afraid of being just like mother dearest, she wouldn't have died the same kind of senseless death.

 

Perhaps they've been one and the same all along. Perhaps Undyne ran so far from mom she ended up at the starting point.

 

...The feeling of danger wasn't coming just from around her, though. It bloomed from within her, as if her mere presence was a threat. She took this vacant route not because it provided a bigger challenge, but because it guaranteed it would keep her away from people. Almost as if the responsibility of becoming Captain were making it sink in for real that people's lives are going to be in her hands. That if she makes one mistake, one wrong move, one lapse in judgment, she could hurt someone.

 

Or maybe it was trying to keep her alone and isolated, much like she's worked towards for years. The only person she's let in recently was Shyren, and for what? Her sister fell down and she stopped coming over and music altogether, doing nothing but prove how life down here is futile and every scrap of joy will be stolen from monsterkind until the day they're free.

 

Whatever it was, she wasn't able to control it properly and now she's screwed.

 

...It doesn't end like this, right? Someone... Someone will miss her. Asgore at least. Tonight, when she doesn't appear for dinner. He'll... He'll come for her, right?

 

He won't forget her the way mom did, right?

 

...Then again, what does he have to remember her by? The many occasions she shot down his attempts at spending time with her? Their non-existent closeness? The literal nothingness that will be her legacy?

 

...No. No, Undyne will live. She'll live long enough to see her people be free, having full lives instead of the trimmed down version humanity wanted monsters to have. To think like this at all is the same as accepting she's going to die here. And she isn't. Every path ends in a tombstone, but trying to live down here, proven and tested by mother dearest, only accelerates that finale. Undyne won't do that.

 

She refuses.

 

-

 

...

 

...Where the hell is she? Did she fall off the bed again? What--?

 

She can't move. She can't move, she's paralyzed. Right. Damn it. She fell asleep in the end. How long has it been? She opens her eye, blinking as the light of Waterfall's flower stabs into her pupil. Is she still--?

 

There's a yellow blur in front of her. A monster? Undyne blinks, accustoming herself to the light. A little yellow flower with a friendly, smiling face stares at her, just a foot away. Has she seen them before? They're familiar. An old neighbour who moved to the capital?

 

Adrenaline consumes her. There's no feeling in her limbs, but her head still works.

 

"Who...?"

 

Pathetic words for a soldier to utter. She should be the one helping people; not the other way around. Yet here she is, about to ask a civilian for assistance in getting her out of the mess she's made by and for herself through stupidity alone.

 

They blink at her, pensive, smile unwavering. She's... Her head, it's so slow. Was... Was there anything else in that poison? Or is it just...?

 

...How long was she out for?

 

The flower's smile is... a bit too wide for its face. It cocks its head to the side, and green tendrils snake from it across the floor, towards Undyne's legs and torso. What are they doing? What--?

 

...That noise... A low rumble; what is it? Who is this? This... This is the creature who set the trap. This is it. This flower--

 

"The king gave up on looking for you." Their gruesome smile expands more, growing serrated teeth as their eyes shrink. "When you went missing three days ago he just said 'Good riddance', and appointed someone else as Captain. He said you were more useful to everyone if you were dead."

 

...What?

 

The little flower nods, grin impossibly wide and eyes narrowed. "He said you were just a weed, in the way, and he was glad to be rid of something like you."

 

...That's... That's not...

 

"Asgore... wouldn't--"

 

"He did. He said you were nothing but a weed in his garden and he was looking for ways to do away with you anyway. He said the best thing that could happen to everyone was that you disappeared like this. That way he can latch onto presumption of death and be done with you already."

 

The flower sways from side to side, exuding twisted happiness. "He never loved you. He just missed his son. He doesn't need you anymore."

 

...Asgore and her weren't family, but...

 

She rejected him almost every time he wanted to spend time with her.

 

...They were still friends.

 

He was a kind boss, but a boss nonetheless. He was kind to everyone; Undyne isn't special.

 

...They are friends right?

 

He could have ordered her killed at any moment. He could have killed her himself.

 

But... He wouldn't. He didn't hate her. He would never--

 

"Now that I've found you, I'm going to make sure you never bother him again." Its eyes, black holes sucking in the light around it, move past Undyne's face. "You can't even feel it, can you?"

 

...Feel what? She twists her neck. It's stiff from having been here so long. It cracks--

 

A tangle of vines penetrates the ground and her body, twisting and winding, coming in and out of the earth and her back the same. They slither within her, poking holes in her skin and popping off scales, causing that grating rumble as they terraform the earth along with her soon-to-be dust pile. The sharp vines wrap around her injured foot and pull--

 

She closes her eye. No. No, this can't be happening. The vines, coming from under ground--

 

"...It didn't have to end like this, you know? You made it so difficult for everyone. Now the King is forced to end you since you wouldn't just leave him. He got tired of you.

 

"Just like your mother."

 

...No, no. That isn't... Asgore wouldn't torture anyone. Not even someone he dislikes, it's cruel. Asgore is anything but.

 

The flower's smile is the single most repulsive thing Undyne has ever laid eye upon. It's so happy to torture her. To claim it's doing so in Asgore's name when he would never--

 

"The reason your mother lost hope was you. You're the reason she had to do that. She had no good way of getting rid of you, and you were making her lose hope. There's something wrong with you, you know? Something inside you. It spreads to everyone, you're like an infection. So the King asked me to get rid of you before you make him lose hope, too.

 

"It's better like this, don't fight it. Nobody's ever loved you and everyone who's met you wishes you were dead."

 

...

 

"Sweetheart, mommy isn't in the mood."

 

...Is... Is that...?

 

"Good for nothing troublemaker. The king needs to deflect criticism, so he's using the seamstress' orphan to make himself look good. He doesn't actually care for the girl."

 

It... It can't be. It...

 

"For my sweetheart."

 

...

 

And why wouldn't it be true? If... If she was never enough for the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally... If mom left her all the same, why should Asgore...?

 

...

 

"Who... What are you?" Undyne mutters.

 

The flower giggles. High-pitched and child-like. Vile. "I'm all he needs."

 

It sinks back into the earth, but the vines remain. They flail in front of Undyne's eye from time to time, a reminder of what they're doing while she's incapable of moving, robbed of all bodily autonomy.

 

...This is how it ends. After fighting all her life, after running as fast as she could, it ends in solitude.

 

...She just wanted to live. She only wanted... to...

 

*

 

There's only so much internal damage a monster can sustain, but dang did the weed hold on to her miserable life. What was she clinging to, anyway? Took her long enough to leave this mortal coil. Asriel recalls all his vines, covered in dust. The trap shuts all the way with a loud bang since nothing's prying it open anymore.

 

Hah, she's so gullible. Three days, presumed dead... Pathetic. She believed every last word. It's so funny, how vulnerable they are once Asriel scratches at all their secrets. One hour of exhaustion and paralysis and she was willing to believe about anything. Stupid idiot.

 

In any case, it's not like he killed her. She did herself in by being useless. She should've looked where she was going. If Asriel hadn't done her in, starvation would have. This was a mercy killing.

 

And besides, she should associate dad with bad feelings, too. She's already half way there with all the latent memories of him killing her, Asriel just has to push her away from him entirely. That way she'll stop contacting him and coming over and he'll forget her faster already.

 

Asriel closes his eyes and loads, opening them again in the garden. A brand new day's begun.

Notes:

Prompt: presumed dead.

Chapter 18: I Wonder...

Notes:

Alright, new update schedule: from now on we're doing one chapter/week. That double update to compensate is still pending, but except for that one just one chapter/week. I have enough time to finish the challenge before 2025 now, with the chapters that are currently out already; and from next chapter onwards chapters get anywhere from a bit, to considerably longer than they currently are, so yeah. It'll be easier for me to proofread just one/week and i'm on schedule so. All good! There may be two/week occasionally, but that'll be the exception and not the norm. We'll see :3

The number of unheard messages in Undyne's inbox gather like dust does in the corners of her house.

 

Not that it matters, of course. Undyne exhales slowly as she finishes her pull-ups. Her ringtone carries over from the kitchen table yet again. She'll put it on mute next time, it'll be easier. She has a lot of work to do now that she's been promoted to Captain.

 

She has to survive carry everyone to freedom. It's her duty to always be prepared.

 

Besides, if she's not busy--

 

Behind h--

 

She could always... Maybe for ten minutes at most, but... Her piano is right there, so--

 

Stupid idea. She already did push-ups, but she can do them again. On the tips of her fingers this time. Whenever the last soul arrives they'll wish they were never born.

 

It's always there, casting its shadow over her, looming--

 

Her phone rings again. There's only one person who calls her; what the hell does he want, anyway? She's doing her job just fine. There have been no complaints about her, everything's in order. If he needs something he should be contacting her during work hours.

 

"For my s--"

 

The brown tile she's pushing against cracks under the force of her fingers. She is not a goner. She is not like mom. She's going to prevail come hell or high water until this episode subsides.

 

Closer and c--

 

...

 

She can do it. She'll push through this.

 

-

 

Working out outside was definitely more fun than doing so indoors. But the benefits of staying inside outweigh the nuisances of being outside.

 

She has less people to talk to in here as well.

 

She doesn't need anything from outside, anyway. Now that she's Captain her responsibilities have doubled. She can't go around risking her life irresponsibly anymore, she is now officially in charge of terminating the final human. If she's outside and there's an eruption from Hotland? Or an avalanche in Snowdin? A rare flooding here, in Waterfall? She can't risk getting caught in any of that.

 

She can't risk getting her foot caught in vines--

 

The treadmill was the only thing she needed to replace everything she'd normally do outside that she can reasonably do indoors. Now she can go at it for hours, even listen to music if she wants. When did she last have time to listen to music?

 

Back and forth, with the weight of a monster no longer th--

 

She can turn up the intensity a bit. Run faster, harder, work more. That's what she needs, it'll be just fine.

 

This isn't liv--

 

She twists the intensity knob until it pops clean off-- Goddamnit, not again. Maybe Asgore has a point and she isn't always in control of her strength. Oh well, now it's always stuck at the max. No more slacking off or lazing about; things are getting serious.

 

...Would it really be so bad, now that she's saving a bunch of time by only leaving the house when strictly necessary, if she just opened her piano so the keys can breathe a little? Just for a moment?

 

"For my sweeth--"

 

Even the highest setting on this darn thing isn't fast enough. If only there were a way to make it go harder.

 

-

 

This... This isn't working. Nothing's working. It's already been a week; why is she still like this?!

 

The blue light from the echo flowers outside casts her room in a cool glow. She's kept her eye closed for the better part of an hour, but sleep refuses to come. The only thing that visits her is that blighted sensation of freezing and burning up inside all at once as the world comes undone. That along with some mild tremors and a stomach ache.

 

...Why? Why now? Why so bad? It's never been more than a few hours. What the hell is happening?

 

She'll be fine for a moment. Everything's good, she's alright and normal again, and it's good, just fine. But then the stupidest thing happens and it's back again.

 

Something as simple as tripping makes Undyne feel restrained, deprived of her bodily autonomy, stripped of agency. Seeing a kid running around makes every nerve ending in her body ignite. Seeing Asgore's sparring trident on the shelves in the training room out of the corner of her eye makes her gills sear.

 

She's fine, and then she's not. It comes and goes. Every time it goes she makes the fatal mistake of assuming she's done it, that it's all well at last. Then it returns, because it never left, because it never will, and she's back at square one.

 

And the urge to play piano again, to give up her ten-year streak of never daring try to live in this pit? It's stronger than ever, overpowering, consuming. More so than her need for freedom and almost, just almost, her conviction that doing anything down here remotely similar to living would only end in her death. But she needs to create almost more than she needs to breathe. It's in the back of her mind, scratching and scraping, screaming, begging to be heard, every hour of every day.

 

This... This isn't normal. This isn't the same old. It's not the feeling that comes for an hour, two, three, a day, and then goes away for the next few months or years. This is persistent. It hampers her ability to function. She's always too alert, too on edge. So far everyone's assuming it's because of her promotion, that when she gets the hang of being the Captain it'll pass and she'll calm down.

 

Of course, they don't know. They haven't had that noose's shadow looming over them for the past ten years. They've never wondered if they were doomed--

 

She is not. She's not like mom. Mom gave up. She stopped, she stopped going out, talking to people, doing the things she loved. Undyne hasn't, she didn't, she never will.

 

...But this house... This house she's in, nothing but a progression of naked walls... It's barren. There's nothing to indicate anyone lives here save a bed and a night table.

 

She has a table, a kitchen, the basic furniture for her bedroom, a shower, a piano, and an empty room in the back. When she first moved in it made sense to only focus on the necessities. Money was tight, she only had a few months' salary saved up. She told Asgore when he first visited her and brought the piano what her plans for the house were.

 

She would have a music room, a library full of books, her own training grounds, a TV at some point, a radio, a guest room...

 

But as time went by, although her funds increased, her time became more and more limited. She was moving up the ranks, her dreams of being by Asgore's side, his right hand and second in command, the person he could count on when he was exhausted, were just out of reach. She only had to fight a bit harder, get a bit stronger, perfect her skills a little more.

 

There was no time for music or reading, or entertainment of any type. Because every second she spent on leisure went wasted, and because making a life down here was a death sentence in more ways than one. Humankind isn't resting, they aren't taking breaks. With every breath they take their hands become covered in the dust of more and more monsters who perish in the cell humanity prepared for them and left them to rot in. Human technology is advancing fast, if all that falls through the garbage dump is anything to go by.

 

Up there there's enough of them that they can afford to live normal lives and divvy the weight of their technological and societal progress between many. Down here, without space or sunlight, the number of monsters who can fight for their kin are too little to waste time on personal lives and relaxation.

 

Without space or sunlight, the lives of those who dare dream are destined to fade to dust. Attempting to live is a waste towards the greater goal of saving all monsters. It's also a misuse for survival. Nothing kills a person faster than attempting to build a meaningful life in this claustrophobic hole.

 

Okay, so her house isn't a home. It's just resting quarters, undecorated, and if she were to die nothing would ever indicated someone was here. Who cares? It isn't that important. After all, nobody lives here. What Undyne, what everyone, is doing, is classified as survival; not life. Trying to live down here would only kill her faster and she does not want to die without reason.

 

...When she dies nobody will be able to tell someone lived in this house. There's nothing here to make it hers. None of what she wanted, nothing to--

 

She rolls around, pushing the sheets off herself. It's too hot, also too cold. Freezing and burning, but it's not coming from outside. It's all in her head.

 

...This place won't be hers for long. Behind h-- That... That seventh human will come through at any time. If humans are something reliably, that is cruel and remarkably stupid. Six already came to the mountain known to them for people disappearing in it, precisely because that's Mt. Ebott's fame up on the Surface. A seventh one is bound to follow. It's already been so long since last monsterkind had hope an outsider that it can't be much longer, right?

 

She just has to make it until then. Then they'll all be free, and she'll be alright. This... This place's hopelessness won't have the chance to get to her like it did mom. There'll be too much fresh air for the wafting curse of death to follow Undyne to the Surface.

 

It'll reach her before--

 

There's an ache lodged permanently in her abdomen. Every time she thinks like this it gets worse. She's not like mom. When mom started losing hope she stopped doing everything she loved. She stopped sewing, she stopped going out with her friends, she stopped hosting tea parties, she stopped humming in the kitchen, she stopped getting out of bed, she stopped loving--

 

"Mom... I need you. Please help--"

 

Is Undyne stopping?

 

...She hasn't played piano or done anything she loves in so long, she might as well have functionally--

 

Nope. She's working harder and harder every day. This couldn't be further from stopping.

 

She reaches for the bunched up covers at the foot of the bed and pulls them over her shoulders. Freezing and burning. Freezing more than burning now. But it's fine, it'll be alright.

 

Because mom and her aren't the same.

 

-

 

She shoots up in bed, gasping, looking around her room as she clutches her chest, covering holes as intangible and invisible as the noose she dreads. Everything's in order. The shadows cast by her her wardrobe, bed, night table and the pile of dirty clothes to the left of her bed are normal. They're not impenetrable darkness containing the void within them, sucking out the light from around them. They're just shadows.

 

No tendrils break free from the darkness and slither across the room. It doesn't cut into her.

 

...She's fine, of course she is. It's... It's just that nightmare again. One of the new ones that makes no sense. It doesn't hearken back to any major, life-altering event, like the others. Yet here it is. Waking her several times a night with pinpricks of pain all over her body. Between her toes, under her tongue, in her eye. In her Achilles tendons, in her sinus cavities, shredding her flesh apart and sending scales raining over--

 

She takes a deep breath, gathering herself. She's safe. Everything's as it should be, this is just...

 

The noose closing in--

 

...A bad phase. It'll pass. It'll pass, it always does. It's being more stubborn now, but it'll end, too. She'll be back to normal soon.

 

Under the earth--

 

Rubbing her eye, she lays back down again. Her heart's still pounding as every inch of her body hurts with the phantom pains of non-existent holes manifested by her sleep-addled mind. Still beats the nightmare of hurting instead of protecting civilians; especially children.

 

When she showered earlier today she checked for scars regardless. Really, there's nothing there. This is the closest she's ever come to genuine insanity. Just like m--

 

...Whatever's going on, Undyne needs to snap out of it soon. Now that she's the Captain she can't allow herself the luxury of being in anything but top condition. Life and safety are waiting for her beyond the Barrier. All the piano playing, the reading, the working out in the sun, having time and reason to make genuine bonds, have friends, a wife... It's all above her. One human soul away. Envisioning that, the all-encompasing sunlight, its warmth on her scales, the feeling of being genuinely loved, Undyne closes her eye.

 

Her stomach still hurts.

 

-

 

Her resting heartbeat is high. Hands are full of tremors. Breathing hurts. Stomach ache worse and worse.

 

Undyne sets the dumbbells down, chipping away at the already ruined floor tiles again. Her muscles are tingling with pins and needles as invisible as the gaping wounds which wake her multiple times every night.

 

Catching her breath, she heads over to the kitchen to prepare her new best friend: a cup of coffee. It isn't good for her, it leaves her dehydrated when the ceaseless workouts already do the same, but what else can she do when she's sleeping scraps of hours every night? How else is she supposed to keep her eyelid from drooping during work hours?

 

She's going to get herself killed. Isn't that another way of achieving what mom--?

 

...

 

Her hand hovers over the glass jar containing the coffee grounds. She doesn't even like the taste, not by a long shot. The doctor she saw at the hospital two days ago, when she started wondering if she'd come down with something for the first time in her life, confirmed that physically speaking she's fine. He recommended she see another sort of doctor, those that poke and prod into one's thoughts, but Undyne declined.

 

She doesn't need to hear from an outsider the problem's in her mind.

 

She knows that. She knows it damn well. The noose slithered into her psyche like a snake that day. It disentangled from the rafters and coiled around her head. Snugly at first. But as she grew up it stayed the same, digging more and more into her brain until it embedded itself inextricably into her very existence, leaving lacerations where it tore into her.

 

She knows what the problem is. The problem is that whatever the hell lead mom to do that's been stalking Undyne for the past ten years. And whether it's hereditary as she feared when she was a kid or it's just something that stuck with her because she was a useless, impressionable kid, it doesn't matter. The point is it's here, and this time she can't stop it. The longer it lasts the more she thinks about it. The more she thinks about it, the longer it lasts.

 

All the while it keeps tempting her to do the things she wants disregarding how little that would do for her. She knows how it ends if she gives in and allows it to control her. If she stops, if she takes the rest her body is demanding of her, she'll never get up again.

 

She will die. And there's nothing quite as terrifying to her as going without having done anything useful. Without having lived.

 

Death is an old friend to Undyne. She knows it as well as she does herself.

 

Still she trembles at the idea of her own mortality. She always has, if she's being honest; it's just becoming increasingly more impossible to ignore. Of how easily a body becomes a pile of dust. One moment it's there and the next it's sprawled over the living room floor, covering a letter nobody's going to ready because it's--

 

"For my sweeth--"

 

Undyne's rejected the mere thought of dying as far back as she cares to remember. Some Captain she is if the concept of death terrifies her to the core, but it does. Even if she'd sooner stab herself than admit it. It always, always has. It's just one of those things she made peace with long ago.

 

Yeah, death terrifies her. Knowing that a perfectly healthy, seemingly happy person, can be hurting so much she'd rather die and takes steps to accomplish that is horrifying! It's a horrifying truth about Undyne's reality, about life down here in hell.

 

Sometimes the happiest, brightest people, who have other people in their lives who desperately need them, still can't do it! This cage snuffs the life out of them, eats them alive and leaves their remains for their ten year-olds to find at the end of what was otherwise a perfectly normal, happy day.

 

That's a terrifying fact to live with, but it's not like Undyne had a chance not to. So yes, death terrifies her. And in that fear she found the strength to seek meaning. To at least give something as painful, petrifying and nauseating as death a purpose. She wouldn't just die, she'd die sparing others the suffering and sheer misery of growing up in a place that siphons life out of its liveliest, brightest, warmest creatures. Because life in the Underground can only ever be cold and pointless, it seems. Angel forbid someone tries to make it better, right?

 

Every single day of Undyne's life entails peril and she chose it to be that way. She doesn't regret it. When the notice that another human's made it out of the Ruins arrives she won't be running to the shelters with civilians. She won't be in the back of the formation like a regular soldier. She'll be leading all the troops, at the front of them, facing the enemy head on. No running, no avoiding, no escape route. It'll be up to her to make sure their body collapses and their soul seeps out of the same holes their blood does.

 

It was a long time ago that she made peace with the fact that her mere existence involves taking on responsibilities and risks most monsters will never know. Death doesn't normally stalk her thoughts her these days, neither does injury. She doesn't want to die or be hurt, it's still a touchy subject she'd rather avoid; but it doesn't paralyze her and leave her crying like it did when she was a stupid, useless kid.

 

Hell, Asgore cared more about her eye than she did. As long as her death is useful, so far as it isn't as senseless as offing herself and abandoning every person who relies on her for salvation, it's fine by her to die.

 

Everyone dies. It's just a moment and you're gone. The people who live with the consequences of one's death are their loved ones. And since Undyne's never bothered taking roots down here she doesn't even have that to worry about.

 

...There's Asgore, of course. But it's not like he needs her. That's... That's the thing about Undyne's life. Nobody's ever needed her unless there was a use for her. Not even mom needed her. Because in the end she left all the same.

 

"For my sweeth--"

 

Death held Undyne's hand in its frigid fingers during mom's funeral and hasn't let go since. It's always with her. Cold and burning, inside and around her. An old friend, or at least not an enemy. Just a reality of life. All paths end in a gravestone, after all.

 

Lately though, it feels like death's grasp is no longer around her hand, but squeezing its fingers around her entrails. It keeps suggesting, less and less subliminally, that whatever the hell she's doing isn't living, and if she's going to die all the same why the hell wouldn't she? Even if she knows trying to do that here would only kill her faster, her head doesn't listen to reason. It just--

 

Alright, enough. This is precisely why Undyne's aware that the only way to keep it at bay is to continue pushing forwards. If she stops, if she allows it for just one second to creep closer, closer to enveloping her in the vines that plague her nightmares, it'll pull her down until she can no longer move and the only option is to give into the whispers it burdens her with.

 

So she pops off the lid and makes some coffee. It's going to be a long day.

 

Maybe she should get rid of her piano. Would that help?

 

-

 

...Ah, shit. Of course it's Asgore. Her heart skips a beat. Why the hell did she open the door without even checking it wasn't the delivery guy with her new treadmill?

 

Her head isn't working. It's the same, isn't it? She really is like--

 

"We are gathered here today to spread the dust of Sy--"

 

"...Hey," she greets, saluting him. Why did she do that? Why does she do anything, really?

 

Her head's going to kill her. It's written in the stars monsterkind's been forcibly parted from.

 

Asgore's green eyes are dull, covered by a deep frown robbing them of their light. A blue halo born of echo flowers and mushrooms behind him sets the edges of his figure alight.

 

Why's he here?

 

He holds her gaze for a moment before shaking his head in disappointment.

 

She's failing him. She finally reached her goal and she's nothing but the disappointment everyone said she would--

 

"What are you doing with formalities when it's just us two, Undyne?" His voice is as tired and heavy as the aura of sadness he always carries in his distant, vacant smiles. "Should I call you 'Captain'?"

 

He waves himself off before she can answer.

 

"I figured since your phone does not seem to be working, and you do not wish to come visit me, I should come see you myself."

 

The ache burrowed deep in her entrails twists like a cornered beast. She bites the inside of her mouth to keep from wincing.

 

...He's right here. Just a foot away from her, on the other side of the door. It's been under two weeks since she had a date for breakfast with him and bailed because she woke up wrong like this. A few days since she was promoted to Captain and she saw him at the ceremony. She's never been without him this long. Not without other forms of communication, like calling or texting at least. She loves hearing his voice at least once a day, parsing if he's as fine as he always insists he is, or if there's something hurting him he refuses to speak of.

 

She hasn't kept away him for no reason, because she doesn't care. She just can't let him see her like this.

 

As rough as her current situation is, it's nothing compared to his. When all's said and done, Undyne will retain her mortality. What Asgore will turn into, and whether it'll be reversible, is a question nobody has an answer for; a leap he must take without knowing where it'll lead. She can't spare him that sacrifice, but she'll do everything else within her power to assist and console him. And that includes not making him worry pointlessly about her.

 

He was under no obligation to help her. When her dreams violently switched gears from creation to destruction in the same motion the noose swung to a stop, he could've let her dreams remain as such until they too crumbled and killed her. But he didn't. In all the kindness of his heart he found the time and energy to help her pull herself and others out of this pit. He gave her the opportunity to be an active player in the justice and freedom every last ounce of her thirsts for. He gave her the chance to crawl out of the hole that entombed mom.

 

The least she can do now is not make him worry about silly feelings and shameful weakness. Whatever's going on she'll work out on her own. Until she works herself out of this rut, until the sight of him produces solely the warmth and affection he deserves, and not the unnerving undercurrent of senseless anxiety pulsating through Undyne's body quiet as a whisper yet present as the noose, she can't let herself become a source of worry for him.

 

He deserves so much better. If she can't be of help she should just remove herself. Surely someone else is better suited for this job, so she has to be useful no matter what.

 

Otherwise she'll be alone. And she won't be helping, and she'll be useless, and last time she was useless--

 

"For my sw--"

 

"As you can see, everything's alright." She forces her smile wide. It's the one lie she's managed to master; she's been smiling through everything since she was ten. "I've been so busy since--"

 

Asgore huffs. "Please stop."

 

...

 

...She lied to him. She's never lied to him before. Lies taste worse than coffee. What's the alternative, though? Make him worry about her more? Confess that she's...?

 

...Like mom? Dying of hopelessness? Fighting to stay alive until the day comes where she can finally live and--?

 

That's not it. That is not it. But what it is she can't explain, either, because she'd sound like a moron. And she always gets herself out of these moods and this time won't be any different no matter how hard it is, so she can't make him think she's as useless as--

 

Asgore takes a step forwards, regarding her with eyes full of woe. Half of Undyne wants nothing more than to stay where she is, comforted from horrors she can't place that force her eyelid open at night and keep her heart pounding during the day. She's missed him a lot, she's wanted to go to him ever day.

 

The other half is stronger, though, and forces her to step back.

 

He doesn't need to see how the coffee's tremors get her from time to time. She wouldn't forgive herself for staining him with her potential affliction that's she is not going to succumb to. Mom stained Undyne with it and she hasn't broken free of it in all these years. Asgore already has enough ghosts clinging to his ankles and weighing him down; Undyne refuses to become one of them. Because while she may not be special, he's her whole world. And since he cares about everyone, she can't add onto his load. This is for his own good.

 

"I have been busy."

 

...That much is true, she has been. More than normal since her mistake of a promotion. He should know; he's the one mostly in charge of sending her--

 

Asgore bows his head with a deep frown, as if her words had been a hand reaching out to strike him. What--?

 

"Nothing new. You always have been. Am I expected to believe you have been unable to spare even ten minutes in the past two weeks to talk to an old timer who worries for you?"

 

...Worries for her. Why... Why would anyone worry for her? Not even mom...

 

"Sorry, sweet--"

 

The warmth his presence alone brings almost melts away the ice seizing Undyne's heart. This is Asgore, her mentor and father friend. The only person who's cared about her in any capacity since mom abandoned her died. He's listened to her, taken care of her, indulged her and trained her for the past ten years. She wouldn't be here without him. She's missed their ephemeral get-togethers every single day.

 

Asgore is the reason for everything good in her life. After mom died and all Undyne had left were an overcrowded room with other parentless kids and dreams to survive, Asgore helped her turn those dreams into a reality. When Undyne was beyond pissed at him for being, in her childish eyes, a wussy who lost the war and, consequently, the reason mom died and everyone was doomed, far from hurt or annoyed Asgore saw her anger and helped her twist it into potential.

 

Everything good in her life, everything that isn't bland and meaningless, just perpetual waiting room syndrome until she busts out of here and she can truly live, is because of him. Even if she's a friend at most to him, replaceable at the end of the day, he's all she has.

 

Precisely because she cares about him and because he's aided her so much, because he's the only person who doesn't think she's worthless, she can't burden him with this. If she wants to return the favour she must be at her best no matter what, ready to fight when the time of truth comes. She can't be going through whatever's haunting her right now, and she can't drag him down to the circle of hell she's trapped in.

 

That and, how for some inexplicable reason, being around him makes the pinpricks of pain in her body worse. The sight of him gives her palpitations. The thing in her head, making everything unbearable, is wretched in the worst sense. It's making the person she loves most become a source of hurt, too.

 

...Maybe that's what mom felt when--

 

"I'm... learning to balance out my duties with my personal life. I'll get the hang of it, don't worry."

 

She'll be ready to be of use to him and return the favour in the only time that matters when the time comes. If she isn't, if she's useless like she was when she was a dumb kid, he'll leave her, too. She just needs to find the way to sort this out as she's always done.

 

...That's all she needs. Time. Time mom didn't give herself because, instead, she gave in. And Undyne won't, so she'll be fine.

 

He lets out a deep sigh, closing his eyes. "Do you promise that is all?"

 

...Even if lies are more bitter than coffee, there's no other alternative. She smiles wide and nods. "Just let me get my bearings."

 

She's done it before, she can do it again. She's determined to the bone.

 

She won't die. Not like this.

 

Her words seem to have convinced and soothed him as much as a blunt object to the head. He still stares at her with the concern-riddled gaze that forces her to look away.

 

If her heart beats any faster it might as well melt in her rib cage.

 

"...Please know that first and foremost, you are my friend." His expression serious yet warm. Sincere. "If there is anything you need to talk about, I am here for you. I always have been; your promotion changes nothing. You have nothing to prove, alright? Not to me."

 

...He means it. He's being honest, he doesn't hate her yet. He means it because Undyne's the only person Asgore's let into his personal life in the past decade. Nobody else, as kind as he is to everyone, has had the privilege of sharing their time off together, laughing at inconsequential things unrelated to work or freedom.

 

And still... Still her insides twist in his presence. The same company that normally soothes her is... It's all wrong. Whatever's in her head, mom's bloody inheritance, it's weaponizing him. It makes Undyne watch his every move, try to anticipate them as if he would ever hurt her or anyone, for that matter.

 

Maybe this is what mom--

 

It's a disgusting, vile sensation Undyne has to rid herself of as much as she does the invisible vines that tangle her in her nightmares. For that reason she can't be with him as they did before right now. He exacerbates whatever's wrong with her, and he deserves so much better than a so-called friend who tenses up in his presence despite being perfectly aware there's no rational motive for it.

 

She shouldn't be Captain. Nobody deserves this honour less.

 

"Alright." She tries to smile, but her voice is as hollow as the future seams bleak.

 

Asgore regards her with affection and kindness she doesn't deserve. Those that would melt away if he found out the kind of feelings her sick mind projects onto him. No doubt he's expecting her to ask him to step inside since he bothered coming all the way out here. Being around him is simultaneously the most comforting and daunting experience. She's safe with the only person who's kind enough to care about her. But her gills are on fire and her stomach aches as if she'd had poison for breakfast and--

 

Undyne is the most disgusting person to walk the Underground. Feeling about Asgore in such a way is downright vile.

 

So she smiles at him again, making up some excuse about going to bed early, basking in the bitter aftertaste of lies as she shuts the door closed behind her.

 

-

 

Asgore makes a point to text her at least once a day. She makes a point to only answer one out of every three so he doesn't feel too bad, but hopefully drops it already. She doesn't deserve his kindness, he shouldn't waste time and efforts on her.

 

Not when she's incapable of being the person he needs beside him. The steadfast Captain he'll require, the friend he deserves. At this rate he's going to hate her. Then he'll leave. Just like mom did.

 

If all Undyne can be is like this, it's best if she's alone. As useless as she is like this, he'll end up getting rid of her too, anyway.

 

Moving the piano to the back room did nothing; her fingertips still burn for it every hour of every day. But she can't get it out of the house, either. Being without it, even if she doesn't allow herself to even look at it, is more painful than being stabbed.

 

What gives?

 

-

 

...It's not working. It's getting worse. The periods of not feeling like this are growing few and far between. It's not getting better.

 

Perhaps nothing ever will.

 

The caffeine's starting to do things to her body. Undyne's chest and stomach hurt all the time, but it's the only way she has left to keep going. If she doesn't keep going she'll die, and she can't do that because she hasn't lived. The cup in her hand looks like the brew of death, but without it she's screwed anyway. What to do?

 

...Maybe mom also tried working and working and working until she realized there was no point at all. Maybe all the passionate life Undyne saw emanating from her was this horrific urge to create, to live, to do everything humans don't want monsters to do and live so passionately it hurts and heals and it's the best and worst thing ever all at once. It's like Undyne's chest will cave in at any moment and sitting in front of her piano's the only cure.

 

But that's a trick her head's playing on her. Mom did that, indulging in life. She did her best to give it meaning, to make her existence beautiful and enjoying it as much as she could. And as of today she's gone, but Undyne's still standing despite having been followed by that damn noose all alone since she was a child.

 

Maybe... Maybe there was something wrong with mom. She looked normal, so it can't be. But also she killed herself, so why the heck not? Hopelessness may not be genetic, but madness? It runs rampant in history books. Mad kings, mad bloodlines, all across monster and human history alike.

 

Normal people don't craft a noose out of spare cloth snippets and use them. They don't employ vibrant orange with brown polka dots, yellow with a sea motif embroidered at the bottom, stripped green and lime, blue with large flowers worked into the design, deep purple with fuchsia stars, fiery red, bright pink with a paisley pattern, all so lively, so full of life, so colourful and mesmerizing and downright beautiful, to end their lives. That's diametrically opposed to "normal." So even if mom didn't fit the archetype of a mad person, who's to say she wasn't?

 

It's not like anyone can ask her, anyway. A bit long past that point.

 

If it wasn't hopelessness, as everyone insists... If there was something more to it... Is it impossible that Undyne also...?

 

It wouldn't make a difference; she won't give in anyway. She's got this.

 

Nightmares of snake-like beings slithering under the earth keep her awake. They're still better than the ones of a faceless child with eyes boring into hers as they die because she killed them. A child, the demographic she's most invested in protecting. Her head's using that against her, too.

 

Her determination to work until it makes a difference has only gotten her medical leave after fainting on her third week on job and breaking a record, apparently, for most overworked person in the Guard. Caffeine has given her a permanently unsteady hand, so she can't safely wield spears anymore in combat, only able to summon them at a distance. Effectively she's useless.

 

She's always useless. Everything she tried to do for mom amounted to nothing. Perhaps if she'd been better, smarter, more useful, less annoying, mom wouldn't have done it. If when Undyne noticed mom was starting to do poorly she'd been better, smarter, more useful, less annoying, then maybe mom wouldn't have--

 

Behind and beneath--

 

Separation from Asgore is plaguing Undyne with the worst kind of loneliness. The same he rid her of ten years ago, when his endless kindness saved her from that hole of a room she was packed into with another five kids none of whom liked her much. The same that mom carved into her when she abandoned Undyne. Asgore saved her, yet now proximity with him only feeds into her irrational anxiety. And that leaves her like this, lonely and vulnerable like some nightmare-riddled infant who needs Asgore, then immediately sees him as a threat to her survival instead of her friend.

 

It makes her feel her mouth dry, her stomach twist in pain--

 

If she gets this looked at she'll be prescribed rest. If she does that, the same downwards spiral that grasped mom's ankles and pulled her under like quicksand will suffocate the life out of Undyne as well. The urge to do what she wants and live the life she wants down here, no matter how irrational it is, is already almost physically painful as is. Were Undyne mandated rest maybe she wouldn't be strong enough to keep the back room locked anymore and she'd press just one key on her piano, then more and more and more until she too offed herself like mom did. Punishment for living in hell, and all that.

 

But then again, if she remains as she is, trying to brave this seemingly endless storm, fighting and fighting and fighting until her last breath, she'll die all the same.

 

...Everything ends in a tombstone, doesn't it? The only thing that's guaranteed, for certain, is this moment, this breath here and now. Perhaps it isn't madness Undyne's experiencing, just clarity. Perhaps there's some way to balance life without expecting it to save her, like mom did. Perhaps there's a happy middle between living as intensely as mom did, be it by her own volition or illness; and the extreme Undyne's taken.

 

Humans... Those filthy creatures trapped monsters under the earth so they died. In other words, so they wouldn't live. In dedicating her every single breath to freedom, in neglecting everything which could've made this miserable existence as much of a life as it could be down here, within realistic limits, unlike what mom dreamt... Isn't Undyne doing exactly what her captors want of her? She's not living, just like humans planned?

 

Wouldn't trying to live down here, but keeping realism intact, not placing too many hopes and dreams in this cavern while always, eternally aiming to break free, be much more subversive to humanity's wishes of monster misery and extinction than whatever the hell Undyne's been dubbing “her life” all along? Is that the happy middle between her and mom?

 

Perhaps living in the house of death is the single most subversive thing to humanity Undyne could do while she's still stuck here, until she gets to bring them all to justice.

 

...

 

No.

 

Heavens above, Undyne's really losing it, isn't she? That's just another clever trick of her head. Another way to convince her to start doing what mom did, live so profoundly, so happily, only for her world to come crashing down later and hurt so much the only way out is death.

 

It's just. Nothing makes sense. And it's driving Undyne insane irrespective of whatever mom did or didn't have, if she had anything at all, which she probably didn't but can't be ruled out either.

 

Nothing... Nothing's adding up. Asgore's her only friend and Undyne loves him a bit too much, unacceptably so; but also he's the source of all her anxieties and ignites her nerve endings as if his gaze could rip off her scales and shred her skin. And mom, mom was the best person in the world, top to bottom, without arguments; but also she hated Undyne and left her and abandoned her. And Undyne doesn't hold her accountable because she was mad, but also she wasn't, or maybe she was and Undyne is, too; so maybe Undyne does hold mom accountable, blames her, hates her! Hates her with the rage of a scorned war god because who the hell leaves their ten year-old to find their dust under a still-swaying noose?

 

Then again, that isn't mom's fault. Because mom was mad, or because this place is a prison that terminates even the sanest individual. But sane individuals don't leave their kids and mom left her. However, mom left her because Undyne was an annoying and useless kid, so Undyne can't hate mom and should hate herself instead. She should hate herself much much more for being the most useless, pathetic kid ever born and frankly, the reason mom died at all.

 

Mom died because she was insane, or because she was too hopeful, or because she hated Undyne and wanted to leave her, or because Undyne was such a horrid child death was the only way for mom to be free. So it was Undyne's fault, or it wasn't, or she's insane too, or she's just weak and she should die because the world's better off without the person who forced mom to die.

 

Unless she didn't and mom died because she was cruel and selfish and awful and abandoned her. So in the end Undyne loves and hates mom with the same intensity, because both of those are infinity and no one person is fit for housing one infinity; never mind two. Two conflicting ones that never make sense because nothing does and Undyne is very obviously unwell, but she can't die. She can't die even though dying would make more sense because she sure as hell isn't living and if she's not living isn't she already, functionally dead?

 

Has she ever lived? Or has she only been an animated corpse all along?

 

…

 

Everything hurts. All the time. It never ends. And that confusion about mom? In all honesty she's felt it all along, every minute, every second, every breath, since she was ten. Two irreconcilable realities living in Undyne's head being wrapped together, rendered inseparable, by the noose which birthed them both. Now she's just incapable of ignoring the incongruence of it all because she's slowly going insane.

 

Undyne's own head is going to kill her. Not because she inherited anything, necessarily, though who the heck knows, right? No; it's going to kill her because it's running at full capacity every hour of every day and it's torn between sticking to what she knows will make her survive, and what she desires in order to live.

 

Light gives her headaches. Sitting in darkened rooms makes her see the darkness pulsating and vibrating as if it were alive, twisting, writhing, preparing to attack. As if tentacles could break free from it and penetrate her as easily as they cut through the light. There are phantom pains all over her body from non-existent wounds that burn her from the inside out.

 

Asgore came over when he heard about her fainting, because of course he did. He made her tea. The liquid was already brushing up against her lips when she pretended to pour it over herself by accident.

 

Why? Well, she'd like to know too. She couldn't bring herself to consume anything he made. Because, again, nothing makes a shred of sense.

 

He offered to braid her hair, like he did for her graduation because she was too useless to make her hair look nice. The motion of his hands running through her hair that time managed to soothed her like nothing else back then. All the anxiety consuming her that day, mixed with the anger and sorrow that mom wasn't there to see her and help her get ready, Asgore's presence, patience and affection brushed away with the same dexterity his fingers got rid of the knots in her hair.

 

She's always wanted to have another excuse for him to do that, but she's more than old enough to tend to her own grooming now. His offer, instead of feeling like the heaven-sent she always imagined it'd be, made her stomach cramp so violently she was convinced something had ruptured.

 

He's starting to notice. He's realizing she's weak, that she's frail. And if he realizes, he won't have a use for her anymore. Then he'll hate her and then he'll leave, just like--

 

...

 

She can't give in and end like mom. She can't continue like this and die a meaningless, bland death that serves no purpose.

 

Vines will drag her down to hell and free--

 

...

 

Maybe the Delta Rune prophecy crowd had a point all along. Maybe after reaching a certain point of emotional distress, death isn't so bad.

 

No. What the hell... What is she thinking?

 

...What... What was mom thinking when...?

 

-

 

There's no end in sight to this misery, but Undyne pushes forwards regardless. If she relaxes for one second, lets her guard down at all, falls to temptation just once, her end will be the same as--

 

"I made your favourite cupcakes, sweet--"

 

Visiting doctors is something Undyne's never been fond of. Mom couldn't cure her of her apprehension of the white-clad professionals waiting to shove needles under her scales and force foul-tasting concoctions in her mouth. Asgore only got her to do the absolutely obligatory work-mandated check-ups. And unlike kids whose parents manage to rid them of their apprehension towards doctors, now as an adult Undyne still cringes when she has to see one.

 

That said, it was worth the effort to let Asgore's ceaseless messages and voice mails convince her to go, if only to get him to stop worrying and most of all shut up. The sleeping pills the doctor gave her are finally letting her sleep.

 

She had a follow-up appointment, the doctors are worried. There's no clear cause for her current state, so they asked if she consumes any illegal substances. What a fucking stupid question. Coffee should be illegal from how bad it is, but it isn't, so Undyne's not breaking the law she embodies and upholds. So she skipped the follow-up because no physical doctor's ever going to realize the problem's in her head; and if she gets sent to the head doctor she'll hear what she already knows and lose the few strands of sanity she has left.

 

But that first appointment, all things considered, was positive. Nightmares are a thing of the past now that Undyne more or less falls unconscious at the end of every day. Eight hours of uninterrupted rest are life-saving and blissful.

 

Her house is free of caffeine at last. While the pain in her muscles and stomach is still there, both have become more of a dull throb than the persistent ache that made her snap at the soldiers under her command during training sessions. Her hands are no longer trembling, the sense of doom hanging over her has calmed down slightly and continues to do so with every passing day.

 

She even managed to see Asgore without feeling like death was manifesting in her bone marrow by virtue of inhaling the same air he breathed. He was visibly relieved to see her, his smile was so precious, and his presence finally felt right instead of menacing; as it always should have.

 

...A bit of the insanity that afflicted Undyne still remains. In theory it always will, since she's never managed to fully free herself from it, it always comes back; but overall she's doing great...

 

...Sort of.

 

In theory she should've stopped taking the sleeping pills a few weeks ago. And she did, just as the doctor said. The moment she did, of course, the nightmares were back, as was the requirement for caffeine, shitty mood, persistent dehydration, dizziness, trembling hands, and never-ending phantom pains of wounds she's never endured.

 

She knew the noose never left. It never will. Whichever room she's in, outdoors or inside, it'll always be swaying with the missing weight of the person it suffocated seconds before Undyne pressed down on the doorknob.

 

The curse is in her veins, or the memory in her head. It's the same either way. The pills make it slumber, but they can't kill it.

 

What a cornering situation to be in. If she continues taking them, she risks multiple organ failure, addiction and internal injuries that will almost certainly kill her. If she doesn't, the beast in her mind controls her once again, pelting her with the weight of the noose around her own neck, pulling tighter and tighter every second. Hm...

 

...Choices, choices.

 

-

 

Asgore's been knocking on her door intermittently for the better part of half an hour. If only the treadmill had a higher setting to be a bit louder and block him out better.

 

Why... Why can't he understand she's cursed? Even she's accepted it at this point; there's no hiding from it. Why is it so hard to make the connection between her and her mother? He knows what happened to her, the sort of genes that run in Undyne's DNA.

 

Why would he want to get closer to someone who's doomed to end just like the woman she loves and hates most? Why would he want that pain for himself when he can avoid it? Undyne would give a lung to have had the chance to never see that.

 

...But she won't finish like mom, though. Because Undyne isn't giving up. This blight that's stalked her for a decade has been pushing and prodding at her for two months now and she still hasn't caved in. She will not, she refuses.

 

It won't make a difference. She has no way of knowing how long mom fought--

 

Damn it.

 

If she were a quitter like mom, a goner, she would've already succumbed, right? It would have been so easy to give up in all this time. Or to do something infinitely easier and listen to the allure of all the thoughts begging her to live down here, which is just the scenic route to suicide, as mom's death proved.

 

Yes, yes, there's something in Undyne that's undeniably broken. It shattered the day mom died and never healed. It's been threatening to collapse ever since and, for some reason, her promotion was its limit. Being responsible for so many lives, having to be infallible for Asgore, being more in the line of fire than ever before. It piled onto Undyne's faulty head and snapped it.

 

But she's still here. That has to count for something, right?

 

Mom also held on. She held on for weeks. Years, if her infectious love for life was a symptom. In the end, all the same she still--

 

"For—"

 

...

 

...When... When mom started feeling hopeless she stopped engaging in her usual activities. Undyne begged her over and over to do something, to play with her, to come to her school events, and nothing worked. She couldn't get mom out of bed for the most part, no matter how much she asked or what she did. Maybe someone better and smarter, like mom deserved, would've figured something out. The right thing to say, the best course of action. But mom was stuck with a useless kid, and she died for it.

 

Through illness and sleep deprivation though, Undyne's doubled down on her duties. She's stronger than ever, more fit and prepared than she would have been had this nightmarish affliction not unfurled from within her. When the human arrives, they won't know what hit them. She's fine. She's... She's not giving up.

 

She's also not doing a single thing she loves. Kind of like mom leading up to--

 

Undyne's entire body rejects the concept of death as a whole, as if it should never dare breathe down her neck as it does everyone else's. It's a shudder arising from the deepest point in Undyne's body and violently rippling outwards in every direction. It's stupid beyond belief, granted. She signed up for the deadliest job on the planet and she doesn't regret. Then again...

 

...It's not... Maybe it's not so much the dying that scares her. A day will come when her soul will shatter and the world'll move on without her. All she hopes is the world she leaves behind when fate claims her is one better than the one she was born into. One of freedom and space, where nobody loses hope and loses their life way in the dark bowels of the earth. One whose freedom she can contribute to in a meaningful way.

 

She'll die. Maybe young, maybe without having lived the life she craves. But thanks to her sacrifice, others will. Those who come after her won't have to know the misery the Underground imposes on every single monster in different ways. That is what she cares about most in the world. But dying...

 

Physically crumbling to dust. Being suffocated, torn apart. Intrusions in her body moving within her, cutting her in half. Being tethered, watching for hours as her body collapses, unable to move--

 

So dying can be painful and scarring; big news! The good thing about dying is that she won't have to live with the memories and horror long. No matter how long and painful the death, the torment will end. She knows this. She knows it well. It could be scary, it could be scarring, but ultimately it won't matter because she won't have to live with the consequences of it. She won't have to live at all.

 

And still... Still, she doesn't want to die. Not down here, not like this. Not having fallen victim to whatever mom's legacy is; bloodline blight or otherwise. Mom... Mom was amazing, but she was also the worst. She abandoned her daughter. She left Undyne alone with no regards for what would become of her with a letter for company. A letter that's never been read, that never will be, because heavens know Undyne does not want to find out what was running through mom's head in those final moments.

 

In a way... In a way, she's always been fascinated by death. At least since the funeral.

 

Undyne understood death, theoretically, when she was six or seven and her neighbours at the end of the street died. They were an old couple who passed away shortly after one another. She knew death was part of the world, of life itself, but not of hers. Death was something that happened, but the mechanics behind it and its heavy sorrow were foreign to a little girl who still played with dolls. Then mom made it a reality, a part of Undyne's life, and she has never since for a second entertained the idea of finding any ending save death.

 

The feeling of it, the potential pain. The anguish, the final thoughts... They used to be all Undyne could think of until Asgore started training her and she finally found a way to give death a meaning, a purpose, to what was otherwise a cold, merciless fate nobody could escape. Said fixation, more than leaving, has always been in the back of her mind. It pokes out from time to time, like a curious child trying to learn more, but she always shoves it back. There's no need to indulge in these thoughts, but at this point...

 

What... What leads a person to lose hope? What does it feel like? What is it like to feel oneself fading until you cave in and decide death is better? What kind of fate worse than death befell mom in this prison for the crime of trying to find joy? Undyne's always wanted to know. Deep down, though she swats at those thoughts every time they come. Because if she found out, if she read mom's letter and figured it out, she wouldn't ever again know peace.

 

What if she reads mom's letter only to find she describes exactly what Undyne's going through right now? Generalized anxiety, fear and avoidance of loved ones, exhaustion, nightmares, inability to sleep, irrational fears, an irrepressible desire to create, to live... What if it's this? What if what mom felt was precisely this? What if she didn't give up? What if she lived as intensely as Undyne craves and then the hopelessness got her? What if what Undyne was unfortunate enough to witness was the culmination of mom fighting so, so hard only to be shattered all the same?

 

...What if she hasn't reached the levels of despair mom sunk into yet? What if this is exactly what mom felt leading up to Undyne noticing there was something amiss? What if she was hurting for months before--?

 

"For m--"

 

...Today... Today Undyne will take her sleeping pills again. They may not be able to do much to keep her stable in her waking hours, but proper rest makes a significant difference.

 

If she takes them, she might die. If she doesn't, if she allows her mind to continue roaming as it is, she most certainly will. She never thinks like this. These thoughts are forbidden for her. If she's too sleep-deprived to keep them at bay, she chooses the option that gives her the highest chance of survival.

 

Whatever happens, she will not prevail. Either that, or she'll at least die trying.

 

But she won't give up. Never. She's not like mom. She will live.

 

-

 

Sleep helps, but it's not a miracle. The piano has to go or Undyne's going to lose her mind. Everything's too much. She should live while she still has air in her lungs, but isn't that the same as thinking she's going to die before she reaches the Surface? Isn't that its own form of hopelessness? Or is refusing to live hopelessness instead?

 

Is this really mom's legacy, or just Undyne's punishment for never being good enough?

 

Will it ever end? Or will she end before it does?

 

*

 

Asriel prods at the pile of dust before him with his vines, scattering it over the tiled floor. Three months. Three months of taking close to no care of herself, working herself to the bone, and ultimately making the dangerous life choice of taking more meds than she should is what it's taken to see her kill herself slowly, bit by bit.

 

The king was getting way too antsy about her. Being nervous about making it worse if he intervened, being nervous about leaving her alone, worrying about her pretty much every hour of every day but keeping his distance out of fear... Watching him get all worked up about her was exhausting; Asriel almost caved in and offed her himself twice from frustration alone.

 

Well. So much for accenting her paranoia with a bit of Revenge HnD.

 

She made it so hard with the damn sleeping pills, too. Hiding the powder's taste in coffee is easy enough, but when she stopped taking it and settled for just water or tea? Asriel had to go through the trouble of changing the contents of the sleeping pills and it was such a hassle. He wasn't gonna do that until the end of his days. If she hadn't combusted to dust halfway through having a seizure in her sleep right now, he would've killed her again just to get a dang move-on.

 

She was just so anxious when last she died in the trap, so desperate to live, that it gave Asriel ideas. How long would her own load-induced anxiety last if he let her live a few days?

 

Not that long, it turns out. Just a day or two more at most. Then she goes back to normal, so Asriel got curious about what might happen if he makes her stay anxious for an extended period of time. Hardly his fault; she's very entertaining. But even with a little bit of external help she still held on to life.

 

Or existence, more accurately. She's scared of living.

 

Overuse of caffeine, overuse of sleep pills, consistent over-exertion... She was destroying herself just to keep herself going a little longer. Even if it was painful, even if she hurt herself, the hope of it maybe getting better carried her through it no matter what Asriel put in her body.

 

...Why? Is death so scary to the uninitiated? Or is life so appealing with feelings and a heart?

 

"Asriel, get over here!! We have to have everything ready by the time mom and dad come back. Come quick!!"

 

...

 

The Guard's on the way. Asriel called to let them know he heard "some noises" coming from the weed's house. When they find her dust and tell dad, Asriel will have to load.

 

Honestly this whole killing someone over and over and over business is tedious. How many times did he kill that damn goner kid before they were erased? He lost count after the 200^th or so time.

 

Not only is dad no closer to forgetting about her accursed existence than he was before Asriel discovered his new ability; she herself had this... this fight inside of her that made her keep going until she was on the brink of breaking herself rather than giving up.

 

Giving up would have been easier. She continued because she had emotions. Emotions are exhilarating, the push anyone needs to survive.

 

…

 

She doesn't deserve it. Not when her feelings come from stealing Asriel of his rightful place.

 

Sighing, he loads.

 

That darned goner kid was a ball of anxiety incapable of moving or doing anything bar crying in fetal position after a number of back to back loads. How many will it take to leave the usurper that broken and miserable?

 

Is it worth it to do it at this point? Or should Asriel...?

 

Black nothingness. Ceasing to exist. Giving up on seeing Chara for good. Never--

 

Of course he shouldn't. He is the God of Time, after all. He'll outlast all of these suckers and get his emotions back soon enough.

 

All he has to do is break her spirit a little more and make dad hurt quite a lot. Enough dallying; it's time to move.

 

Asriel has a wonderful idea for how to do her in next.

Notes:

Prompt: Russian roulette. Making dangerous gambles with one's body. It wasn't in the most literal sense this chapter, but per the rules of this challenge the prompts are meant to be more orientative than restrictive, so it still counts :3

Chapter 19: Fun Little Experiment

Notes:

AND I'M BACK. HI!!

Alright unfortunately this fic will not be done by the end of the year, damn. But oh well! I had a final project to present and finished it quite literally yesterday. First thing i did with my newfound free time was proofread this and upload it. This chapter and the one after the next are my favourites in this fic! I couldn't wait to get them up and running ^^

Even if the fic won't be finished in time for the bingo, it'll still be uploaded needless to say. I need this story to be told. I had a blast writing it, and it kind of means a lot to me, so without further ado let's get on with the next chapter.

I hope it's worth your time, and that you can enjoy ^^

Update: many thanks to Mr. Meh for pointing out the most devastating typo i've ever made. It was very funny but ultimately i figured i might as well fix it skjhdfskjdf. Thankie so much!! :D (For those curious reading this post-typo fixing: misspelled "tilts" as "tits" and i'm still cackling over it.)

"Keep your eyes open. Do not return without her."

 

Dappled by the sunlight of the throne room, the small block of soldiers making up the totality of the Royal Guard salute Asgore at once to a unanimous cry of "Yes, sir!" Their armour sets clatter as one, sending glimmers of light sliding across every surface of the pillar, wall, and the ivy growing on them. The soldiers break their perfect formation and divide into squads, heading to their designated locations and leaving the throne room quiet.

 

Asgore closes his eyes, frowning. Thirty-one hours. Thirty-one hours since he was supposed to meet Undyne for breakfast. His heart has not slowed down since. It is unlike her to be late or fail to provide a reason for her absence. Coupled with her vacant house and inexplicable absence at her post the following day, Asgore has known something is very amiss for a while now.

 

Although the pain in his chest makes it hard to breathe, Asgore stands. He is not about to sit back and relax while his-- while she is missing. The pain fuels every step he takes forth, crunching through the grass and flowers. The night will not fall without having her safely back home.

 

Provided she still liv--

 

She does. She has not died; of course not. What would it take to terminate someone like Undyne? No monster is capable of such a thing.

 

Then again, a human--

 

The floor tilts beneath Asgore. He steadies himself against the wall, taking a deep breath. These dizzy spells have become more frequent in the past thirty-one hours alone than in the past decade. He did well to sound the alarm. A human is indeed among them again. Nothing short of that would make Undyne disappear without a trace; not in the Underground. Asgore is familiar with every last one of its citizens. There isn't one capable of holding her down for such a vast period of time.

 

...He is familiar with this tingling. Existing alongside the concern consuming him from the inside out, the sensation of wrongness, of twisted déjà vu in his abdomen has followed him since he woke up yesterday. It only increased as he sat alone at the breakfast table, waiting for a knock on the door that never arrived.

 

Had she not disappeared he would have assumed these feelings to be nothing but the past manifesting within him once more. But with her gone there is no doubt. Somehow a human evaded the Guard in Snowdin and the Doctor's cameras. Somehow they left the Ruins without opening the door.

 

But they have taken Undyne, and for that Asgore will, for once, have no qualms about--

 

"I just wanted to go hom--"

 

How a human has made it so far into the Underground without having been spotted is beyond Asgore's comprehension. Whoever they are dealing with this time is unparalleled by the innocent humans preceding them. Escaping the Ruins, getting out of the Snowdin Forest, the town proper...

 

It is unthinkable how they managed, yet they did. Why they chose to target Undyne specifically is another enigma. Ever since Undyne went missing he has routinely asked the people of the Underground to report if any neighbours or loved ones have vanished. None have. In the almost day and a half since Asgore awoke with nostalgia stabbed between his ribs and the vague, shapeless fear that maybe a human was related to it, only one monster has disappeared.

 

The one Asgore loves most.

 

"Hey, old timer--"

 

He leaves the throne room, then his deadly silent house. The streets of New Home are buzzing with activity. Murmurs travel up and down, monsters stare at Asgore from their front gardens, on their commute, from behind their windows. Asgore's chest tightens. Their agitation is mostly unrelated to Undyne's disappearance. Instead, they are excited about this turn of events, since it will lead them to the genocide freedom they so desperately crave.

 

The one brought by dust and blood, torn families and slaughtered innocents. The one Asgore spoke into existence when--

 

Asgore pushes forwards. His goal is Waterfall. Unless the human has mastered invisibility, it is extremely unlikely they would make it through Hotland. They would have to make it past the Guard members before the elevator, or through Dr. Alphys' laboratory. None of those parties have reported anything out of the ordinary. While it is obvious monsters are in over their heads if even Undyne has fallen to this threat, Asgore is almost convinced the human lays on the other side of the Underground.

 

He walks faster in his haste to reach his destination. Any headaches about the human, the technology they carry, the battle with them, can wait.

 

Until Undyne isn't safe and sound, everything else is secondary.

 

-

 

A B flat, in theory, wards off the silence consuming this house like termites.

 

Asgore presses the key again, waiting for its echoes to quiet before he fills the living room with the note again. Over, and over, and over.

 

He should be sleeping, but rest will not find him tonight. He ended up using the key to her house she gave him for emergencies. Would this qualify as an emergency for her? Probably not. At best she gently, never maliciously, tease him for being a sentimental old man; at worst she would be annoyed. But being here, in these empty walls, is the closest he can be to her right now. And for him that is emergency enough.

 

Sleep has not come to him at the end of any day of the past week. Seven days have gone by without news of Undyne. Not a hint or a whisper anywhere. Nobody has seen her, heard from her, found any of her possessions.

 

Nothing.

 

The Underground is not so vast. It has been searched many times over; it is impossible they wouldn't have found her yet if she were still--

 

He pushes the key with such force the wood groans at his fingertip. She is not dead. She cannot be, it is impossible. Undyne is the strongest monster and soldier he has ever met. If there is anyone who is unlikely to meet such a demise, it is her without a shadow of a doubt.

 

...Yet she is not invulnerable, and human determination is a powerful weapon, if employed as one. Bodies can be found. Dust, however, scatters. For all Asgore knows, he has already walked by her rem--

 

This piano sounds different than his. It is not tuned, its B flat's pitch is much closer to that of an A. Asgore always tunes his instrument, even when he cannot find time for it. Every year Asgore sets aside a few minutes to tune it himself. He offered Undyne to do the same for hers, to have an excuse to spend more time with her after she began aiming towards this promotion, but she refused.

 

"I can tune it myself just fine," she told him, sitting on the same stool he rests on now. Her smile was almost as wide as the love he holds for her in his chest. "I had a great teacher, you know?"

 

Asgore sniffs, pressing the off-tune key again. If her piano were tended to, this would be the first note she ever plucked from a piano, the one which opened the door for him to teach her how to play his beloved instrument. The one which, in turn, opened his heart to her with the same ease its note echoed in the quiet room.

 

...The silence in her house is not much better than that of his own. If only, the quietude in these walls exudes an existence instead of the shadows of what was once a family life. The piano here reverberates off barren walls and undecorated tables. In his house, the sound bounces off of the memories of the children who should still be there.

 

And the screams of those Asgore murd--

 

He pushes the key again, not waiting for the sound to vanish before repeating it.

 

...It is true. At least there are no screams to run from in these walls. No voices slithering up from the basement, entangled on every object and bare wall alike. Ever present as the dust in the carpet or the wooden creaks from the floor at night. The voices from the basement have been kind enough to remain confined to his house tonight. A mercy Asgore does not deserve, considering he was the source for their anguished cries.

 

He has often thought how the hollow nature of Undyne's house reflects her inner world. The way she bars herself from life, slaving away at a cause Asgore does not wish to deliver on. But the truth is his house is a representation of him as well.

 

The silence in Undyne's house is an absence. Absence of life, of any sign the person living here is truly living. The one in Asgore's house is an elegy to the departed, a reflection and expression of his soul truer than any words he could say to express the void his children left.

 

Once upon a time there was sprinting up and down halls. Laughter. The kitchen sizzling, some delicious scent wafting from it. Toriel's voice as she read bedtime stories or hummed while cooking. The not-so-silent footsteps at night of the loveliest children aiming for some warm butterscotch pie. The--

 

"Dad!! Dad, that tickles!! Your kisses tickle!!!"

 

This silence is the reason he seldom stays home longer than he must. He shares living quarters with the ghosts of a life long gone. The quiet threatens to drive him mad if he submerges himself too long in it.

 

He has nothing to do in a shrine to his wife and children. A shrine which doubles as a coffin, because mingled with the quiet echoes of the life Asgore lost are the consequences of his responsibility towards monsterkind.

 

His duties have resulted in six coffins far too small. Coffins in the basement under the throne room; close enough for Asgore to hear their cries of agony and reproaches in the dead quiet of his living room. Voices of children who will never return home, whose homes have also been reduced to a silence so suffocating--

 

He shuts the piano's lid, returning to the chair open by the table before him. He sits heavily, exhaustion and sorrow pulling on him more strongly than gravity. He rests his arms against the table and his head on them, closing his eyes. They burn with tiredness, but sleep never arrives. It would be too kind to be unconscious, unaware, for several hours.

 

Being here, using the spare key she gave him unequivocally for emergencies, and not late night breakdowns, will not make her appear. Of that much he is certain. Yet if for any reason she were able to escape wherever she is being held, there is a high likelihood she would come here first, her aversion to medical professionals considered. If so, Asgore does not want her to spend any moments alone. No matter how small the chance, if she is to cross that threshold battered and injured at best, he will not allow her to be on her own.

 

If she believes his presence here is unnecessary, or exaggerated, he will take any and all berating gladly. At least it would mean she is alive.

 

Tensions outside these walls are rising. Monsters are growing more restless every day. While little to no people care about Undyne's disappearance itself, they are worried about what made her vanish. If it is a human, it stands to reason they would have already tried to go back to the Surface. No monsters have been slain, though. If not a human, the fact that a monster, one of many, possibly someone known and cherished in their community, is capable of such cruelty, is disquieting for the populace.

 

It would be for Asgore as well if his entire emotional range were not comprised exclusively of worry. And guilt, regret, fear--

 

...It... It is hard to make sense of this situation, or any thoughts roaming his mind, when he hasn't slept in days. All ruminations of his feel like ribbons the ends of which are too far out of Asgore's reach. He can think through the beginning and the middle, but towards the end he struggles to grasp the substance of the thought. What was he thinking about? Why? How does it connect to everything he was previously considering, if at all?

 

Was it a genuine thought or a memory? A memory of the little girl he taught to conjure spears? Or the little children he once played catch with so fondly? Perhaps of those buried in the--?

 

Asgore never knew a headache could go on so intensely for so long. The pain nestled behind his eyes pushes outward as if the business end of a flail were rolling around in his skull.

 

Every time he sits down to think, write down ideas for what could be happening, how a human could accomplish this, the same happens. He begins coherent, but towards the middle his thoughts branch out. They reach out to Undyne. They wonder about where she is, how she is doing, if she is hurt, if whichever bastard has stolen her from his side has kill--

 

No.

 

Asgore stands, pacing the vacant room. She is not dead. He will never give up on her no matter what. She is the single most determined person he knows; she is alive somewhere. The only thing that could damn her could be Asgore calling the search off. There has to be something they are all missing. A nook, a cave somewhere, a tunnel in the CORE, a crevasse. She is here somewhere, of that he is positive.

 

The fight would never leave her. Not her. As long as she is determined she will survive.

 

...Yet determination can only push a person so far. And, in terms of living... what does Undyne have to live for? What is there in this hollow shell of a house for her to yearn to return to? What if...?

 

…

 

...She wasn't always like this. When Asgore met her, grief and rage aside... his-- Undyne was such a vivacious child.

 

The glum of the house vanishes before his eyes, replaced by the throne room at midday, when the Sun shines brightest. The first time he took Undyne there she was so small he had to walk slowly so she could keep pace. She looked at everything, blinking wildly in the sudden light, bringing a tiny hand to her eyes.

 

"What is that?" she asked with her face scrunched up, in a high-pitched voice her teens would drag down a few tones. Her words echoed off the walls. "It kinda burns."

 

As her sight habituated to the light, Asgore explained what the Sun was. She cocked her head to the side through squinted eyes, trying to take in all the information he provided her with. The same he'd taught Asr--

 

When he was done speaking her eyes were open, blinking only the usual amount, with her gaze lost somewhere behind him. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet, waiting for him to finish to approach a beam of light cautiously, as if it might bite.

 

"You can touch it," Asgore said, trying his best to contain a smile of adoration he knew would anger her. "It is warm."

 

Undyne bit her lip, staring at the yellow column protruding from the sky as if it were the most interesting thing her little eyes had ever seen. She poked it with her finger, retreating it quickly, then did it again, keeping it under for a while. She opened her hand, palm up, and closed her fingers as if she were hoping to trap a little drop of sunlight in her hold. Asgore exhaled through his nose to keep from laughing. She turned to look at him, unimpressed, almost disappointed.

 

"I thought you said it burns? Like, a lot? This isn't burning."

 

"Why would you want it to burn, child? Is this not better?"

 

Undyne's smile lit the room up more than the Sun she was still trying to hold in her fingers. "A Sun spear sounds great! If instead of magic we could use sunlight to conjure weapons that would be so cool!"

 

As she excitedly explained the detailed idea she had in mind, her then-wild, genuine gestures lead her to step into the sun beam she had been circling. The feeling made her fall quiet, gasping instead.

 

The sensation which covered Asgore's heart and mind back then still lives in his soul, returning every time he thinks about it. There was Undyne, a bit after her eleventh birthday. He had not known her for long, but she had already begun talking to him more and more after their training sessions. She had already pressed the keys on his piano, she had begun playing basic scales.

 

Little by little she had taken up more and more of Asgore's life. At first he only thought about her with pity, with the sympathy one thinks of an orphan. She was a stranger to him, a name his secretary had uttered when she explained who had died and who had been left behind. The days leading up to the funeral Asgore thought only of how to offer his sincere condolences to a ten year-old who had witnessed the aftermath of her mother's suicide.

 

Of course, no scenario he could have reasonably conceived of would have ever prepared him for meeting someone as exceptional as Undyne. When the little girl, far from crying, or trying to hold back tears in a display of maturity, physically assaulted him instead, all the consideration and burner dialogue he had conjured in his mind vanished.

 

"Would you like to learn how to beat me up?" was the only thing he could think of saying. And from that point forwards he began thinking of Undyne as a pupil, someone to teach. It snowballed from that into thinking about the things she would say during and after training, and later on to thinking about how he would teach her piano. In a little over a year she had ascended from a name he once heard in preparation for a funeral, to the sweet yet fiery child he looked forward to seeing more and more every day.

 

His heart reached the conclusion that she was his daughter much faster than his mind did. For in the moment she stepped out into the sun and stopped speaking, feeling the Sun on her face and arms, as the light played with her hair and scales, sending shimmers of blue and gold dancing across the room, was the first time Asgore consciously thought of her as his own. "How precious she is, my little girl," was all that crossed his mind as she began giggling in the light and spinning in a circle, awed by the warmth washing over her.

 

The thought was not foreign or awkward. Simply the conscious confirmation of a feeling, a love warmer than the Sun, he had already been subconsciously aware of for some time. It did not feel bizarre, misplaced, or wrong; so at the time he did not fight it. He surrendered to the idea completely. His broken heart was more capable of emotion than he thought; his soul had not been laid to rest with Chara and Asriel. The understanding of the sheer depth of his affection for the girl his reign had indirectly scarred for life felt as natural as breathing.

 

When she stopped spinning and stared at Asgore with wide eyes and a smile to match, so excited to feel the Sun she was bunching up the sides of her red skirt in her hands, he could not help but think she was brighter than the sunlight she so adored. She looked at her arms ahead of her, marvelled by the new sensation seeping under her scales, and then she regarded him again.

 

"If I train hard enough and we reach the Surface will I have this every day?"

 

The darkness of the room he's in snuffs the light of his memory. He exhales slowly through his mouth, trying to keep his heart from wilting in his chest.

 

"I promised you, didn't I?" he whispers to the barren walls encasing him. "I promised you would."

 

Back then... Back then, Asgore did everything within his hands to keep himself from feeling the way he did, he does, towards her. He had had children, his own and adopted. Both of them were met with a terrible fate, so Asgore barred himself from parenting ever again. For why would he take in a young girl only to ruin her life the same way he had done for Asriel and Chara?

 

"Asgore, Chara's not breathing. Why aren't they--?"

 

But no matter how hard he has tried, how many times he has denied himself the truth until the lies he has repeatedly fed himself started to sound honest, the feelings in his heart are the same. Her departure, her absence, is the same as the night when--

 

"Asriel is gone. I-I can't find him anywhere. And Chara's body--"

 

...

 

He could not pinpoint the exact moment he began seeing her as a daughter if he tried. The instant where her visits for training stopped being a matter of charity towards an orphan and something to look forward to. He invited her inside after their session one day because she scraped her knee and he wanted her to tend to it. Soon it was a ritual of theirs to go inside and talk after every session.

 

Undyne had many things to say and nobody to listen to them. A lot of thoughts and feelings too large for a girl so small that Asgore used to fend off the silence for a while. Hearing her voice transitioned from a mercy towards her, a means to an end, to being an intrinsic part of Asgore's life. To missing her when she was not around and yearning to hear her thoughts and perspective on things.

 

He did her hair once, only once, because it was her graduation and she was incapable of doing it properly; her mother had always done it for her. Then again, what did Asgore know of little girls or long hair? He'd had to deal with neither of those when Asriel and Chara lived, so Asgore had to find a tutorial using the Librarby's Undernet connection; for which he first needed to sort out the intricacies of the online world. How patient the librarian was with him, despite his tech-illiteracy being vaster than the darkness encasing the Underground. Later, he practiced for hours on a wig he had to purchase, to the poorly-repressed amused giggles of the teen cashier selling the King a wig with no explanation provided.

 

He did not care, though. He would help Undyne with anything she needed, because that is what love for one's child elicits in a parent.

 

The day he saw her gently pushing down on a B flat on his piano, the one that remained silent, out of tune, since the last piano lesson he gave Asriel and Chara so long ago, he was surprised to not feel anger that she had revived music in his house after the reason for it had long since died. Rather, it was a warmth in Asgore's chest he would have never imagined a cold-blooded creature such as her could ignite.

 

Undyne was not born his own like Asriel. Asgore made a conscious choice not to adopt her as he did with Chara once he realized the magnitude of his affection for her. Yet little by little, over time, she became a part of his life as naturally as breathing. She grew into his heart as if she had always belonged there. And at some point, when she was not beside him, her voice was one of the many that Asgore missed in the prison of silence he calls home.

 

At first he did pity her, as anyone would an orphan who saw their mother reach such a low of despair she lost her will to live and slowly shrivelled until she turned ended her life in front of a child who was begging her to please, please live. The flame that fed Undyne's soul despite having seen her mother's loss of hope was inspiring to Asgore, a light in the constant dark his life had become from the moment his house became a memorial site.

 

Over time, though, he grew to care about her so much more. Undyne was much more than a piteous orphan to him. She was a bright, vivid, spirited young girl with a passion for justice and an overwhelming desire to ensure no other child ever had to see their parents lose hope. Her obsession with carrying all of monsterkind's hopes and dreams to the Surface was awe-inspiring.

 

Her kindness and selflessness, her unshakable sense of duty even to monsters who have consistently judged and dismissed her was endearing to Asgore. At some point, he cared about her in a way more profound than mentor and ward. She kept on engraving her name into his heart until she became as entangled in his soul as Asriel and Chara are.

 

But his fear of losing another, of suffering through yet another death he would never recover from, of being the reason someone so small, unbelievably precious and beloved to him died... He could not do it. So instead of offering the love and affection she needed, the support a grieving girl her age required, he promised her one thing.

 

...He promised that, through conflict, through becoming an instrumental part in war, she would attain the freedom she so desperately needs. The one she was convinced would have saved her mother had she lived long enough to experience it. Asgore promised Undyne that blood and dust would lead to salvation.

 

Deep breaths cannot keep the tears burning in his eyes from brimming over, nor his chin from quivering. Perhaps it is the lack of sleep playing with him. Or maybe, much like the day the dawning realization that his life was no longer devoid of meaning snuck up on him, the fear and anguish he has been battling for the past seven days have finally reached him.

 

Whichever it is, a combination, or something else entirely, it is strong enough to wrack his shoulders with every shuddering breath. His inhales are sharp, sucking in air only to lose it with every sob erupting from behind his sternum.

 

Asgore... he has been running from this for a while now, has he not? For years, decades, centuries, he has been hiding from... from this like the coward he is. Every emotion within him pouring out - the compunction, the guilt, the repulsion... They are not new. They have been here, beside him, within him, as much as the voices and the screams have accompanied him for decades if not centuries. All he has done has been a poor job at burying them in order to survive.

 

And “this...” “This” which he has protected himself from with work, hearings, visits, meetings, pretense, justifications, is...

 

“Every last man, woman and ch--

 

...The truth.

 

“We found one, your High--”

 

A truth Asgore has been running from as fervently as Undyne has been fleeing from her past since the moment he first saw the single bloodied eye stalking him in his nightmares. A truth he only ever pretends to forget to make living easier but always lurks right there, under the surface, waiting for a single moment of distraction, exhaustion or leisure to pounce on him.

 

Is he only confronted by it in his sleep, though? Has he not found its dead, unseeing gaze piercing his soul in every dark nook and cranny in the Underground? Between heads of citizens at gatherings, among the flowers in the garden, between the floor boards in his own house? Has its unblinking sight not been the one thing Asgore hoped to be too occupied to note all along? Has that half-lidded eye not been the truth embodied since the start?

 

...How funny, this should all come up now. Of all moments, here and now. Though it has less “come up,” and more accurately caught up with him after countless years of this foolish game of cat and mouse. All things considered, it is reasonable that it is here of all places his penitence should find him and pin him down after such a lengthy chase.

 

In this barren house, without even memories and phantoms to keep his mind entertained, waiting for the door to open when it never will, there is nothing Asgore can use to protect himself from the weight of his catastrophic failures or regrets. Not anymore.

 

All the shields he had were mental. All his morals, his reasoning, his duties and obligations... Tiredness, concern, and the guilt eating him alive have torn through his last line of defence. His mind is nothing but a bruise in how it aches with worry; it is no longer equipped to maintain the delicate walls it has built since the night Asgore received the first human soul.

 

Not when all its power is focused on Undyne and her alone.

 

In here, in the dark quiet of a house whose sole inhabitant is the living person Asgore cares about most, there is nothing he can do but succumb to every single thought and idea he has repressed for years. The tide of woes and regrets has submerged him and, even if he knew of a way to push it down anew, to cease his suffering and patch up his walls, he would not.

 

Asgore merits no such mercy.

 

The truth is simple: Asgore should have never promised his people war. Not in the way he did, at least. He should have never, under any circumstances, linked monsterkind's hopes and dreams to the complete eradication of another species. But he has, and the consequences for it are disastrous no matter what he chooses to do. Whichever path he takes, Asgore is forsaken.

 

War of the magnitude he vowed will not give them freedom. It is not even “war” proper; it is genocide. He did not promise, as would have been reasonable, to engage in any conflict necessary to secure the freedom of their kin. He swore vengeance on every human, and in doing so ruined everything for everyone.

 

Avoiding battle at any cost would be ideal, but the issue with ideals is they are seldom realistic; and the suffering of monsters is very much a reality requiring a real solution. Asgore had no alternative at the time of his pledge but to consider war. It was his failure after all, his inability to keep his people safe, that put him in this crossroads to begin with.

 

He cannot allow his people to live in shadow, and humans made it patently clear peace was never an option. What else can he do? He is as cornered by his duty to his people as he is by the dark confines of the Underground.

 

...If he had been as callous as humans were and allowed his troops to take human souls and fight back, monsterkind would have never been in this predicament to begin with. His troops, more accustomed to father's way of handling conflict, asked him to on many occasions.

 

"Your Highness. It is in the name of the entire Guard that I request permission to take human souls with intent of levelling--"

 

...He could have prevented this. He could have prevented monsterkind's imprisonment and he did not. His ideals, his ethics and morals, forced him to deny his soldiers the freedom to do as they saw fit. And, in doing so, he unwittingly denied monsterkind as a whole their freedom.

 

Had Asgore, young and stupidly hopeful back then, relented, he would not be here right now. In this dark, hollow house, retracing every last step which brought him here, finding their roots in the night he swore vengeance. Killing all humans as he vowed is an atrocity. All humans would include children like--

 

"Dad! Asriel and I have something to show you!! Look, we made you a sweater!! We--"

 

...The upcoming conflict, the one Asgore forged in his grief the night his children died, is not monsterkind's first dalliance with war. Of the War of Humans and Monsters only shadows and relics remain, and the shadows grow weaker with each passing day. Himself, Gerson and Tor... her, are the only monsters alive old enough to remember it.

 

When Asgore hears retellings of the war -unless they are coming from the mouth of someone unfortunate enough to have survived this long, who speaks of it with the quiet revere it demands-, he is sickened. It was senseless bloodshed instigated by humanity, that is all. The heroic battles people speak of have been mystified beyond recognition and reflect nothing of the reality of the horror both sides underwent. There is no glory in the memories Asgore has worked so hard to forget. No heroism, nothing to romanticize.

 

Just a selfish decision made by humans in fear, and all of monsterkind paying the price for it.

 

When Asgore's steel-solid grasp on the present falters and his mind plunges him into the past, he remembers his men erupting into dust around him, the remains of their corpses shimmering ablaze in the setting Sun as he tried to process they had died. He remembers blood trickling from fallen human's lips, how mangled their corpses could become yet still they remain after death. The broken bones and displaced joints, the bodily fluids spraying in the air with the same sleekness of monster dust. The wet crunch of--

 

…

 

...Human bodies can be distorted beyond recognition. It is a small blessing monster bodies vanish. Asgore witnessed arrangements of limbs he never thought possible in human bodies as the dust settled following yet another lost battle. Joints turning at angles they should not, organs pouring out of cuts and gashes, broken bones poking through skin and innards alike. Those were not the remains of his kind and to this day, centuries later, the memories make him nauseous. He can still smell the battlefield when he least expects it.

 

That is what Asgore told his people would set them free. He did not frame it as a necessary evil, nor as an imposition on humanity's end. He never explained how haunted and ruined all surviving soldiers would be for the rest of their lives. He made no mention of how families would be broken, torn asunder, by the horrors of war. He did not inform them that, although they would escape their physical incarceration, the memories of the battlefield would become an emotional one they would never find solace from again.

 

He did not disclose a single word about the sights, textures, scents and sounds that would forever be engraved into their memories. He did not say how mind-breaking it is to kill a person. How, no matter how necessary or justified the murder, it is not an experience one returns unscathed from. The way such scars become prison bars in their own right.

 

And that horror, that pain, stems from the necessary taking of a life. One performed in self-defense, or in pursuit of freedom unjustly stolen. Asgore himself did not know back then what it feels like to stab a child who does not fight back. Who only stares at one with tears in their eyes and blood pouring from their mouth when all they wanted--

 

“I just... I just wanted to go home... I don't... understand. Why... would you--?”

 

...He cannot breathe. Asgore cannot breathe, his chest is too tight. He might as well suffocate here. Then again, he deserves no better.

 

If he is drowning, it is in the consequences of his own actions.

 

Promising to stop at nothing to ensure monsterkind's freedom... That would have been one thing. An unfortunate one, but one humans gave monsters no say in. Humans were the ones who locked them under the earth and left them to die, after all. They've no right to complain about monsters fighting back to reclaim what they rightfully deserve.

 

But that is not what Asgore promised his people. He vowed no necessary efforts, he did not show them war as the life-ruining event it is. What he promised was something very different. He promised revenge, and he had the audacity to call it “hope.”

 

And still back then, just one night before his children died, Asgore was sane enough to understand not every human was to blame. That the answer to their senseless violence was not to perpetuate the cycle until it was unstoppable. There were good humans up there who deserved to live, who should not be senselessly slaughtered the same way their kind had done to every last monster man, woman, and child.

 

The answer to their prerogative probably involved some degree of violence; that much is inescapable. It is highly unlikely humanity has any intent to solve the differences between themselves and monsters with words. Such a foisting leaves monsterkind in a truly unfortunate situation.

 

What are their options, if only violence stands a chance at saving them? Forced to become the anomaly Asgore will morph into to free them all? Must they pay for their freedom with their personhood? Become different creatures, leave behind the bodies and existences they are so fond of, are fighting to protect, so the surviving monsters may be free?

 

Even from the beginning of their imprisonment, humanity painted a grim future for monsters. Still though, at first...

 

At the very beginning of this madness, of being corralled into the Underground... Asgore did not even wish to consider necessary war. There is no happy outcome for monsterkind with the rules humanity has laid out. Fresh out of the War of Humans and Monsters, haunted by it much more frequently and vividly than he is now, he figured there would be nothing good whatsoever to obtain from another conflict. He thought...

 

“We will not take our people to war again, Gerson. No matter the consequence. That is a promise I--”

 

...He used to think perhaps staying down here was the better aftermath, after all.

 

The combination of recovering from a devastating war and a mass imprisonment, the impossibility of reclaiming what was theirs without sacrificing their very souls and essences, Asriel's birth... It all gave Asgore's rage time to settle. He was angry at humans, yes, but without the means to make them pay for what they had done his ire cooled down and froze into paralyzing fear. He could not go through another war, another battlefield. He could not lead any more men who trusted him to their deaths. He could not see another corpse--

 

…

 

Back then he had time. Time to toy around with the concept of a future war as some hypothetical scenario and not a swinging sword of Damocles. Time to process and understand that, while the humans who had harmed them, every last one responsible for monsterkind's demise, did not deserve a shred of the mercy and compassion Asgore had shown by forbidding his men from claiming human souls, genocide on every human was no solution, either.

 

And, while his opinion was not the universally accepted one, the Underground in those days was willing to listen.

 

Chara's arrival to the Underground was timely. The appearance of a small child hurt by humanity as well, who assimilated perfectly into a family of monsters and co-existed with them, gave everyone hope. Even the most bitter of monster cynics, who had given up on peace with humanity already reacted to the precious bond Chara and Asriel shared. Siblings of different, opposed species, living in perfect harmony.

 

Perhaps the cohabitation of humans and monsters was not as impossible as the aftermath of the genocide had made it seem. Perhaps there was a future where both species could live on the Surface in harmony as they had before the war. It would not be easy, but at least it, at long last, did not feel impossible.

 

...For every citizen, Chara was a beacon of hope. A ray of light, the embodiment of a brighter future. For Asgore they were so much more. They were everything, they were...

 

"Come here, my child. Today we are going to be practicing a new piece."

 

“Young liege! Put your brother down right away! He-- Do not tickle--!! Young man cease tickling your sibling as well right this instant!! A tickle war will not make me forget about the broken vase!!”

 

“What bed time story do you want today, Chara?”

 

“Would you like to come out to the garden with me? Or would you rather stay with your brother and your mother for their baking spree?”

 

“I love you too, my child. So much. I love--”

 

…

 

…Then... Then, when everything seemed to be looking up at last, humanity, once again...

 

""Asgore, come quick. Chara is bleeding from the mouth. They ate some buttercups. I-I don't know why they did that, but we have to take them to the hospital. They're really sick. Asgore--"

 

...They took his children. Humans took the lights of Asgore's life. They tore a small, sweet, lovely twelve year-old boy to shreds, brutalized his body. And what they did to Chara he never knew, they never said, but his child, his sweet, beloved child, was covered in scars physical and mental so severe they lead them to...

 

"Chara, you have to stay determined."

 

...

 

...They took his children, and... Something within Asgore snapped.

 

"Every last man, woman and child. It is the final time humanity takes anything from us. We will reclaim what they stole in the only language they understand, for violence is the language of beasts such as--"

 

Humanity's cruelty had trapped monsters under the earth. Humanity's cruelty had left scars scribbled over Chara's skin and soul. Humanity's cruelty had taken Asriel from him. If all humanity had to offer was cruelty, what was Asgore holding back for?

 

Why had he held back for during the war? He forbade everyone from claiming the souls of humans who died in battle. He was advised not to, informed very explicitly how his troops were uncomfortable with that order and fundamentally disagreed with it. Yet Asgore had told them they would not prove they were not a threat to humans by acting as what they feared most.

 

If he had listened to his soldiers, his people, they would have won the war. Humanity was not listening either way; Asgore's moral principals about proving monsterkind's harmlessness were equal parts ethical and useless. If he had acted differently they would have never been stuck in the Underground, unable to thrive. They would have remained on the Surface, where they always belonged. They would not have celebrated Asriel's funeral. Everything would be better.

 

"Friends and family, we are gathered here today to pay our respects to the late Crown Prince, Asriel Dreemurr and his sibling, Chara Dree--"

 

...Father always did say Asgore was a complete and utter failure. He always said he would make a dismal leader, and he was right. When Asgore had the chance to be violent, to strike back, he chose not to. It cost him his freedom, his people's lives, and his children. Why, then, should he hold back when he had nothing left to lose? What was tethering him to his principals and his hopes of future diplomatic relations when he could not share said freedom with Asriel and Chara?

 

Asgore promised war on humanity with the scorching rage of a thousand suns. With the certainty that he was in the right, that he should have used violence and force much, much sooner, and his failure to do so had cost him greatly. He forgot the horrors of the war, the haunted gazes on the victors' side. He forgot being so disgusted with war avoiding it at any cost felt like the correct option.

 

He forgot about the second reason he did not wish to lay claim to a single soul. The loss of everything that made monsters themselves, that would alter and warp every inch of their flesh the same way fear and hatred had done to their souls.

 

Had monsters taken souls during the war they would have become beings unknown. What does that state of being entail? What emotions, if any, are available to creatures who live as such? During the War of Humans and Monsters Asgore did not want to find out. Not by having people under his orders, people he was responsible for, discover it through personal experience. It was not something he wanted for himself, either.

 

Yes, taking the power of human souls would have indeed won the war. But would it have, if what returned home to family and friends was nothing but a faint whisper of the person who left the house? Can a battle be won if everyone's body is alive, but their mind and soul have been irreparably changed?

 

...Then again, he had no such qualms when he lost Asriel and Chara. Living as anything but a monster, having no emotions if possible, was so alluring Asgore never once considered the horror of having his body twist and contort, becoming something else matching his new state of consciousness.

 

He could not care less about the fine details. All he knew was his consideration for ethics and morals, his consideration for the spiritual implications, his hope things would improve peacefully, his kindness, had enabled humans to take from monsters yet again. Their freedom did not suffice; they also had to take Chara's sanity and, with it, theirs and Asriel's lives.

 

"Dad, help us!! Mom's like, super angry. And we didn't even do anything this time, I promise!! ...Okay, maybe a little. But it wasn't that bad, I promise!! Can you please--?"

 

The flame which burnt so brightly in Asgore did what fire does best and spread among his people, igniting them all with hope after such a devastating loss, when he promised to fight genocide with genocide.

 

The thing about fire, though, is that, while it does banish shadow, it also consumes.

 

There has not been a day since then Asgore has not been consumed. By anger and hatred at first, then regret shortly after.

 

"It squealed like a pig every--"

 

It is something he tries his best not to think about, but he could not stop himself now if he wanted. He does not. He does not want to avoid thinking about the mangled state the first human corpse was in when it reached him. He does not deserve such peace of mind.

 

The facial features of a small girl no older than six deformed by claws and fangs. The missing eye, the exposed teeth where tender muscle and skin should have been. The foot hanging on by tendrils of muscle, the several spots where bone poked out from skin, the crusted blood and torn out hair the same shade of red as Chara's.

 

"The first human since--"

 

Asgore saw no victory in that. He had never anticipated his ruling would extend to children. Not once, not one single time, had he considered monsters such as him, the same people he so desperately wanted to save, could be capable of such violence against the only objectively innocent people in the world irrespective of species or status.

 

He did not want the little girl's soul hovering over her chest torn open and her ribcage pulled asunder. The cyan, glowing soul casting unnatural light over her pale, desecrated skin and the organs bone should have covered, was of no interest to Asgore. He was lost in the thick scent of gore and what remained of her features. The eye wide open, the mouth agape with horror. Missing her front teeth most likely due to her young age.

 

The soldier who brought her to him was so pleased with himself. It took everything in Asgore not to smite him on the spot. He wanted nothing but to cradle the child in his arms and beg for her forgiveness. There was nothing heroic, nothing worth praise, in having torn a child apart.

 

How painful was her death? How much did it hurt? Was she alive for it all, or did the fire Asgore had lit among his people burnt his soldier so much it had melted all his conscience away? Had he toyed with the corpse? As dark as it is, it is best if that was the case. That when her bones were splintered into and her soft skin was peeled off, she had the mercy of death to shield her from the agony someone was subjecting her to on Asgore's orders.

 

It was all his fault.

 

Then again, seeing as something within the confines of this heinous prison enables humans to play with time, it is more than possible she lived through her own brutalization countless times before giving up. Before the repeated pain and torment ruined her mind as profoundly as Chara's was, and she too chose to die.

 

Every child remotely near Asgore, his own or otherwise, chooses death in the end. Is that not why he was so opposed to adopting Undyne?

 

If he is being honest with himself, if he is throwing away all the pretense and justification he has used as a cover all these centuries, that little girl's corpse being placed in his arms was the exact moment his anger lost all momentum and he realized the ramifications of the conflict he had promised his people. Everything he had ignored in his grief and rage snapped into sharp focus.

 

That child would not be the only one assaulted.

 

That was the moment. That was the moment Asgore should have changed his no mercy decree. He should have clarified monsterkind would not be partaking in the complete elimination of humans. That he was sorry, profoundly so, for having misled his people; but the conflict he had sworn to them was violently disporportionate and would never come.

 

hat children were off-limits irrespective of how dire the situation in the Underground became; and for that matter so was “every last man, woman and child” indiscriminately. He should have issued a new order, one exempting innocents of having to pay with blood for the sins of their ancestors.

 

...But by then it was already too late. Monsterkind was desperate, losing hope. The effects of long-term confinement, the minuscule dimensions of their cage, all the tensions stemming from their delicate situation, were profoundly harming his people's ability to hope. And, with hope, the will to fight, being so intrinsic to monsters' ability to live, it was imperative to keep them hoping, to keep them alive, through the calvary thrust upon them by humankind.

 

Asgore should have never established a bond between his people's very life force, and eradicating all humans. But he had, and his people were living in veritable hell. For a majority of them, eliminating the creatures who had imprisoned them, put them in this situation at all, was their only source of hope. If Asgore took that form them...

 

...

 

Any possibility of peaceful co-existence with humanity Chara's arrival had brought had been stripped away by Asriel's brutal murder. Changing his wording in that moment would have torn the Underground apart.

 

Civil war was one inch away as it was back then: people were divided on whether Asgore should take that soul, cross the Barrier and reap the remaining six; or if it was better to wait to have all seven and free all monsters at once. Had he done what he wanted to, what was right, what he should have done, he would have ruined the tattered remains of his people and had monster children and innocents pay the price for it.

 

Asking monsters to let human children live when their own were starving and growing up enshrowded in darkness at a time of such political tension could have easily been the linchpin in unleashing civil war. The balance of the Underground's society was on the thinnest of ice. The slightest hit to it could have destroyed it.

 

He thought long and hard in those days, about taking her soul and crossing the Barrier to find the remaining six; just as a majority of his citizens wanted him to do. If he did that, he would be able to select his victims, to spare any more children from dying. But if he did that he would either have to lead his people to outright genocide, case in which as of today all humans, even those as innocent and precious of Chara, would be an extinct species. The other option, albeit the correct one, was to back out of his promise and strip monsters of their hope.

 

So Asgore, ever the idiot, ever the coward, did nothing. He closed his eyes, gave the child a burial, kept her soul, and prayed the next human would be an adult. That, at least, should make it easier, should buy him more time, should place that horrifying choice at some later date in the future so he could hide from the consequences of his own actions a little longer.

 

The nature of the Underground is an interesting one. A human who enters may leave, but only with a monster soul. The only monster souls strong enough to persist after death before shattering are those of boss monsters; monsters such as Asgore. Only Toriel and himself qualify, to his knowledge.

 

Had he allowed another fallen human to live, no matter how badly he wanted to, it would have been at the cost of his own life.

 

While fond of it he is not, leaving the Underground without a leader with Toriel missing and without an heir, would have created a power vacuum. It would have lead the Underground to yet another potential civil war, to collapse. And that risk Asgore could not take. He could gamble with his own life, disregard it, despise it, throw it away as much as he wanted. But with his people's?

 

He is bound and tethered to them, dedicated to their freedom and procuring justice for them. His hands were tied by the laws of the Barrier. Laws imposed, once again, by humans.

 

Besides, what were the odds of another child scaling a mountain, right?

 

Designating a successor would have accomplished nothing as well. At the time of that little girl's massacre, so long had passed since monsterkind last interacted with humans that, except Asgore, Toriel and Gerson, monsters did not remember nor have a concept of humanity. All monsters knew of them was they were the villains. They were the ones who had imprisoned them, to whom they owed their misery. And for it, the only freedom and justice were to be found in their annihilation.

 

And who, exactly, did they get that idea from? Their trusted King, Asgore himself. It was he who told a generation of monsters who did not know humans that humans were universally vile. There was no such thing as an innocent human, no complexity and nuance to be found in their souls as much as there is monsters. “Every last man, woman, and child” should die, after all. Asgore made humans out to be, without exception, a paragon of darkness to be destroyed.

 

Not living beings, warm and complicated, with their good and their bad. Not creatures worthy of any kind of dignity or consideration. Simply evil incarnate. Nothing more, nothing less. If Asgore stepped down from his throne, whoever he handed it to would have no notion of humans being capable of good or deserving of mercy.

 

And that, like everything else, would also be Asgore's fault.

 

...When presented with killing a child... people could have disobeyed him. They could have revolted against him. They could have written their complaints and concerns about being ordered to murder indiscriminately. Were they not imprisoned beneath miles of rock precisely for being what they are, monsters? Is killing human children not the exact same thing? Stealing innocent lives in the name of justice and freedom can hardly qualify as either.

 

…

 

Asgore can tell himself that all day long if he so desires. It was something he genuinely believed for the longest of times. It is nothing but another move of cowardice on his end. A way of shrugging of responsibility for his actions. It is true; nobody was obligated to follow such immoral orders. However, the undeniable truth is that the vision monsters had of humans as being homogeneously vile was one painted by Asgore.

 

There is nowhere he can run from the truth stabbed into his heart. He can cover it up, pretend it is not there, distract himself from it. But it has always been here. Everything is his fault. No amount of denial will ever make that untrue.

 

Denial... It has also been that sweet drug which has kept him from confronting an even worse, more dire truth. In reality, there is no good ending for monsterkind. Asgore has regarded this issue throughout the years with the same care and precision professional chess players attempt to predict the outcome of their every move. No matter what he does or does not do, something ends in tragedy.

 

If he refuses to do anything and stay down here indefinitely, his people will die. Be that to scarcity of resources, civil war, or any other number of calamities, he will be dooming his people to certain death.

 

If he tells them the hope which has kept them alive for centuries was a mistake, something he cannot deliver on and neither should they, there is no way to know how many of them will end up like Undyne's mother. That and, of course, the risk of civil war once more would loom closer than ever on the horizon.

 

If he goes through with his vow, if he delivers his people's hope through humanity's genocide, there will be not chamber of Hell large enough to fit the magnitude of Asgore's sins. His soldiers will become creatures of unknown power and state of being and lose themselves in the process. The world will never heal from the wound Asgore would impart on it.

 

If he allows the next human, were they to be a child anew, to live, it would be a calamity as well. Irrespective of any other consequences, there are no guarantees the child will want to stay down here in prison like Chara did. And, if they do not, one of their kind suffices to hollow the Underground of life. The risk is far too large.

 

If Asgore gives up his soul to stop any potential dustshed and allow an innocent human to go back home, there is no way of knowing the human will actually leave. Again, nobody knows what happens when humans or monsters absorb one another's souls. There is no telling what would happen then.

 

Besides that, provided the human leaves peacefully, Asgore would leave a power vacuum in the Underground leading to the precise conflict he is trying to avoid.

 

Said vacuum would be filled by someone who does not count human life as life. That is, in its entirety, thanks to Asgore as well.

 

All that aside, if a human leaves and talks about what they have seen, what are the chances more humans will come to the Underground to finish the job they started so long ago? It is a statistic Asgore does not wish to find out.

 

No matter what he does, Asgore is trapped. By all sides, on all accounts. The only “happy” ending for his people is to indiscriminately eliminate all humans to prevent another catastrophe. Then again, that is not an acceptable outcome from any moral standpoint. Humanity, no matter what Asgore convinced his people of in his rage in grief, is not a monolith of evil nor vermin to be culled. He cannot allow his people to die, but he cannot sacrifice humanity in its entirety for them, either.

 

The atrocities he and his people have committed in the name of freedom are already inexcusable evils. Asgore cannot allow that to extend to even one more innocent. But if he does that he will put the balance of monster society in jeopardy.

 

It would not only be loss of hope that would afflict the Underground. Attempts to depose him, opposing factions rising, and inevitably civil war would soon follow. No matter what, his people are not expendable.

 

Asgore is trapped.

 

...He could not admit any of this, though. To admit it would be to accept he has no fair solution for his people, there is no solution he can conceive of. It would once again strip people of their hope, and hopeless monsters die.

 

The solution to this conundrum lay in the past, far out of reach. In the night Asgore saw nothing save his son becoming dust before his eyes, holding his sibling's corpse. The way it hit the ground lifelessly when Asriel's arms vanished, eyes rolling in their sockets, unseeing.

 

The agony of loss informed Asgore's decision. The pain of seeing his children dead at the hands of humans convinced him total annihilation of the enemy was the only solution, no matter what.

 

If that night Asgore had held a clear head, like Toriel, he would have never promised senseless slaughter as a beacon of hope. He would have never intrinsically tied his people's hope to the genocide of humanity. He would have never sworn to kill every last man, woman, and child.

 

But that window of opportunity passed him by. He is no human, he cannot turn back the clock. He did what he did, and he said what he said. And now he is here.

 

To go back on his words would be to smother the flame keeping his people alive. How can he rob them of it and watch them all lose hope in droves at the notion of sparing the enemy Asgore told them would always keep them imprisoned? His words tied tied his own hands as tightly as they wrapped around his neck. Now chains upon chains bind him to this conflict, digging into his soul.

 

So instead of taking action, instead of doing the right thing and facing the consequences head on, Asgore killed more. Every human who fell, every child, he killed them. How many times were necessary to break their little spirits? Two? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? How many times did he skewer them relentlessly until they gave up and surrendered their souls? Until they made the conscious choice of never waking up again, just like Chara did the night they--?

 

"Dad... It hurts. I--"

 

...He never wanted to kill a single human. He had no desire to lay hands on any of them if they did not give him a reason to; not after being Chara's father.

 

What he wants... matters little, though. He made a mistake, and for it Asgore no longer has a choice. The minutiae of monsterkind's situation require sacrifice. Seven human souls, one monster to become a wretched god to shatter the Barrier. The total elimination of humanity to prevent mass deaths to loss of hope. Either that, or oblivion forgotten under the earth. No good outcome, no happy ending. Humanity set up the board to their favour and monsters lost it all. Asgore had one chance to set it right, one, and no matter how impossible it is to accept that, he ruined it.

 

This is the reality he has so long denied.

 

Asgore has no choice. None but the little corner of personal, cowardly freedom he carved into his own kitchen.

 

His oath of slaughter has followed him every single day like shackles around his wrists and ankles. If he were to back-pedal now though, his people's suffering would do the same. Then again, is it not there regardless? Has Asgore not been mortified by his people's agony for as long as he has about the impending conflict?

 

There is no way out for him, no freedom, so he crafted his own escape into the back of a cupboard filled with death. The only way out for a coward who cannot allow his people to wither and cannot fulfil the promise he made to them, either.

 

Confronting the seventh human... Actually doing it... Was never in his plans.

 

Is... Is that not horrible? He has killed six children to prevent his people from falling into civil war and losing the frail hope keeping them alive. That sacrifice has been for nothing, though, because although Asgore is never honest with himself the cold, hard truth is that he never intended to make that sacrifice worth anything. Of all the miserable options fanned out in front of him, he can only bring himself to choose death.

 

Asgore made a mistake. One there is no returning from, no going back. One he cannot undo, which has filled his basement with child-sized coffins and drenched his hands eternally in innocent blood. Innocent blood to pay for the freedom of the people he cares for and protects. The same people he is willing to abandon instead of accepting his shortcomings come what may.

 

Though Asgore did not know it at the time, though all he knew was the pain of losing his children, with every word Asgore delivered the night he issued his no mercy decree, he was signing his death sentence as well. No matter what he does, not even if he dies, can Asgore escape the consequences of what he has done. Every breath he has taken, every action he has begun, has been one geared towards denying this reality he cannot accept.

 

He is trapped. His life will end for it. Such a death will solve nothing, amount to nothing, will only cause problems. But he is too big of a coward to live to see the outcome of his promise whether he upholds it or he does not.

 

Asgore is imprisoned by so much more than the Underground. His life is the tightest prison of them all.

 

And, while that is true, Undyne did have a chance.

 

One he tore from her when, far from discouraging her, he enabled her desire for vengeance. He could have stopped her, or at least tried to. He could have, should have, recognized how deeply she was hurting and offered support instead of weapons, but he did not. That is what a good king would have done. He is blighted whatever he does, but that did not need to be the case for her as well. He dragged her down to the same level of hell he is in instead of helping her escape.

 

Of course, that would have entailed admitting everything he is now too broken and exhausted to continue keeping at bay. He would have had to accept his mistakes, the grave error of his ways, the fact that he is stuck. As much as he is, admitting it was too daunting at the time. He had hidden deep, deep within a maze of excuses, justifications and denial. The pain of losing everything so many times over is fantastic fuel to forge such reasonings; as is the agony of the nature of their prison.

 

If the war was inevitable, if it was a necessary evil he would totally commit to despite the buttercups burrowed in his kitchen, would it not be better for Undyne to be prepared to defend herself? After all, had Asriel been trained, perhaps he would have survived.

 

The answer is still "no." No, it would not. Had Asgore done the right thing, had he been as brave as she is instead of the coward he is, he would have been honest with himself. He would have told himself the war was a mistake he was tethered to, but she had no need to get ensnared in. But Asgore did not do that, because the air he breathes is wasted keeping him alive.

 

If he were a good person, he would have faced his people and changed his decree instead of waiting for humans to come to him six times over. Perhaps if he had acted as soon as that one little girl was murdered instead of closing his eyes to reality, monsters would have been more open to changing their views on humans than they are now, after centuries of hatred for them festering.

 

If he were not the same evil he has convinced his people humans are, Asgore would have protected monsterkind's integrity along with the many, many innocents like Chara up above.

 

Instead all he has done for centuries is wither little by little, muttering to himself like an old fool that he is bound by his word and no longer has a say in it; evading all responsibility as if he had not constructed this demise for his people and himself entirely on his own. War is the only way, but not genocide. Then again, as of now he has made “genocide” synonymous with “hope.” What other options exist, if any, Asgore hasn't the foggiest; he is nothing but an old sinner. But irrespective of it all, Undyne had no business in it.

 

Asgore was a weary old man when he decided to train her. Perhaps if Asriel and Chara had been trained they would have lived, he told himself. Perhaps having someone else around the house would fend off the omnipresent silence remindeding him of all he has stolen and lost. Perhaps he was losing his way and her vigor and determination to destroy her enemies helped him recall he had no other choice if he wished to save his people.

 

Whatever it was, it was another mistake.

 

He realized the gravity of it when he first heard her mention how no human deserved mercy, her words very much echoing his own the night his children died. She had barely become a teenager, and during a break in one of their sparring session she opened up about her feelings about humanity.

 

"No such thing as an innocent human. They're all complicit in keeping us trapped."

 

...The hatred in her voice as she spoke those words, making it tremble. The determination in her eye, the way her fingers flexed as if she were about to summon a spear to vanquish an enemy unseen. Asgore saw all that overlapped with Chara. Their injured, frail body when they fell. The scars coiling around their skin from parents better off dead. The invisible scars on their soul which made them take a step back if Asgore or Toriel raised their voices even slightly.

 

Chara never deserved to die. No child does. Yet Asgore's anger has convinced monsterkind for generations that, as Undyne said, there are no innocent humans and all must be killed. The corpses in his basement attest to that. Six children who were no more involved in the imprisonment of monsters than Chara was, all dead because of Asgore. Undyne's soul as poisoned as his because of him. Because when he saw a child who was in desperate need of help, all he did was inflict the pain burnt into his soul onto her.

 

She should have grown up with extra curricular activities and friends instead of weapons' training. She should have been reading novels or encyclopedias instead of military history. She should have been playing piano full time instead of learning about human anatomy and how to effectively kill them.

 

Her mind should have been set on making the best of her life, whatever it entailed, instead of taking upon her tiny, tiny shoulders the responsibility of saving every life in the Underground. Of being the hero she wishes her mother had had. If Asgore were anything but a complete and utter failure, he would have accepted his faults and freed her from the shackles digging into him. Instead, he convinced himself he was doing the right thing, looking the other way again, and put her in the situation she is today.

 

Where she is Asgore does not know. Nobody does. But if he is correct and a human is involved, the only reason they targeted her specifically is because of him. Because he made her a soldier, because he took a perfectly good child and, instead of protecting her, failed at everything. He allowed the rage burning within her to revive just a bit of the anger the loss of his children had sparked. He wondered if Asriel, at least, could have survived had he been capable of handling himself in battle. Once again, Asgore allowed pain and rage to choose for him, sacrificing her innocence, her life, in the process.

 

Of course, at first he did not know her passion for battle would extend to making it her profession, future and life. He could not have foreseen it when he agreed to train her, but he saw it later on.

 

When she regarded the loss of her eye as a simple accident instead of an inexcusable mutilation, when she made it manifest she aimed to be the highest ranking officer in the Royal Guard, when she began taking steps in making her military career a reality. He had thousands of chances to at least try speaking to her, explaining to her she was making a grave mistake because of his faulty judgement.

 

But he did not. He was a coward, he could not accept the inescapability of his situation nor the gravity of his mistakes.

 

He buried them all with silence, and for it now she is gone.

 

If she is alive and well, relieving as it will be, it will still not save her. The coffin of a house Asgore is in proves it. There is no life in here. All Undyne does is work, work, and work, for the freedom of monsters who have paved the path to the Surface on the blood of innocent children, when all Undyne aims to save is the innocent. What she has had for the past ten years has not been a life. It has hardly been an existence.

 

Asgore has killed children purposefully and through neglect. By imbuing her with bloodlust, by infecting her with his sorrow, he has managed to kill one in life as well.

 

Asgore's inability to understand Chara, to look deeper and see the pain they were in, cost them their life. His grief impeded him from protecting Asriel, leading to his death. His cowardice, his inability to take accountability for anything he has done, his constant tendency to hide behind justifications for barbary, have now cost Undyne's. One after another, every child in Asgore's care dies. His failure of a life always ends theirs.

 

A good leader, the sort monsterkind is convinced they have, would be brave. He would be able to face his people and explain there is a change in plans ahead. Yes, that would bring forth internal conflict, perhaps civil war. Many monsters would be opposed to it, his own words tricked them all into the false belief they can gain life from sewing senseless death. Yet he would be capable of accepting those consequences. Of taking it day by day and working to make a better world as needed; a society whose cornerstone is not a thirst for children's blood. He warped his people beyond recognition.

 

Sure, he can tell himself hopelessness did it and his promise of war brought hope. He has done so many times. But before his declaration of war, monsterkind was already doing well. They were adjusting to the idea of living in the Underground until they found a way to re-establish contact with humans. He had been able to convey how beginning a cycle of violence would not benefit anyone; least of all them.

 

All it took was blinding grief to upturn everything his hard work had achieved. The loss of his children broke him to the core, and as the failure of a leader everyone predicted he would be, he broke his people in turn.

 

He could have changed his decree to exclude children. He could have asked his people to let children live before they were all convinced there was no mercy to be had towards any human. Yet the idea that the innocent children would grow up to become the next generation of monsterkind's oppressors always lead him away from altering the no mercy decree.

 

...Letting humanity's young live could have proven monsterkind's kindness, their lack of ill intent, their desire to re-establish peaceful relations. Perhaps the loss of hope would have only been temporary, and in a matter of weeks monsters would see for themselves how co-existence with humans is possible, regardless of what Asgore convinced them of so long ago.

 

Yet last Asgore told his people to hold back, to be patient, to believe, he lost the war and got them all imprisoned in this hole. Humanity does not think actions speak louder than words. Humanity does not care when it comes to imprisoning and terminating monsters. While co-habitation is possible, it is naïve to believe it will come without war. Not genocide; yes. But war all the same. Taking monsterkind's hope in hopes of a peaceful future is nothing but a fairytale.

 

...Even so. Even with those considerations, Asgore felt sick every time a child was brought before him and their murder was celebrated.

 

Asgore should be rotting in hell.

 

He had a chance to do things right with Undyne, at least. Many of them, but he did nothing. In his perpetual state of denial, indecision, of wanting to avoid the consequences of any option as long as possible, he let her do as she saw fit without guiding her, without explaining to her the implications of her choices. He watched as she devolved from a relatively healthy child into a person so obsessed with the freedom always out of reach she is incapable of living in the present, and he did nothing.

 

For to do that would have been to admit all he has bottled up until tonight. And king of all cowards as he is, Asgore has not been able to do that until the consequences he has so desperately tried to evade despite knowing it to be futile caught up with him in the worst way they could.

 

Through hurting her.

 

...In a twisted, revolting way, if this human hurts her, if they cause her any harm, Asgore will have good reason to kill them. Is it not heinous, how his thoughts are revolving around a moral justification of murder instead of his daughter's pain?

 

His thoughts may rein freely tonight. He will not try to restrain them, or in any capacity make this episode subside. It has been building up for too long, gathering in the dark corners of his mind he purposefully looks away from like the coward he is. There is nobody here to accuse him of cowardice. If there were, they would be correct regardless.

 

Worst of all, he misses the presence of the only person who makes him feel alive at all. Wherever she is, the one certainty Asgore has is that she is suffering. Suffering because he, the person who should have protected her, predictably, failed once again.

 

The world would be better if Asgore were dead.

 

-

 

He had never lost his temper with the council. Then again, they had never suggested something as idiotic as giving her a funeral. They have not found her. Monsters are not known to vanish into thin air.

 

They can if they have become dust.

 

Asgore's attempts at deep breaths become more shuddering, angry inhales and trembling hands than anything. The council room is empty now, leaving him before an audience of black wooden chairs around a circular, white marble table against a backdrop of New Home's signature gilded white bricks. Heart still pounding, he rests his forehead against his palm. His crown slides off his head with a loud clatter as it rolls off the table to the white tiled floor. Who cares?

 

Two weeks and there is no sign of her. None of her nor of a human anywhere in the Underground. He is to assume a monster did this.

 

...He was so convinced at first, too. The dejà vu the day she vanished was strong. It was thick in the air, filling his lungs with every breath. It was around him, clinging to his fur, surrounding him. The sensation of having lived through that day was more powerful than the conviction Asgore is a sinner, but much like his girl it vanished towards the end of the day.

 

Humans have the ability to persist after death; so he has been informed by many of them. They have to actively stop fighting, to surrender, in order to truly die. During his many massacres of young lives he has been yelled at for killing them time and time again. He has been known to get mild to moderate déjà vu when humans are around. They know things he has not told them, evade attacks he has not shown them, because in some past timeline, he did. It is the only explanation.

 

Human souls are also stronger than monsters'; that much was manifest during the war. The combination of the strongest monster in the Underground's disappearance with such intense déjà vu could only mean one thing, or so Asgore thought at the time.

 

Now he can no longer be so sure.

 

A monster doing this is... not unthinkable; not after he has seen what they do to human children irrespective of whose fault that is. There is little Asgore puts past some of his people at this point, but it is unlikely. Who could it have been? An untrained civilian? Someone trained clandestinely? Of all soldiers, none of them stood a chance against Undyne. Who could have been powerful enough to subdue her and kill keep her captive for so long?

 

She is alive. She's alive, she must be.

 

Asgore is devoid of emotion. He has not been able to feel anything, not even sorrow or grief, for well over a week now. There are things demanding his attention, matters a good leader should attend to, but he cannot. Perhaps it would be easier if he did as his advisors suggested and assume her to be dead, but he cannot give up on her. Were the roles reversed, she would sooner die than give up on him.

 

So he trudges on every day, attempting to balance finding her with leading his kingdom, but it is not easy. Not when his days are a succession of hollow emotions and fear. Not when nobody seems to understand why he cares so much about "another soldier" to upturn society like this, as if she were just anyone, or replaceable. Not when he lays awake at night imagining just what kind of torture--

 

The tall, wooden doors opposite him open with a loud groan. As they grate against the floor they reveal a couple of soldiers in armour, breathless. They stand upright in sync with Asgore's heart missing a beat.

 

"Your Highness." They salute, standing tall. "The missing soldier has been found. In a--"

 

Asgore's footsteps echo through the empty room, dashing towards them, surpassing them, as every muscle in his body urges him to move. She is alive. He knew it, he knew nobody could hurt her. He knew she would be safe.

 

"Take me to her right away."

 

-

 

...

 

All he can do is breathe. His body does not move, his voice is nowhere to be found. His heart thumping in his ears is all there is to be heard beyond her own ragged, rasping inhales.

 

They were right. It would have been better if he never saw her. Not like this.

 

In a crudely dug cavern in Waterfall, undocumented on any map of the Underground, barely big enough for five people to be in it at any moment, lays Undyne. A medical team composed of two doctors and a nurse flutter around her, but it is pointless. There is nothing they can do; Asgore will not entertain that idea. Not only because doctors do not save lives, but because the extent of her injuries does not seem recoverable.

 

How has she survived like this? How much did it hurt? How--?

 

There are inwards, circular scars all along her legs, torso, neck and arms, as if at some point she'd been nailed to the rocky ground beneath her. Scratches, scars and swollen bruises cover every available part of her scales. Missing digits, broken bones shining white through scales, patches of skin and muscle ripped off, limbs limp and bent at the wrong angles, abdomen hollowed out--

 

Asgore cannot breathe. His lungs hurt with every breath. It is... He can't; he cannot admit that broken body is hers. He cannot accept he failed again in the worst way possible. That is his girl, his sweet little girl whose weird sense of humor made him giggle after centuries of lacking reasons to smile. The one who poured her heart and soul out to him because nobody else would listen, who he promised freedom and joy.

 

Who he ultimately failed. As always, unsurprisingly, he failed.

 

Sunken cheeks, deathly thin, milky white sclera instead of its usual yellow. She cannot see out of that eye anymore. She tries to speak at times, but she does not have the energy for it. Nothing but raspy, weak breathing comes out.

 

The emotions caged in Asgore's chest are none he can name. They hearken back to Chara, to being forced to watch them die slowly, agonizingly, vomiting blood and shivering with pain and fear. There is no name for such feelings.

 

"Dad... Help m--"

 

What does one feel as they are forced to uselessly sit and watch their child pass away?

 

Whichever sound forms in the back of Asgore's throat, a vocalization of pain and despair, the inability to even consider any hope of the doctors achieving anything but tormenting her further in this state, comes out like nothing but a breath. A scream too loud, containing far too much pain to be produced. Despair is quiet. No sob nor yell could ever express the pressure mounting within Asgore's bones, making his legs weak, as he finally steps forwards and demands the medical team leave.

 

He wants her to live. He needs her to survive. A will to live can strengthen monsters. Perhaps if he could muster words he could beg of her to hold on. But in this state, would it not be the most selfish thing to do? She will not survive. What will holding on a little longer accomplish?

 

He already begged one suffering child to survive. And...

 

"You are the future of humans and monsters. Chara, you have to stay determ--"

 

...It did not save them.

 

In trying to save her, in perpetuating her misery, the medical team is torturing her the same as her captor. Asgore hasn't the foggiest how she has managed to hold on so long, but there is no point in prolonging her agony.

 

Undyne's never been good at accepting how sometimes even someone as strong as her has to give up. Asgore cannot save her, but he can reassure her it is time for her to rest.

 

The doctor disagrees when informed. When Asgore finally finds a sliver of voice within him, the flame-headed doctor scowls at him.

 

"But your Highness--"

 

"Can you save her?" He asks quietly enough to rival the sound of the breeze pushing his hair and fur. "If you continue, if you finish all you must do, can you save her? Or are we solely lengthening her suffering?"

 

The doctor turns her head to regard her colleague. The other doctor's gaze falls.

 

"Answer me," Asgore demands. "Can you keep her alive?"

 

"It-It's hard to say for sure, but..."

 

...They needn't explain themselves beyond that. No, of course they cannot. They are doctors, not miracle workers. They can save war criminals like Asgore, but not innocent children like Chara.

 

Monsters are not designed to last as long as humans do. Magic is not as resilient as matter, it does not function the same way. Keeping a monster alive in conditions most humans would be unable to weather is heartless. He admires his daughter's drive, he is proud of her. But the only good thing he can do for her right now is tell her it is okay to be selfish just for once and rest.

 

"If I may, your Majesty," the nurse perks up, shoving a needle under Undyne's scales, making her hiss in pain, "there must be a reason she's held on so long. If we could stabilize her enough for teleportation and reach the hospital, she might stand a chance."

 

...

 

Asgore begged and begged and begged Chara to hold on. He was selfish with them. He prayed to every god he could think of. He asked them not to give up. They died all the same. Suffering, in pain, screaming, begging to die already and--

 

"Help... Help me make it stop, please. Help me stop breath--"

 

...Is asking her to live being selfish now, or supportive? Is it possible...?

 

She writhes on the ground. What remains of her body tenses, contracts with a grunt of pain, and falls limp again as she tries to catch her breath. Asgore opens his mouth--

 

...There are words he can provide no voice for. "Let her die in peace" are some of them. He cannot give up on her. At the same time, "Extend her suffering indefinitely" does not come, either.

 

As usual, a coward such as him cannot choose. Too afraid to start a war, too afraid to tell his people he would much rather stay in the Underground until its eventual collapse than forcing them through a genocide he cannot allow. Too much of a coward to tell his daughter how he loves her. Too terrified to find out if she would justify his inexcusable actions. Too scared to stay with her until the end and watch her suffer, too scared to let her go.

 

"How would you be teleporting? When?" Is all he says instead. Perhaps... Perhaps, if there is a chance...

 

The nurse explains, but her voice is lost to him. Something about a new arrival in Snowdin capable of teleportation, how they have already sent soldiers to him. Snowdin? Provided the soldiers were sent right away they will still be in Waterfall. This cavern is almost in Hotland. Then, depending on how these teleportation abilities work, the monster may or may not be able to teleport here if he has never seen the spot before. Nobody knows if he can even teleport such a vast expanse of space or if it is only for shorter distances, nor if he can carry others with him. This is all a desperate move.

 

By the time the soldiers reach Snowdin it will be too late.

 

Asgore raises his hand, cutting off the nurse's voice. "Leave."

 

She argues the point, insisting she has a duty to her patients. Asgore stands firm. It is an order. He will not be disobeyed. Not on this matter.

 

"I only need... I only need a moment with her. Leave us."

 

The nurse frowns, unhappy with this turn of events. Asgore could not care less. He has failed at everything so far, but this he will not fail at. He will not allow his selfishness to tether his daughter to a few more hours of agonizing pain. He will not throw away her effort to stay alive out of fear.

 

The only thing he is doing right is asking what she wants. But, most of all, reminding her that, whatever she chooses, she is not letting him, or anyone, down. He is proud of her, she is loved, and she has the freedom to give up.

 

"Chara, you have to stay det--"

 

The nurse and doctors walk by him. His legs remain frozen for a moment, but he forces himself to move. His muscles are stiff, as if they were trying to prevent him from asking the question the answer to which he fears most.

 

What is he more afraid of, though? Hearing that she wants to give up? Or that she wants to suffer more if it means not "disappointing" him?

 

His horns scrape against the ceiling, forcing him to bend down. He kneels beside her, gaze lost in the detail of the stark shadows the echo flowers in the cavern cast along the jagged wall. He is not strong enough to look down and see her up close.

 

Her laboured breathing sucks his voice away. He knows what he must do, he knows what his failures are. He never told Chara it was okay to rest, he will not make the same mistake with Undyne. Telling her to let go, though, speaking the words, feels like it requires bones he lacks; an impossible feat.

 

How is he going to tell her to give up? How is he going to tell the light of his life, the brightest person of all, that she can close her eyes and rest? What... What will become of him if she--?

 

The way her breathing wheezes sounds so painful, so sincere it digs into Asgore's heart, tugging his gaze down towards the milky white eye. It is swollen and irritated, full of a spiderweb of enlarged capillaries. The way her scales have been plucked off in some spots, and on others have fallen off due to injury. The holes in her neck are deep; too deep for any doctor to be able to fix. Such scars line her arms too, in a regular pattern, through her clothes.

 

Asgore clenches his abdomen to keep the tears in. This is not the moment. He will have the rest of his life to be miserable and weep.

 

She will not.

 

How is he going to demand she hold on any longer? How is he going to ask the most precious person in his life she must keep fighting despite her misery when it is near impossible she will survive? What will become of him if he must live with the guilt of having been a selfish fool who never told his daughter he was proud of her and supported her no matter what? Who never told her he loved her?

 

He has already ruined her life. He will not ruin her death.

 

"H... Howdy, Undyne." His voice is but a murmur as he pats her hair back gently with trembling fingers. Her body jolts a bit, but her neck does not move. Her pupil, though, follows the sound of his cracking voice.

 

It takes her three tries to get more than air past her lips. "I... didn't want you... to see this."

 

Attempting to conceal his distress is futile. He is not strong enough to keep his pain in when he is seeing her like this. The quietness of her voice is an absence he knows not how to contend with. So he continues running his fingers through her hair, as if he were preparing to braid it. Her remaining fingers twitch, trying to reach for something, but she cannot move.

 

"I am so sorry." His fingers get caught on a knot in her hair which he avoids as best he can. She does not need more pain. "I am sorry I--"

 

"Hey... Hey... old timer..." She has the gaule to smile at him. It looks like a trembling grimace, but she is trying to comfort him. "It's not... not your f--"

 

"It is." This is not the time to argue with her, but he cannot allow her to exempt him of his responsibility for a second. "It is, and I am sorry, my dear."

 

She closes her eye, brow quivering with tension. Once more she attempts to speak, but she gurgles on something in the back of her throat. The effort makes her breathing raspier than before, as if she were choking on air.

 

Asgore shushes her. He shushes her as he continues patting her hair. Before she can get another word out, any implication that Asgore is innocent in this affair, he speaks.

 

He wants to explain how sorry he is, how much he would have liked to do things differently for her. How proud he is of her, how glad he is they met. How she is the strongest person he knows, but despite it, despite her unending determination, it is okay for her to give up.

 

She does not need to force herself to hold on heaven knows how many more hours on a slim chance of survival. He will not think less of her, it is okay. If she wants to close her eye and rest, he will miss her dearly every day of his life, but he will not judge nor condemn her. Because...

 

...Because he loves her, and profoundly so. The way parents love their children, the way that makes him regret not having taken her in when he still had the chance. He loves her the way he has only ever loved two other people before, and for it he wishes nothing but the best for her.

 

Even if that, in this case, is to give up. She has nothing to prove. Not to him. She never did.

 

It all builds up inside him. The words, the feelings he wants to express, fill up his bones, the cavities and hollows between every fibre in his body. But only his breathing and her own fill this blighted cavern.

 

As the massive failure of a person, of a parent, Asgore is, he is unable to verbalize anything but:

 

"You can rest now, my dear." A quiet, breathless whisper. A fragment, a miniscule segment, of all he needs to say. Must say. But if he keeps her listening to him any longer, holding on to his words like a lifeline for a life doomed to end, all he will do will be extend her misery.

 

He had his chance to communicate with her when she was not on the brink of death, wracked by pains he cannot even imagine. He blew it. She will not pay for it.

 

"It is alright.” His voice cracks.” “You do not need to hold on any longer. I am not disappointed in you; I could never be. Sometimes it is fine to give up, my brave girl. You are not a failure. I am proud of you, my dear. If it hurts, you can--"

 

The tears he has been holding back slide off his mated fur and onto her hair. Except instead of landing on it, they do so upon the pile of dust which once was his daugh

Notes:

Prompt: You can rest now

Chapter 20: Patience

Notes:

Ah, this one's really short. Oh well!! I'm just very excited to get to the next chapter, which is my favourite in this whole fic. I hope i can get at least my fave out tomorrow, before the year ends. Then i'll consider the bingo challenge only half-failed. We'll see!!

This is repetitive even for a time loop. An ever-repeating canon with no aims of resolution. Same parts coming in at different times, forever.

 

Asriel hangs from the ceiling, watching the king as he stares blankly like the fool he is at the locket between his fingers. Yeah, sure. It was his little dog's. And, in turn, Asriel has befriended her enough times to know it was her mother's. Riveting. He spilt all her dust over it last night. Who cares?

 

Dad does.

 

...

 

They're nearing their 300^th load; not that dad would know that. But come on. How many times does Asriel have to kill the little pest?

 

Ever since the high and mighty king offed himself because he just couldn't live with the guilt of having removed a harmful weed, Asriel thought and thought. He must have killed that useless goner kid, on the low end of the spectrum, a good 500 times. It's hard to tell how much time went by since Asriel was lost in thought, pondering all the possibilities unwinding before him, and especially since he was lost in time, and no time really went by. Not with all those loads. But if his estimates are anywhere near correct, he was at it for ninety or so minutes, if not more.

 

He's tried to think of marginally all the angry thoughts crowding him the first time he killed them and time it. Then he did the same for the second time, where for as pragmatic as Asriel was trying to be he failed at keeping his mind from wandering into all the new ideas this discovery brought him and lost count. Both are around the hour and a half ballpark. Probably more.

 

Sometimes he killed the kid from load to load within a second or less. Others he took longer, perhaps a full minutes, or even a few. Assuming he can average out the kid's deaths at one every ten seconds, that means Asriel must've killed them more or less 540 times before they became grey and finally forgotten.

 

It could be equally easy with the weed. But the devil's in the details, and since they're never entirely forgotten, Asriel needs the king to forget his favourite jester, so killing her repeatedly as he did that dumb kid won't do.

 

But the pace he was going at was a killer in its own right. The only reason Asriel's doing all this is because he wants to not die of boredom, in the most literal sense of the idiom. If the way he's going about it ends his will to live anyway, what's the point?

 

So he's changed gears. For one, no more dad being directly responsible for her death. Asriel needs the old geezer alive; otherwise there's no objective to any of this and he might as well go kill himself again. This decision has the unfortunate side-effect of making the usurper less weary of the king, since he hasn't killed her himself in many loads. Now it's almost like she's mostly forgotten her apprehension for him, so Asriel has to see her get all close to dad again, but whatever.

 

Secondly, though, to prevent precisely that, for every death where Asriel's making dad very, very aware of his little soldier girl's death so he can associate any recollection of her with pain, he's killing her ten times at her house and loading. It's ridiculously simple, since she's still in bed at the start of the day if Asriel dashes there from the throne room first thing after loading. He can stab her through the mattress and she never even knows what hit her.

 

The repeated deaths are leaving her a bit shaken. Not that she'd know why; inferior creatures like monsters don't know anything about anything. She's just jittery, like when she thought coffee was the solution to her unwitting self-administration of RHnD; or when she believed her avoidance of civilians was some self-imposed will for loneliness, and not the latent memories of having skewered a stupid monster kid. Jittery and a bit more paranoid than usual. She's nowhere near the levels of distraught goner kid was at, but it's finally starting to take a toll.

 

Good. That's what she deserves. It's extremely funny how this pathetic weakling was considered the strongest monster in the Underground by its king. Yet another testament to what a pushover he is.

 

It's been a week since she died in this timeline, and there seems to be no progress on dad forgetting her. Asriel's let time go by to see if the king's mourning became shorter in any capacity, but it doesn't look like he's anywhere near beginning to forget his favourite plaything yet.

 

...Whatever Asriel does, no matter what, her deaths have to be meaningful. Otherwise Asriel's doing this just because; and he's not. He's defending his territory, his home, and his chance at living. He just has to make sure everything he does leaves its mark in dad. One deeper than his affection for the usurper runs so that it overshadows it entirely.

 

They've become predictable to the point of being laughable by now. As if they weren't already ridiculous beings, seeing them go through the same things over and over and over only strips them more of their personhood. They're such idiotic creatures. They think they're high and mighty and powerful when all they are is useless dummies.

 

...It might be about time to consider doing something fun again. Or, different. Fun...

 

“Fun” isn't the word Asriel's looking for. This isn't nor personal. It's simply a necessity in the end. One imposed by the thief and the king and their inexcusable bond.

 

Killing isn't fun. Asriel's not a murderer.

 

Last thing Asriel tried that wasn't the same old killing her when training, or during service, or in a "freak accident," was when he tortured her to death. It was a bit... unethical. More so than murder, maybe. But it's... It's not like she's giving Asriel a choice here, is she?

 

He needs to get his emotions back and not become entirely uninterested in life in the meantime. As long as dad's attention is torn between him and the usurper, as long as he isn't the sole recipient for dad's love as he should be and his family isn't as restored as it can be for now, Asriel will never know if he stands a chance or not. He has to find out, he has to try everything. Giving up isn't an option.

 

Otherwise he'll never see Chara again.

 

Terraforming that dang cave, befriending the stupid monster kid, using it to lure the weed all the way to the confines of Waterfall no sane person feels the need to go to, restraining her... Ah, she put up such a fight. She's subconsciously extremely weary of his vines, so she was ready to fight for her life and the kid's from the get-go. That made her all that harder to subdue, but as far as Asriel's aware he has infinite vines at his disposal.

 

He could do something wild sometime, like cover the entirety of New Home in vines if he wanted. It feels perfectly attainable.

 

It took killing the darn kid and breaking almost every bone in her legs to get the weed down on the ground she wouldn't stand up from again. It was horrible, but it was so much fun compared to running through the same, rehashed scenarios.

 

...Everything would be easier if she gave up, but she refuses. Well, Asriel had to go against his moral code because he refuses to give up on having a real, worthwhile life as well.

 

The chase though... All the preparation, the lead-up, the new, unpredictable reactions, seeing dad suffer... It was exhilara--

 

So Asriel kills her 10 or so times. Then he dedicates the next load to making dad feel weary of her. So far as it ends in dad associating her with negative emotions, so the scar she'll leave on him when she's erased from the universe is at least one he doesn't yearn for, anything goes.

 

This isn't Asriel's fault. He's just doing what he must to survive.

 

Whatever mark she leaves in dad when this nightmare's said and done, it'll be one dad needs comfort for, and Asriel will be the one to bring him said solace. Then, finally, he'll be able to get his emotions back. It'll all be worth it, and he won't have to kill anyone ever again. Life will be fun, and everything will be as it should.

 

He'll still be trapped in this gross body, unable to play piano. But it'll bring him joy to know where she's going she won't be, either.

 

He's just a bit over half the way to erasing her if his estimates on how long it took him to delete that useless goner kid are correct, but Asriel was burning to know how progress is going. She hasn't become grey yet, but surely dad will forget her progressively...? That's how Asriel thinks it should be, at least. It would be weird if in one rest he remembers her to perfection, but in the next, in the snap of a finger, he has no recollection of her. It makes more sense if it's little by little, right?

 

Well, dad's giving no signs of forgetting her. A week ago his little pet was over for breakfast again and the king convinced her to stay with him. It took a lot of insisting; even when she's vulnerable on account of hundreds of deaths the weed's still sturdy, but eventually dad said something about feeling a bit sick and that got her to stay with him.

 

It's almost like he holds some recollection of when Asriel micro-dosed him on buttercups. Getting him to be sick was the only way to get the usurper to hang around New Home for the thunderstorm event, so now the king pretends to be ill to get her to stay with him. Clever. If he weren't so stupid and useless, if he actually understood where the brilliant ideas he thinks his own come from, the king might even be a little not stupid.

 

He said she looked bad, and she did. "Bad" being an understatement; she was doing quite horrible, thank goodness. Not as bad as the RHnD event, but closer to that than just plain old "bad." Having died over 300 times does that to a person. So while they were at the piano, Asriel went over to the CORE and played with the cables again.

 

...The storm is one of his favourite scenarios. It's a hassle and a lot of work, but it's worth it compared to how bland everything else is. The pain, the drama. He already knows how they'll behave in any given situation, he does.

 

But the storm is always slightly out of his control.

 

Since he can't make sure he messes with the exact same pipes, in the exact same order, and the exact same second every time he heads over to the CORE, Asriel can't choose when it will break out, or what area of New Home will be most affected. It's something to look forward to, at least. To wonder what the outcome will be instead of knowing for sure. While there are still only five variations of that chain of events he's been through, it's better than nothing.

 

In this load's case, Asriel was trying to get her when she was struck by lightning spontaneously, without his meddling. What are the odds?

 

...Pretty high, since it's the fourth variation of the thunder storm he discovered. It's not... It wasn't ever exciting, but now it's. Decidedly less exciting.

 

This whole murder business... It sure gets boring after a while, huh...?

 

He's been repeating a lot of the early deaths. They were easier, and ergo quicker to get through, than the latter ones. And since the point of this isn't to revel in her death or anything, just to get rid of her in a way that hurts dad, the quicker they go by the better.

 

...Then again, it is pretty tedious. Asriel's had... He's had an idea for a while. But that would be almost worse than the torture in Waterfall, and there are still lines Asriel shouldn't cross.

 

He's no killer, after all. It's not like this is personal.

 

Dad's sitting on the couch in the living room, staring at the locket with a profoundly stupid forlorn expression. It's just been a week, for crying out loud. She's not that important. Dang.

 

Okay, it's obvious he isn't forgetting her in the slightest. He's going on again on the monologue Asriel's heard at least ten times by now. How he misses her, how he's sorry, so sorry. He regrets having encouraged her instead of helping her find better ways to cope. Wherever she is, surely a nice place or whatever for someone "brave" and "kind", he'd like it if he could see her again when he goes. Wait for him if she doesn't hate him, blah blah blah. Sentimental nonsense misplaced on something that doesn't deserve it. Alright.

 

...If that's the case, then Asriel will definitely make their next discipline something a bit more interesting. Oh boy, is dad gonna have reasons to feel bad when Asriel's done with his precious little weed.

 

Asriel burrows into the ceiling. It's so annoying to listen to the same lines of dialogue over and over. Yeah, the king thinks she's somewhere nice. Good for her, she doesn't matter anymore.

 

Closing his eyes, Asriel loads.

 

His next idea is simply devious, something Chara would be proud of right? Oh, the king and his dog thought the first buttercup incident was bad? That the torture scenario was bad? Asriel can think of a couple of spins to put on those old ideas to make them shine in a new light and make them way more interesting.

 

Long, drawn-out deaths are the ones which make dad hurt the most. Those, while obnoxious to conduct, are the kind Asriel needs to drive into the old fool to hurt him the most. If... If Asriel gets this right he'll be set for life. Dad'll only remember flashes of the overblown suffering he has for her death once she's erased; nothing else. The unforgivably wasted emotions on someone who doesn't deserve them.

 

He won't feel warmth, love, or whatever it is that links him to her even in death.

 

That which he didn't have when Asriel died, it seems. The king has to pay the price now. It's only fair; he brought this upon himself.

 

It's a beautiful day, it always is today. The only thing able to ruin it is Asriel fooling around with the CORE. He has no such plans for this load, though. He hasn't plucked her soul from whichever fairytale place dad seems to think it is for nothing.

 

It's time to kill her a few more times and remind dad of just how much her presence hurts. The charade should be over soon, so Asriel hopes. He has to make sure all the pieces are in place when it does.

Notes:

Prompt: Wait for me in Valhalla

Chapter 21: Hahahahahahahahah :)

Notes:

Oops, my hand slipped. Accidentally edited and uploaded two chapters in one day. Oopsie~

As stated, this is my favourite chapter, so i couldn't help myself!! I'm way too excited about this one ^^

That said, the last 5 chapters-- agh, 6, i keep forgetting the prologue and epilogue exist. The last 6* chapters will take longer. If anything because, uhh... With this chapter this fic is 3/4 complete. Yeah, you heard that right. Although there are only 5 plot-heavy chapters left + an epilogue, in terms of length we're only 3/4 done. The final 1/4 is comprised of the next 5 chapters, mostly. The epilogue is short. So... yeah. Those are gonna take a while to proofread and update.

But!! That isn't to say updates are going to be at a standstill for well over a month again. No no, for the time being i am free and i can upload this semi-consistently. This should be finished by january or february at most.

That is all, thank you for reading my little rant! Hope this update is worth your time and that you can enjoy ^^

Breakfast would be more enjoyable if Undyne weren't so headstrong.

 

"I'm fine," she insists over and over, as if speaking it would make it true. The truth is she has barely touched her food, she is distracted, spacing out, jumping at the slightest noise or sudden movement. Her eye does not focus on anything, glazed over without really seeing.

 

...She is easily the most concerning person Asgore has ever met. She is also a good runner-up for most frustrating. No matter what Asgore tries to get her to admit she isn't feeling well today, and should take her day off to rest instead of working herself to the grave, she does not listen.

 

In character.

 

He puts his tea cup down, empty. "Do it for me, then? To help assuage this old timer?"

 

She sighs, offering him a small, distant smile. That is worrying. Undyne could be burning on the inside and still manage to convey a calm, self-assured exterior. Her grins are never slight.

 

"I'm just doing what I have to do, Asgore. You're gonna have to trust me on this." Her aloof stare, lost somewhere on the wall to his right, becomes a bit more somber as her frown deepens and her smile vanishes. "I know what I'm doing."

 

Objectively incorrect. If she could see how miserable she looks from an outside perspective she would not be making such a claim.

 

"Do you, though?" He keeps his voice gentle, not accusing. The last thing he wants to do is make her think he is probing her. He is, of course. But not in the sense of discrediting her abilities and determination. The only thing he never trusts her with is taking care of herself.

 

She closes her eye, nodding as she puts her fork down and palms the back of her chair for bag. "Trust me." She grabs it and stands up, smoothing out her sweater with her free hand. "I know what I have to do."

 

...There is something wrong in that statement. She is not merely talking about her perceived eternal duty to the cause. She is talking about something else. Should he ask? He should ask. He is the only person she has, and he loves her to boot. He should let her know; she needs to know someone cares about her.

 

Would she take kindly to being questioned, though? Asgore has never before violated the NDA they both hold around their feelings.

 

...He should. He should, she should never believe she is alone. He--

 

She smiles wide at him this time. It's still an exhausted gesture. "I'll see you for dinner, okay?"

 

...

 

As she turns towards the door Asgore reaches out, stopping himself short of grabbing her shoulder. Why... Why did he do that? There is a tension in his torso begging him to keep her here, safe. She is not alright; she should be taking this day to rest and care for herself instead of pushing herself past her limits. She is not invulnerable.

 

Her hand closes around the door handle.

 

"Undyne, wait."

 

She looks at him over her shoulder, gentle frown still crowning her expression. "What?"

 

...

 

He bows his head. She will not take kindly to this, but he has to say it. "You are unwell today. Staying put for one day will not kill you. Please reconsider."

 

She reads his expression for a moment before the corners of her lips curve upwards. The result should be a smile, but it is not. It fails to reach her eye.

 

"Staying put for one hour is already dangerous."

 

...What does that mean?

 

"Thank you for worrying about me, but don't. I'll be fine. You'll see how I'm alive and well tonight."

 

...The horrible sensation will not leave his chest, but short of ordering her to stay there's nothing he can do. And that would be wildly out of place, so he nods without conviction. "Will you reply to my messages at least?"

 

Feigning illness is always an opt-- Monsters do not fall ill with the same ease humans do. To make up something like that would make her worry profoundly, it would be cruel. What came over him?

 

Finally, that tears a genuine grin from her. "Of course, worrywart." She opens the door a crack. "Are you sure you don't need a day off? You don't look so great yourself, and you never take a break. Maybe practice what you preach?"

 

She pulls it open all the way, sucking in the cool air from outside. "Have a good day, Asgore."

 

He stays where he is until she pushes the door shut again, getting pelleted by the last gust or cold air. His jaw and arms are tense, feet stuck to the floor. She is overworking herself. She always has, it is her default state. But she looks so tired today... It is not the same as usual, that is all.

 

A better parent would have known how to get to the bottom of this. But if the silence in this house is anything to go by--

 

She is not his own. He spared her that fate, he...

 

...He left her alone in that orphanage, drove further into her that she is unlovable. He--

 

Sighing, Asgore heads to the table. His emotions are frayed today. He must have dreamt something to begin his day feeling like this. Whichever the case, he must a grip.

 

It is going to be a busy day peppered with concern as he awaits replies to his texts. Patience is the only way to combat this, as is being busy. He best get going.

 

-

 

This morning she hardly touched her plate. Tonight she forewent dinner entirely.

 

Asgore places the pristine plate of spaghetti in the freezer. She said she will come by before work tomorrow and pick it up for lunch. It is so uncharacteristic for her to skip one meal, let alone practically two. She knows what her body needs to function. While she is a long shot from the best at caring for herself, she knows much better than to starve.

 

Whatever was nagging her this morning has only worsened as the day progressed. Yes, she answered every last one of Asgore's messages. But it was mostly with monosyllabic answers or, at most, one-liners. Verbose she is not, but that, too, was extreme even by her standards. When she returned for dinner, despite insisting she felt better...

 

"I'm just not hungry. It's not the end of the world, don't worry so much. I'm alright."

 

...It did not feel like it. Not even slightly. It sounded like she was trying to manifest it by saying it enough times, as if she were trying to convince herself and not him. Try as he may, conversing with her was near impossible with her head lost elsewhere. She insisted to the moon and back she was merely tired after the day, hence why she retreated to bed early, and that was that. With how irritated her eye was and how much she was blinking it was an almost convincing excuse. Not quite, though.

 

Asgore runs the faucet to clean his plates, waiting for the water to pour out warm.

 

When he asked to walk her home at least, she rejected his offer as well, more vexed than before. She continued saying everything was fine and promised to text him as soon as she arrived in Waterfall. Now Asgore will not be able to relax until he hears back from her.

 

He finishes the dishes and brushes his teeth before putting on his pyjamas in silence. In the white marble washroom his gaze does not stop gravitating towards his phone's black screen instead of his surroundings. On his way out he hits his knee on the edge of the counter, wincing, when his phone dings at last as the screen lights up.

 

Biting his lip as he lowers his still throbbing knee, he takes his phone. She only texted one line. It is so short he needs not unlock his phone to read the whole message.

 

I'm home. Good night.

 

...

 

...Normally he turns his phone of at night. Tonight he will leave it on vibration. Even if she needs something she will not call, but better safe than sorry.

 

-

 

"I thought it was just anxiety. Honest."

 

Asgore closes his eyes. What a headache. The Riverperson either cannot hear their conversation over their ominous melody and the current, or simply does not care. Cold droplets of water dampen his arm through his sleeve as the boat tears through the surface of the water.

 

"Undyne, you have spent five days vomiting." He does not wish to reprimand her, but her reckless behaviour merits little else. She could have gotten much sicker, she could have--

 

She is alive. That is all that matters.

 

Anger leaks into his tone regardless. "You are a monster. We typically do not do that unless something is severely wrong with us."

 

The only time he ever vomited was when Chara and Asr--

 

He regards her through the corner of his eye. She is staring down at her knees with the same forlorn expression as when he caught her conjuring weapons indoors and she broke the accent table.

 

"...I'm sorry. I just..." She bows her head. "I didn't think it was such a big deal, that's all. I've been nervous this week."

 

...

 

""I didn't think it was such a big deal" is the same phrase you used when you lost your eye. Please keep in mind that, if something strikes you as "not a big deal," it probably is."

 

She replies with a defeated nod. Perhaps Asgore should comfort her by saying he is not mad at her; seeing her like this is painful. He could do that, but it would be a lie. Never has she made him more irate than he is now. Eating and sleeping poorly were already bad enough. Shrugging off her lost eye crossed a few lines. But this?

 

She could have died. She could have died and she does not seem to grasp the gravity of her neglect. She cannot care so little about herself. Does she not know her life is invaluably precious?

 

She has been ill for five days, since their last dinner date. No wonder she refused to eat. Everything she has ingested in this time has come back out. To boot she has been having numbness, pins and needles, and bruising pains along her limbs where there are no such injuries. Just what was she waiting for to see a doctor?

 

"I would not have found out had you not collapsed during work today." He will care about the amount of reproach seeping into his words later. Right now he is livid. "Had I not received a notification that my soon-to-be Captain was struck by such a violent wave of nausea while training the new recruits that she doubled over, I would not know. Why didn't you tell me?"

 

She crosses her arms, looking at the cave wall opposite his face. "You have more important things to worry about, like running a kingdom, you know? Since I didn't know it was this bad I figured there was no point in making you worry about this, too."

 

...

 

It is her matter-of-fact tone, more than her words, that cuts so deep. "More important things," she said. She speaks as if there were anyone higher than her in Asgore's list of priorities. As if he would not put everything on hold for her in a heartbeat. She acts like she is replaceable, like...

 

Like it would not matter to him if something bad happened to her. As if she were not instrumental in his life. Then again, how is she supposed to know if Asgore has never told her? If he has kept his emotions under lock and key after Ch--

 

"Help me--"

 

"There was nothing more important." His voice is quiet, strangled by emotions so deep he cannot bring them to light.

 

"Right, my bad. I forgot how unimportant leading a kingdom is."

 

Her sarcasm is not appreciated in the slightest, but the fear of having been in danger of losing her restrains any retorts on his end. His heart is still thundering since the doctor informed them of what is wrong.

 

"Undyne, there is poison in your body. Thallium. We do not know how it could have gotten there. The kingdom will not crumble to dust effective immediate if I let my secretaries take care of it for a few days. You, on the other hand..."

 

His jaw closes of its own accord. There is no need to say it anyway, she knows what could have happened.

 

"Alright, fine," she snaps. "I should've gone to the doctor earlier. I'm sorry, okay? We'll have to push my promotion back a few days; there's no way I'll be good enough to be there tomorrow. No biggie; all's well that ends well."

 

Rebuttals and counterarguments are building up in Asgore's lungs. Like how her flippant behaviour is worrisome, if not downright terrifying, because she has about as much regard for her life as she would a pebble on the side of the road. Or how she worked herself to the bone instead of taking it easy when she was obviously ill and that is not acceptable.

 

He wants to give her a stern talking-to until it gets through her thick, thick skull that she scared him half to death and was wildly irresponsible. It is not a subject he wants to let go of, not until he has shared his thoughts with her at length against her will if needed.

 

But it is not his whose house somehow got contaminated with thallium. It is not him who is dealing with muscle aches and stomach cramps. It is her, so his thoughts will have to wait until she has recovered. He should not be making things worse for her. She has the sense of self-preservation a goldfish might possess, and it cannot go unaddressed. He will not allow it, but that conversation can wait.

 

He will not lose another. He would not survive.

 

For the time being, Asgore exhales slowly to let out his frustrations. The priority is providing what comfort he can in this miserable time for her, as well as ensure she takes her medication on time every day.

 

"...Does it hurt a lot?"

 

To the much gentler cadence in his voice she reacts better. She uncrosses her arms and stops straining her neck to have him out of her field of sight. While she does not look at him her posture is less stiff as she shrugs.

 

"...I guess not. I guess it's the normal amount for thallium? I've..." She chuckles, anxious. "I've never gotten thallium poisoning before. I'll let you know how bad it is next time, when I get another point for comparison."

 

She is the most unfunny person he has ever met. He takes a moment to swallow back the second round of reprimanding he was so prepared to share with her. Her health is no joke; what is wrong with her?

 

...How concerned should Asgore be? Does she not see any value in her life? Like Ch--?

 

"One more "joke" like that and you are sleeping on the sofa," is all he says. Of all things, that's what makes her smile.

 

"Aw man, that's just rude. You can't do that to me, I'm sick! Remember?"

 

As if he could forget. As if anything other than the word "thallium" has been on his mind for the past half hour. As if his attention span has not been divided between scolding her like he might a rowdy teenager and wondering how thallium got anywhere near her. As if--

 

"...Hey, Asgore..." Her voice is so quiet the water almost drowns it out. "...Are you sure this is okay? I don't want to be a bother; I can stay at the inn in Snowdin while my place gets decontaminated, or--"

 

He raises his hand. He will not be listening to nonsense.

 

"You are not a bother. I would not rest easy if I could not personally supervise you are taking care. I am glad to have you as my guest."

 

She regards him for a few seconds as if she expected to find any trace of hidden meaning in his visage. She used to look at him like this all the time at the start of their relationship. Every time she did something wrong, or failed to master a new concept on her first try, if he told her it was okay to stumble in the beginning she would give him this exact same stare.

 

...Does she really think he would not want to care for her?

 

"Alright. Thank you, Asgore."

 

Is he that atrocious at caring? Is that why Ch--?

 

"...That is nothing to thank me for. Nothing at all."

 

-

 

The knot in Asgore's stomach refuses to leave.

 

He takes shallow breaths, but the hospital's scent creeps into his lungs all the same. It is chilling, how little this place has changed. The large, dark grey bricks are some of the few which remain from the original construction of New Home. The following reforms painted the city its signature white, making it seem lighter. The hospital stayed the same to remain distinct from the rest of the edifices, as did the fire department.

 

The hospital beds are much more modern than they were five centuries ago, as is the technology and equipment. Everything smells sterile; an amalgamation of different cleaning and disinfecting products wafting in the air penetrating Asgore's nostrils and lungs. There are now blinking lights coming from various white devices lining the wall behind patients' beds, beeping noises from the heart monitors and other apparel Asgore has lost track of over the past eight days.

 

The curtains surrounding the bed are still white, though, as are the sheets and the hospital gowns. The hospital's technology has advanced leagues in all this time, but its core elements are the same as they were the night--

 

"Dad... It really hurts. I--"

 

Asgore sits stiff on an uncomfortable chair to the right of Undyne's bed. She is sitting up at last, breathing in sync with her NPPV. Her inhales and exhales are barely audible over the cold, mechanical breathing of the machine keeping her lungs functional. Despite having woken from her longest coma yet she is smiling, keeping the ambiance light-hearted. Her vivacity is nothing more than an act, a poor facsimile of her usual spark illness has laid to rest.

 

Illness or this place. This horrible place laced with every death occurred in its walls. Every pore of every brick is full of death waiting for the patients to be caught off guard and lure them to their eternal slumber. Just like when Cha--

 

Her red hair sticks out sorely against the blaring white pillows supporting her head and back. The breathing mask keeping her alive covers the bottom half of her face with its translucent plastic, distorting the feeble grin she is trying to give him as reassurance that she is alright, that she is not getting worse with every passing day.

 

He should be the one comforting her, keeping the mood light. But there is a fragility within him exacerbated to infinity by this blighted place that would shatter if he as much as opened his mouth. So he keeps it shut, sealing the pain inside, as he listens to her breathe.

 

Waiting for the moment he does not. For the second he realizes the only breathing in the room is his own, like the night Cha--

 

"So..." Her voice is warped by the mask and the air it forces into her lungs. "Did I miss a lot while I was out?"

 

...While she was out? She has been missing a lot even when conscious, more and more every single day.

 

The first day she spent at home she was fine, bar the occasional vomiting and persistent pain in her limbs. Then she developed a fever. The doctor was called because Asgore had no clue what to do; he prescribed her more medicine. Then her eye hurt and she could hardly see, but her fever was so high she forgot about the eye pain in between bouts of fever hallucinations.

 

From there it escalated to tachycardia and arrhythmia, wheezing sounds when breathing, permanent pain, muscle weakness so debilitating she poured a glass of water over herself, a headache so painful her eye watered, and eventually Asgore walked in on her standing very still in front of one of the rafters in his living room at midnight on weak, shaking legs.

 

"Get it away from me," she said, staring at the air before her, trembling from the strain of standing and the violent shivers from the fever. "Get that noose out of here."

 

Asgore has not had time for his heart to break from that yet, because as he was dialling the doctor with trembling hands for the fourth time in the span of three days, her knees gave out and she would not react to anything Asgore said or did. She looked ahead of herself, rubbing her hands repeatedly for two minutes.

 

It was the seizure that got her hospitalized. He did not want her to be here, he cannot fathom the idea of Undyne being here. He wanted her to receive the care she needs at home. As he was arguing with the doctor, as every particle in his body rejected the idea of putting Undyne in here, her breathing got so much worse. Rasping, struggling to get enough oxygen.

 

"If we don't hospitalize her immediately she will die," the doctor argued. Asgore wanted to reply: "No, that place will kill her. It kills everyone," as strongly as he wishes to speak now. But just the same, no words came.

 

Ever since she was placed in here Asgore's memories are a wreck. He has lost them among MRIs, EKGs and other tests he does not know the name or purpose of. He has seen so many doctors and nurses, gone to so many offices, accompanied Undyne on a stretcher through so many corridors he cannot say which doctor is the neurologist and which the cardiologist at this point, nor where their departments are.

 

He cannot remember if she started having tremors first or if she completely lost her appetite. Or which of those was followed by the blisters forming in her mouth, or the anaemia. Even on medication and permanent supervision she phases in and out of consciousness. The first afternoon of her hospitalization she fell into a two hour-long coma. She has been having longer ones more frequently since.

 

When she is "out," as she put it, is probably the best she is. She is not aware of the mask irritating the skin under her scales, or the IVs protruding from her arm. She is blissfully asleep instead of witnessing the amount of shots she is given in an evening, or how roughly nurses handle her comatose body even when Asgore protests. There are needle bruises all along her arms, legs and torso. The muscles surrounding her lungs are so weak she can only take short breaks off the NPPV. If it gets worse, she will be put on a ventilator.

 

The delirium episodes have returned with more frequency. She keeps staring at things only she can see, or humming melodies nobody can hear. She asks Asgore if the bugs crawling over her fingers are real or not, because she cannot feel them but she can see and hear them slithering under her scales, trying to crawl under her skin. She has ripped out five IVs trying to get them off of her.

 

Her most recent coma lasted twelve hours. In them her heart rate spiked dangerously, she broke a fever and began another, and suffered convulsions so severe she had to be immobilized for her own safety. Asgore watched as she was tied down to the bed, wanting nothing but to comfort her and ease her suffering knowing nothing he said or did would reach her.

 

Just as his words did nothing when Char--

 

So yes, she has missed quite a lot. Perhaps it is a blessing. She has missed the needles, the rough IV changes, the crying out in pain, the hallucinations. Every last bit of agony Asgore has had no respite from she has been spared by blissful ignorance.

 

Chara was conscious for everything except part of the middle. They felt every last--

 

...Being here is easier when she is asleep. Asgore does not have to talk to her when she is unconscious. If he loses awareness of his current location, if he ends up seeing a much older hospital bed, one made of wood instead of metal, and his mind temporarily swaps his beloved daughter for the body of a young, equally adored human, he can take as long as he needs to recover.

 

When she is awake, however, she asks questions. Her droopy, irritated eye that can barely focus anymore bores into him. It reminds him of eyes much different, another colour, staring at him as blood as red as their irises poured from--

 

"Help... Help me, please. Help me stop--"

 

"...Hey, Asgore..." Undyne rasps. She has no idea how pale she has become. The colour has drained from her, but still she has the audacity to smile at him. "...Why don't you go home, yeah? You look like you could use a nap."

 

Go home? How? How could he go home? How can he go home when she is here? What, is he supposed to leave her alone? In here? If he leaves, he will never--

 

"Asgore... Asgore, call the doctor. Asgore, they're not breathing!! Asgore--!!"

 

He stands, heart beating so fast it is hard to breathe. He wants, needs to tell her he will return soon. He should lie about going to the vending machine to get some tea, or about having leg cramps. Yet when he opens his mouth to speak nothing comes out.

 

The room blurs as he stumbles out of it. Out, he needs out. There is no out down here, everything is a prison of rock, but if he does not smell air as fresh as it gets he might as well go insane.

 

"Dad... Dad, is Chara going to be okay? Dad? Dad, why are you crying? Chara--"

 

Corridors diffuse in the corners of his vision as he dashes through them, heading for the front door. A few figures clad in white step out of his way or call after him, but he must get out. There is a reason he has refused to have a medical appointment if the doctor could not see him at home. There is a reason he has never stepped foot in this place and has instead sent ambassadors to listen to the ill patients of the Underground. He is a failure as a king, that is not new.

 

But as he steps outside and leans against the rough wall behind him, bending over to catch his breath, he could not care less about his blunders as a monarch. That... could not be more irrelevant right now. Regrets are not the motives for the tears gathering in his eyes, making him so sick to the stomach he struggles to stand.

 

He has failed her. His weakness, his pathetic, non-existent grasp on his emotions have made him walk out on her. After being an atrocious conversationalist for the half hour she has been awake, after failing at keeping her calm and busy instead of allowing her mind to focus on just how much pain she is in, he left. Without explanation, without motive. She was taking care of him. She told him to take a break, to go home and rest.

 

She does not know about the silence. She knows not what awaits him in his house. She does not know about the shrieks and the eye in the floorboards--

 

...Why couldn't he hold her hand and reassure her with pretty white lies she would be alright? Why was he incapable of even looking at her directly without wincing? Why did he let his sorrow splatter onto her instead of protecting her from the horrors of her situation?

 

Nobody knows why she is breaking down like this. No thallium was found at her house or the training facility. There is no thallium in New Home or Waterfall period; only in the recesses of the mines Hotland. She does not frequent that place. It is off-limits for all non-trained civilians and all the substances in there are treated with utmost care.

 

There is no reason for her to be poisoned. She has taken every last bit of medication she has been prescribed during and prior to hospitalization. Her body responds well to it. There is no explanation for why she is like this. The levels of thallium in her body grow despite receding considerably when medicated. Why?

 

Heavens above, why her?

 

Why not him? The world would be better off without him.

 

...A good f-- friend, would be in there with her, taking care of her. A good friend would have held her hand and made her laugh. Yet she is in there, alone with her pain, accompanied by nothing but the lifeless breathing of the NPPV keeping her alive, because the only thing Asgore excels at is failing.

 

He could not even soothe Chara as they died. When they were in there, on a bed so different yet similar to Undyne's, all he did--

 

His... To hell with it; his daughter is dying. She knows she is, she is smart. She is not one for pointless, baseless hope, either. All the hope she has does not extend into deluding herself. Even if nobody has told her explicitly, she must know this is not normal. How is she coping with that? How is she dealing with staring death in the face and making peace with the fact her life is ending?

 

Asgore does not know, he has not asked. He has only wondered on loop how Char--

 

"Help m--"

 

He has not asked because he cannot find his voice. Something in those walls sucks it out of him as it slowly leeches the life out of her. Her energy, vivacity, resilience, all gone.

 

She is the one putting on a smile for him. She is the one looking out for him. She is the one who is dying, yet he is the one crying, breaking down.

 

If there is one thing he has learnt from his prior stay at this hospital it is that the people in the beds are the ones who should be having breakdowns. The ones lucky enough to be seated beside them, cursed with being nothing but bystanders to their loved ones' agony, have the rest of their lives ahead to break down as much as they want.

 

If Undyne does not leave this hospital, if here is where her body becomes dust, she will have spent some of the most painful moments of her life alone, comforting the man who was supposed to be soothing her. There is only one person who comes visit her besides the nurses. There is only one person in the Underground who cares enough about her to be here.

 

And he is nothing but a pathetic failure.

 

-

 

"It's getting closer to my head. I don't know how it's moving like that, but it's almost touching my chin."

 

Over the persistent, accelerated beeping of her heart monitor, and the metallic breathing of her NPPV, Undyne's voice comes meek and broken; a much more vulnerable tone than Asgore heard from her even when she was a child on the anniversary of her mother's death. Her neck is craned upwards but tilted at an odd angle. Medical jargon is lost to Asgore, but he understood enough to know her nerves are no longer properly supporting her head, neck, and torso. It is the reason she can no longer breathe on her own, and why she has been struggling more and more with swallowing without choking in the past few days.

 

There is nothing a noose could be hanging from on the plain ceiling above them, but Undyne can see it clear as day through her unfocused eye the nerves are also failing, just as the golden flower she insists she sees day in and day out fiddling with her IV bag. She grasps the railing of her bed tightly, blinking. "It's always been after me. Now it's coming to get me."

 

...Practice makes perfect, it seems. It has been four days since Asgore walked out on Undyne and he's yet to do something similar since. Then again, when he gathered himself and returned inside she was sleeping once more. Of the times she has been conscious ever since, only twice has she been aware of her surroundings. All others, as right now, she has kept her eye on the noose her mother used to abandon her ten years ago.

 

Asgore's hand inches towards hers, stopping a few centimetres shy of it. He cannot. Last time he attempted to hold her hand he remembered--

 

"Help--"

 

He would like to tell her there is no noose coming for her, it never has been. She does not respond well to being contradicted when she is hallucinating. She gets more upset and it is harder to get her to calm down. As such he nods, biting back tears when her fingers begin trembling, and soon after her entire hand. She brings it up to her face, breaking visual contact with the loom of her nightmares for a moment, and frowns. She shakes her hand as if she could stop its quivering with that until something above spooks her and draws her attention again.

 

"My mother is coming after me. She wants me to go with her."

 

Asgore takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly to ease his heart. She has never been so talkative during an episode before. He believed watching the strongest, most held together person he has ever met become vulnerable and frail to invisible menaces was heartbreaking. Hearing her thought process is infinitely worse.

 

Asgore bites "Of course not, my girl. Your mother does not wish for you to join her" off his tongue. That line of thought will not make the situation better, he cannot reason with her when she is flinching back from a swaying noose that came undone a decade ago.

 

"Why do you think that, Undyne?" he asks instead. It will not be a nice answer, it will shatter his heart, but the least he can do for her is shoulder the burden, the pain that weighs down on her.

 

"I couldn't save her," she mutters, blinking. "I told her to smile again, and it didn't work. I drew her cards and brought her flowers and it wasn't enough. I went to her bed every night and hugged her while she cried. I gave her tissues and I told her bed time stories and she just cried more and more. I failed when she needed me, now she wants me to go with her. She thinks I deserve it."

 

…

 

Every word becomes a shard of glass in Asgore's soul upon being spoken. They make his eyes prickle with tears he cannot allow himself to shed. There is a tension in his throat from containing sobs threatening to make his ears explode, but through a bitten lip he inhales and exhales slowly. It isn't like she is aware of the lull in conversation.

 

"I wasn't enough to make her want to be alive. It's the reason I can't make friends and everyone thinks I'm not good enough to be the Captain of the Royal Guard. There's something wrong with me, there always has been. Why else would mom leave? That's why she's sending the noose now. I was useless, so she's trying to punish me."

 

...There is not enough strength within Asgore to keep a couple of tears from brimming over. He dries his eyes discreetly, trying not to get her attention, and sniffles. Are these... Are these thoughts product of delirium? Or has she always lived with them? When she was a child, so precious and small, did she already believe all this?

 

The emotions she filled her music with, those which scared him so much because they were so intense and painful for a child so small... Was this the stream of thoughts fuelling them? Was this the logic she employed to explain to herself why her mother lost hope? Has she believed all these years her mother's suicide was her fault?

 

Asgore's hand brushes up against hers, pulling back on contact. He also held a hand when Chara stopped--

 

"...The King does not think you are not good enough." His voice is but a whisper, as if a louder volume could finish shattering his enfeebled heart. "The King is proud of you. He thinks you are a fantastic young woman and he cares about you profoundly. You know that, correct?"

 

...She knows, right? Even... Even if he has never been the best at showing it, even if he has failed at that as well. She knows, she must. From his actions, the time he always craves to spend with her, the insistence he puts into her taking care and caring for her.

 

She knows, right? She does not think he--?

 

"...Are you sure this is okay? I don't want to be a bother; I can stay at the inn in Snowd--”

 

"The King... You mean Asgore." Her eye does not break from the spot on the ceiling her minds projects her mother's noose onto, but her swollen lips form as much of a smile as they can. "Asgore cares about everyone. He has a big heart. He's really nice."

 

...All Asgore has done with her has been rack up failure after failure. He does not deserve that she think so highly of him.

 

He does not care about everyone, either. He is more than disgusted by some of--

 

"The first human since--"

 

"He loves you dearly, though." His voice remains a frail sliver, an undercurrent to the mechanical noises in the room. It is all he can produce to tell her, though. "He cares about you like his own family."

 

Her neck lops to the side more. She tries to fight it, trembling from the effort, but it falls onto the pillow all the same.

 

Not a month ago she could bench press boulders. How--?

 

"He already had a family." Her voice is more strained from the tension in the muscles surrounding her throat. She is rasping words out more than saying them. "I think... I think that's a bit much. He can always get a new Captain... But he can't get a new family, you know?"

 

It is not... It isn't that, curses. If Asgore's chest becomes any tighter it might crush his lungs. He never got "a new family," that was never the point.

 

"Families grow, do they not?" Salty tears slide into his open mouth when he talks, spreading across his lips. "He did not want a new family, he just wanted you to be a part of it, sweet girl."

 

Undyne frowns, pensive. "Do you think?"

 

"I know it to be true, my dear."

 

For the first time in an hour she looks away from the invisible noose, directing her glance at Asgore as best she can with her neck at an angle.

 

"I... I don't get it. Have you met the guy? He's the kindest, nicest person. He's working so hard and... and he's gonna sacrifice so much, and I don't think anyone gets how hard it is for him but he's doing it anyway because he's amazing. Why would he want a street urchin that even her mother didn't want?"

 

She smiles, lopsided from either the nerve damage or the sores and swelling. "He didn't have to do anything for me, but I think... I think he saved my life, you know? He could've forgotten about me when the funeral was over but he helped me instead. That's why I've always... I've always wanted to be Captain. To save everyone, sure. But what I wanted most was to return the favour in a way that really meant something."

 

Asgore closes his eyes. Seeing her like this is already painful enough. Listening to all this on top of it, praying it is merely the by-product of an ailing mind and not an honest reflection of the thoughts she buries deep, is unmanageable.

 

...She cannot honestly believe such things, right? She is not like...

 

"Dad... Dad, help--"

 

"You had no favour to return." His voice is as brittle as the grasp he has on his emotions. "He wanted you close because he loves you."

 

She hums, pensive. "He cares about everyone. It's just who the guy is. I've always... I've always been a bit annoyed that nobody gets how hard taking the souls is gonna be for him. They just take for granted that he will and, I don't know... If that were me I'd be much angrier than he is. But he's a better person than me, so there's that."

 

...It is the delirium. It is the delirium, it blends reality with fantasy in her mind. Like the noose. She cannot see it without this affliction. She does not think anything she says without it, either. Asgore... Asgore has not failed at this so vastly not again. He cannot have he already has. He rests his arms on his knees, curling into himself.

 

...There is no child he can show love to. This is why Chara--

 

"He loves you like his daughter." The words are tense, painful, as if he were coughing them up from the depths of his shattered soul, cutting himself on them as he lets them out. "Even if he cares about all his people, he cares about you most."

 

...Did he ever tell Chara he--?

 

"That would be nice. It would be very nice, I've always seen him as, you know..." She shrugs. "He was the only person who cared if I lived or died after mom left, and I was so scared and angry as a kid all the time. So I think... I think I started thinking of him as a parent. Not on purpose or anything, I just... Little kids are weird I guess. But I knew that was inappropriate, and he'd hate me if he knew, so I just worked on being good enough for him. To help him, yes. But also... Also so he wouldn't leave, too. If he had a use for me, maybe he'd stay, right? As long as he didn't hate me as much as mom did, it'd be alright."

 

His eyes shoot open. She is still staring at the swaying noose she lost her mother to, watching it as if it might wrap itself around her neck if she blinks. Her hands, however, hold one another. "If he left I would be alone. I can't disappoint him. I can't let the noose win."

 

...Does he want this to be delirium, too? Or is he going to face he always fails to--?

 

The door clicks open behind them as a nurse comes with another IV. They ask Asgore to leave the room for a moment, either not noticing or questioning the tears in his eyes and how his shoulders tremble.

 

Once again Asgore seeks the comfort of the air outside. His nose is clogged up with the scents of the hospital, his ears bleeding with every machine bleep pouring from under the closed doors of other patients' rooms. He has about five minutes before the nurse leaves. By then he has to be beside his little girl again.

 

The main entrance swooshes open when the motion detector senses him, letting him out to cleanse his senses. Asgore breathes through his mouth as if he could rinse the hospital out of his body.

 

He should have listened more closely when the doctor explained the effects of delirium in patients affected. Perhaps he was listening and could not retain the information, overloaded with concern. It does not matter now, it matters little.

 

...She truly does not know. She does not know she is cared for. She does not know she is loved. The last time she felt anything remotely of the sort was ten years ago, before her mother "abandoned her," as she put it. As it must have felt from her perspective, a thorn in her side she has carried all these years.

 

He never told her, and now she does not know.

 

His clumsiness around emotions, his negative to be gentle with her, always keeping her at bay... It has culminated in this. In her being on her deathbed convinced there is no soul in the Underground who deems her life to be important. Life is fleeting and brittle, Asgore would know. Were hers to be cut short, what would he regret more? Having spoken feelings too large for words with graceless sentences, or never having tried at all? She has never had verbal confirmation that she is loved from a voice other than her mother's. What was Asgore thinking?

 

The time we have beside loved ones is far too short to pussyfoot around. He should have told her ten years ago. He should have told her he cared about her, been softer with her, warmer. She should not have spent the past decade believing herself to be alone when that could not be further from the truth.

 

He did not do what he should have ten years ago. The next best time is effective immediate.

 

If-- When she recovers she will not, or when she snaps out of this episode, as soon as possible, he will have to have an awkward conversation with her. If there is any chance anything she said are her thoughts unrestrained, he cannot allow her to continue thinking such nonsense. Returning favours, being replaceable, fearing "disappointing" Asgore as if he would ever leave her...

 

She has always been afraid of disappointing him, has she not? The mortified expressions at the slightest mistake, the overachieving behaviour at the expense of her own health, her flippant nonchalantness at the loss of her eye... That is not delirium talking. At least that part is her.

 

...That is not what she normally thinks. It cannot be. Asgore has never been close with her, not overtly. But she is intelligent, she must know. She does, she has to.

 

He thought the same about Char--

 

Asgore squeezes his eyes shut. Far from stopping the tears, they pour out faster. He fails every child he should care about. He always fails to--

 

Passing the back of his hand roughly across his eyes, he takes a final deep breath of fresh air before returning to the room. Whenever she snaps out of it he will be there to clear everything up. It will not be easy, he will have to dig deep into his emotions to find the words, it will hurt. But he has to. He must.

 

If he had spoken more openly to Chara--

 

He arrives at the far end of the hall her room is in. The nurse who shooed him out is leaving now. They spot him and wave for him to come closer.

 

"Your Majesty, we are sorry for your l--"

 

...It is just a progress report. Just a progress report, it does not have to be bad news, there is no need to catastrophize. Perhaps they just want to say--

 

"I had to sedate her." The expression on their rodent face turns apologetic. "She was getting very worked up and she was in a lot of pain. She should be out for a few hours. I'm sorry."

 

...Oh.

 

"You did what you had to do, it is fine."

 

The nurse nods before going on their way. Asgore grasps the doorknob. She has only been sedated three times in total. The last two were so harrowing to watch it is... a small relief, perhaps, that he missed it.

 

He opens the door and walks in.

 

Another IV pokes out of her hand. All tension is gone from her face and neck, no longer worrying about the noose.

 

Asgore stands beside her for a moment, pushing some strands of hair out of her face. "When you wake up you and I are going to talk, my girl. Just in case."

 

Better safe than sorr--

 

He takes a seat, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she rests. Making sure it does not stop, like when Chara--. That, coupled with the persistent, even beeping of her heart monitor might be the most soothing things Asgore could witness.

 

In a few hours she will open her eye again. If all is well, as well as it can get, her mind will be her own once more. That is the time Asgore has to prepare what he will say. He has to correct any mistakes in her understanding without giving her any anxiety that may hurt her.

 

He will fail again.

 

So what will he say?

 

-

 

"Why?"

 

Today is the twentieth day since Undyne fell down. Three days ago she was sleeping long after the sedation wore off. She has not woken since.

 

"Why her?"

 

Her NPPV has been replaced with a ventilator. It sounds worse, if that is even possible. Light rainfall splatters against the glass windows, leaving trails on them as the droplets slide and plummet to the ground.

 

It has been five centuries since Asgore last addressed a higher power. What is compelling him to do so now is unclear. Everything in his mind is foggier than the haze outside. Perhaps it is despair bringing him back to long-abandoned beliefs. Maybe it is the result of how unbearable it is to be here, hearing nothing but machinery. Or it could be the silence, the loneliness. Without her, the only people Asgore speaks to are doctors and secretaries.

 

He could go for a walk in the Underground as he often did, but he cannot. He has to be here. If she wakes he must be beside her. He cannot let her think she is alone. Especially not after what she disclosed last time. The probability possibility of even a fraction of it being her genuine thought process terrifies him. Her words have kept him awake these past three nights, laying in bed beside him, filling the space with pain and regret.

 

Far from better, she is getting worse. The nurse who left after changing her IV bag informed him she has begun experiencing alopecia. Not much for now, he cannot even tell, but every morning the nurses find more hair among her sheets.

 

Alopecia is one of the final symptoms to appear in thallium poisoning. Provided the patient survives long enough, alopecia is part of the final onset symptoms.

 

She really is dying. She is dying and Asgore never got to speak with her.

 

All doctors can provide him with are theories. Theories about thallium in monster bodies, about how magic is not as predictable as matter is when it comes to reacting to poison. That is all doctors can do. They theorize, but they never answer.

 

They had no words for him, either, when he asked them what would lead his thirteen year-old to ingest what they knew was a fatal amount of buttercups. All doctors could tell him was speculation. Mere hypothesis, no answers as to why he had lost his little one. Doctors are useless.

 

The last time Asgore referred to the universe, the maker, the Angel; whoever if anyone is up there, was the day of Chara's funeral. Science had failed to provide him with reasoning. Surely the being everyone believed would bring hope would know a bit more than Asgore. Just enough to understand what he did wrong to be unable to save his children. Why there is need for caskets so small, why people so young and innocent have their lives plucked so senselessly.

 

Why one of them would take their own. Why, just why, Chara had wanted to die.

 

Of course, no reply was ever provided. If answers to these larger questions do come in the form of vague parables to decipher, Asgore must be too stupid. He has never noticed anything, seen any sign, that would denote his prayers were answered.

 

Years later, when Asgore discovered how death is a mere suggestion to humans in the Underground, and not a definitive, inescapable fate, he considered asking a higher power why, once Chara realized what they'd done, they chose to stay dead of their own volition instead of turning back time. Then again, he knew no answer would come, so he has let said question fester within him like an infected wound all these years. There is nothing else he can do.

 

There will be no resolution this time, either. If something short of a miracle does not make her wake up, the last time Asgore spoke to her was stolen from both of them by hallucinations, by the same illness bound to rob her from his side.

 

A stomachache has become a permanent resident of Asgore's body, settling down right beneath the tight lungs and broken heart. Perhaps crying would make it better, but he has no tears left. They have all vacated his body along with hope.

 

She sleeps peacefully, unaware of the irreparable wounds her slumber leaves behind. At least it is a small mercy from the quiet arbiter of the universe that she is not awake to suffer.

 

Last time Asgore was here, in this hospital, in a room so similar to this one, he was covered in blood. After Asriel burst into the living room to announce his sibling was ill and Toriel went to check, Asgore carried Chara here. He cradled them close to his chest, begging them to hold on, to stay determined. He placed his child in the hands of doctors long since dead and begged them to do everything they could to save them.

 

After they administered antidote and a few other, rudimentary compared to modern medicine, solutions, they asked Asgore and Toriel to stay with Chara, give them strength. They said all there was left to do was wait, so wait they did.

 

"And now we wait."

 

Asgore waited as Chara writhed in agony on a creaky bed. He held their hand and begged them to hold on tight. To him, to life. He watched as Toriel cried so violently she could not get words out. Asriel tried coming inside after being instructed to wait outside and Asgore screamed at him to stay away. In his haste to protect his son from witnessing the bloodbath his beloved sibling had become, he turned one of his final interactions with Asriel into scorching words that hurt him.

 

Chara's body twisted in bed, over and over, kicking covers off themself. Asgore did not soothe them. He tried, of course, but he was powerless to be anything but a pathetic spectator to his child's death. He implored them to live, to hold on, to stay here a little longer, in the worst way he could. By telling them they were the hope of humans and monsters, the future.

 

"Chara, you have to stay determined. You are the hope of--"

 

He meant to give them hope, a mission to hold onto if they felt their life was worthless. He has wondered every single night since, all these years later, if all he accomplished was implying his child was disappointing him. That their life was precious not because their mere existence was a gift to this cold, blighted place, but because there was political worth in them.

 

He should have comforted them. He should have sympathized with their pain, begged forgiveness for anything he may have done which contributed to their decision. He should have apologized and soothed. Instead he did what he does best and failed at being a father.

 

When Chara stopped breathing after hours of torture the world ceased spinning for Asgore. He was there, listening to the doctor, watching them cover Chara's face up, and all he wanted to do was ask them to stop. Why were they covering up his child's head? His child, his sweet, beloved Chara, could not be dead.

 

But they were. And they chose to stay as such.

 

He was zoned out for the entirety of the way back home. Where Toriel was hugging Asriel close, checking over him, comforting him, keeping him safe, Asgore was unable to look at his son. Not because he blamed Asriel, not because Asriel did anything wrong. Purely because Asgore had yet to make peace with Chara's death. He was the one holding their cold, lifeless body to bring it back home for the funeral. Everything and everyone were moving much faster than Asgore could keep up with. He was incapable of giving love and support to the son who had lost his sibling because his grief was overpowering.

 

All he could do was regard Chara's remains. The blood caked in the corners of their mouth, the frown of pain remaining after their soul had departed, how the part of their irises poking out from their half-closed eyelids were lifeless, unseeing. Their mouth hung open, unable to close. Toriel kept Asriel walking ahead of them so he could not see, but all of Asgore's attention was stuck on the flesh which so closely resembled his child, but simultaneously held no traces of them. The life his little one exuded left their body along with their soul and temperature. The flesh pressing up against Asgore was too cold to belong to the warm, warm child he hugged every night before bed time and every morning before breakfast.

 

He does not remember if he bade Asriel a good night when they returned home or if he checked in on him at all. There are many gaps in his memories of that day. He left Chara's body on the sofa, unsure of what to do with them until the funeral in the morning, and at some point he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

 

The next thing he is certain of was Toriel shaking him awake, desperately informing him Asriel was missing, as were his sibling's remains. The panic and stress, ordering the Royal Guard to look for his missing children only to find them in the throne room. Asriel was unrecognizable, a being Asgore had never seen the likes of, holding Chara's limp body. He was bleeding from several lacerations, his blood dark under the spotted moonlight in the throne room. A monster, bleeding. He took in a ragged breath and then he was dust.

 

A man of faith Asgore has never been. It is hard to have any faith in a benevolent higher power when one grows up on the brink of war, only to be thrust into it within the first years of his adulthood. But that night, as Toriel despaired, for the first time since he was a child and had queries no adult could sate, Asgore asked the same question he uttered a minute ago. Why? Why them? Why Chara and Asriel? Of all the horrendous humans and monsters in the world, why them?

 

What did he do wrong? He failed resoundingly and it cost him his children and later his wife. Where did he fail? What was Chara hurting from that they felt they should die before reaching out to their father? What kind of father was he if he hardly, if ever, suspected what his child was going through?

 

There must have been warning signs, apparently there always are, but he was too stupid to see them. Just as father said, the only Dreemurr child who survived was by far the least adequate. Father meant for the throne, of course. Seeing how everything turned out, it is safe to say Asgore is a failure in every branch of life.

 

Had he done a good job as a parent Chara would have confided in him before deciding to leave this world in such an agonizing way. Why? Why buttercups, why? Was it because they felt guilty about messing up the recipe with him months prior and felt they should be punished? That they should atone for a genuine mistake by torturing themself to death?

 

Asgore ruined their life and death. He knew they were hurting, suffering, carrying baggage too large for their little body and soul. He knew there was always more to the reason they claimed they scaled Mount Ebott for, but he never knew how to get answers. He was unable to get to the root of the problem and remove it, so the pain blossomed within their soul, sucking it dry to grow into the life-ending beast it became.

 

Chara chose to leave him. Chara was suffering so profoundly at thirteen years of age they committed suicide. Asgore never saw any signs, he failed at everything a father should excel at. His failure cost his child their life along with Asriel's. His anger and hatred later cost him his wife, trapping him in the mausoleum he now calls a house.

 

A house haunted by memories, by absences, by silence. His children's deaths haunt him every single day. No matter how much time goes by or what he distracts himself with, a thin layer of Asriel's dust is always clinging to Asgore's heart as sticky as Chara's blood.

 

Asgore suffered from buttercup poisoning too. He felt everything his child did and struggles to envision a more horrifying way for such a small child to die.

 

For years now, Asgore has run from that night. There is much he runs from. So much it would paralyze him if he stopped to make peace with it; he cannot. But that night remains the one thing he can never bring himself to face. If it ever surfaces as intensely and vividly as it is now it makes him collapse. He had to bury it deep to keep himself functional. Since fate was cruel enough to force him to outlive his children there are many things he has had to do to qualify as a living person instead of an animated corpse.

 

He can never forget, not entirely. Every time he is in his house the silence follows him. His children never left. Their ghosts never left. They sit in the bedroom he can never open regardless of how many times he sets his hand on the doorknob, playing games so quiet his mortal ears can never hear. The silence they left behind reminds Asgore at every moment of his existence of their loss as if he could ever forget. As if a single second went by where he does not feel a cold void in his chest where he once held them both so close.

 

The absence Toriel left in bed, the quietude... It all enables the screams to ring clearly. Echoing from the basement under the throne room, clear as crystal. The five voices his trident cut short and the one he never heard, but haunts him more than the others. The one he hears in his nightmares, over, and over, and over. That serves as a reminder of why he must be the only one to lay hands on a human. He cannot allow such brutality to happen again. A child is innocent regardless of species.

 

Once there was warmth in his house. It was a home, in fact. A delightfully lively one at that.

 

After a long day of work and pulling his weight in the house, Asgore would sit on the sofa he would, years later, fall asleep on next to his child's dead body. He would warm himself up before the fireplace and bask in the warmth of domestic family life.

 

He would not do much else until Asriel, Chara or most often both at once peeked out of their room and requested his presence. Sometimes it was because they needed a third for a game, or had a "surprise" for him the smiles and barely repressed snickers spelled out was yet another prank he would gladly play along for.

 

And, on odd occasions, while the two of them were caught up in their games, Toriel would emerge from the kitchen, white fur blushed pink from the heat, and approach him while taking off her apron. She would leave it on the back of a chair before sitting beside him and leaning her head on his shoulder before pulling him into a side hug.

 

They would discuss what they had done in the day, or simply revel in each other's presence, until their children came out. Toriel was always strict about meal times and bedtime schedules, but she was willing to forgo both for a few minutes if it meant they got to pull their children on their laps and snuggle with them for a while before dinner.

 

It was blissful. It was a blessing. It was an oasis in the coarse, rugged prison of the Underground.

 

And then it was gone.

 

Asgore had grown accustomed to sharing his living space with ghosts and spending as little time as possible in it when he met Undyne. Parts of his soul he thought had died her flame warmed back to life. There was music in his living room, laughter in his halls, a beloved voice calling out to him from the throne room. Despite meriting no different, he was no longer alone. The silence could not get him if she was around.

 

There is nowhere left to run today, though. There hasn't been for a while, but it is today, here, in a room so similar to the one his life ended in half a millennium ago, that it catches up to him. He cannot hide from these walls in their midst. Chara's death, his role in it, are ineludible in here. This is not the room he lost them in. This is not the bed their little body contorted on before it went still. But it is close enough to force the memories out of him whether he wants to face them or not.

 

His chest and arms are cold. Where they once would have held his children and wife there is air. The impulse to close his arms around his family like he used to do so often is there, it never left; but there is nothing to fill them but the absence which has followed him like another kind of spectre all along.

 

He ran so far from his memories, from the pain they engraved into his heart and soul, he neglected the mistakes of the past. Instead of learning from them, instead of recognizing his faults are many, he turned a blind eye and trudged forwards. Perhaps that was acceptable for a while, necessary even.

 

It stopped being so when Undyne came into his life.

 

Asgore knows he is a dismal carer. No child is safe within his reach. Those who trust him end up dead, he knows this. He hurts everyone who gets near, he is not a person his children feel safe with. If they had, Chara would have lived and Asriel would have consulted with his father instead of running off to the Surface to die and join the sibling his life hurt so much without.

 

Sometimes Asgore wishes he had done that, too. He does not normally revel in such ideas, but he has nothing left to live for today.

 

When he began caring about Undyne, when it was undeniable his affection for her far surpassed what a mentor feels for their protegée, a better man would have stopped running. Knowing as well as he does his parenting skills are lacking and already ended two lives, he would have done one of two things: leave her before she could get attached, or face his weaknesses head first and improved them.

 

...That would take bravery, though, and for a man whose greatest feat is running from the consequences of his actions and the pain of his past, it was too tall an order. He was not really her father, he told himself over and over. She would not want to be adopted, it was better not to ask. She would find it offensive, as if he wanted to replace her mother. She would not see him as a parent, there was no need to overstep her boundaries.

 

If he allowed himself to love her openly, to give her the affection and support she needed, to share the warmth she elicited in him with her, he would doom her. She was better off without him.

 

Excuses piling onto excuses just like justifications litter every corner of Asgore's mind when he thinks about the war in more depth than quick passing. It is his largest talent, hiding from responsibilities and consequences.

 

The truth is whether he was her parent or not was irrelevant. She was an orphan and he the only adult presence she trusted. Abandoning her was never an option, for that he would have never forgiven himself. In that case, what a proper parent would have done would have been to do better.

 

Why did Chara die? Why did they not reset time? Asgore does not know. He will never know. He never learnt it when he still had the chance. All he is certain of is that, while he was close to his children, it was not good enough.

 

There was something he needed, a missing piece he never found. A type of intimacy and trust he failed to build, a kind of relationship he somehow lost, forgot to build, missed. A better parent would have struck their child as approachable for everything. Instead, rather than converse with him, rather than reach out, Chara chose death. Asgore's parenting, his ability to protect children, was so dismal, his child chose death.

 

Why did Asriel take his sibling's corpse to the Surface? Yet another question that will never be answered. Asgore should have been taking care of his surviving son, comforting him instead of being trapped in a maze of guilt and grief. Perhaps if he had been the kind of parent children go to for suicidal ideation, he would have also been the sort of father children consult with before going on a suicide mission to follow their sibling to the grave. Maybe if Asgore had not been such a colossal failure Asriel would have found a reason to live even if Chara could no longer live beside him.

 

Asgore has known his parenting was ineffective, insufficient, for centuries. When he encountered a precious little girl who needed someone there for her after her mother lost hope, the last thing on his mind should have been the specific label for the relationship. Instead of getting caught up on the technicalities of being her father or not, whether she even considered such a thing or not, if his affection could indeed curse her, he should have worked on being a better figure for her. Someone she could go to for everything, someone she felt she could trust.

 

Sometimes the pain children carry is larger than their tiny souls. Sometimes it breaks them apart. Asgore would know.

 

Accepting his failures is not something Asgore excels at, though. It is running from them where he shines brightest. It would have been too painful to admit to himself he is partially responsible for his children's death. Blaming humans is so comfortable. It even provides justification for the genocide Asgore intends to bring upon them. Such a convenient excuse.

 

The truth is humans broke Chara's psyche. Asgore failed to fix it. Maybe he was never qualified for it to begin with, but as their parent there is no excuse for having failed at being there for them. At being someone they could talk to, who they could share the burden with.

 

He failed, and they died. He failed, and Asriel died. He knows this. He knows it. Yet he never lifted a finger to be better with Undyne.

 

He knew she was hurting, the death of her mother broke her, yet he never brought it up. For her comfort, he has told himself for ten years now. Because she would not want to talk about it.

 

Maybe. Maybe that was the case, but the truth is he never asked. He never tested the waters to lend her a hand and see how she responded to it. He saw a ten year-old bottling up the agony of her mother's suicide and convinced himself time and time again he was doing her a favour by remaining distant from her.

 

Undyne needed someone to share her feelings with. He gave her music, but it was not enough. Music is good for self-expression, for showing off wounds words could never begin to unveil. But it is not gauze, it is not disinfectant, it does not remove puss from wounds so deep. Asgore is aware of this, it is not new. He gave her an outlet and weapons, a thirst for blood, but he never gave her support.

 

His fear of failing her, too, lead him to cast her away. That day in the throne room, when he realized he saw her as his own, he considered officializing that. Taking her in, giving her a home instead of training sessions. But he rationalized that he should not, because his parenting is a blight. And instead of improving in that area, doing what was right for his little girl, he allowed her to age out of the system, always alone.

 

When he saw she grew aggressive when reminded of her mother he did not offer her to speak, he put a piano between them and taught her to play. When he noticed her anger came from suffering he did not sit down with her and attempt to get her to talk, he put a spear in her hands and gave her the means to mutilate herself.

 

"It's no big deal... I mean, I have another one, right?"

 

When he saw she became obsessed with freedom he not once mentioned how obvious it was she was trying to protect everyone from meeting her mother's fate. Instead, he encouraged her. When he saw she was cold and aloof, unwilling to discuss any problems she had and would rather face them on her own, he told himself he was respecting her boundaries instead of letting her know, should she want to, she could always rely on him. Not just for training or casual conversation. For anything she needed.

 

Whether she was his daughter or not was the most unimportant part. She was a child in desperate need of comfort. He should have comforted her. He loved her, he adored her, he craved nothing but her company. He should have been the adult she needed irrespective of how she saw him. Even if to her he was never family, never mind a title as high ranking as her father, it was his duty to be the sort of adult Asriel and Chara needed.

 

The one he failed to be.

 

But no, that was too hard. For Asgore the Cowardly it was too much to ask. The fear of making things worse for her, of failing again, of losing another child, made him get lost in irrelevant tangles. She did not want to talk, so he was respecting that; when he never offered, so she never had the chance to express herself. She would see it as an offense to her mother, so he should keep his love for himself; when he has never uttered the words "I love you" to her. Every child needs to hear they are cherished, that they matter to someone, that they are important.

 

The last time Undyne heard that was ten years ago, before the mother who promised to love her left her forever. In a decade, to Asgore's knowledge, Undyne has never heard she is important to anyone. She has never received affection. Asgore's fear of failure, of confronting weakness, allowed the girl he sees as his daughter to grow up loveless.

 

If her mother is looking down on them, she must hate him. It is fine, he deserves it. He hates himself as well.

 

Where he should have offered support and love he offered music and weapons. Always keeping her hands busy with something instead of holding them and getting her to open up. What was he so afraid of, anyway? That she would blame him? Or was it of seeing the kind of pain his failure during the War of Humans and Monsters had imprinted in his daughter's soul? Perhaps with all that distance all he sought was to have a shield between himself and her well-being. If she did not want to be close to him, he could never be held accountable for anything that befell her, right?

 

If she died, it would not be his fault; unlike with Chara and Asriel. As long as Asgore and Undyne were distant, even if she needed proximity, even if she needed someone to be there for her, he was blameless. He would never again hurt as profoundly as he had that night, he would never suffer the worst kind of loss life can subject one to again.

 

Or so he thought.

 

He cannot find a way to blame himself for her deplorable state, but everything else he most certainly takes responsibility for. It would be exponentially easier to attribute her final words before this coma to delirium. Alas, he has more than enough backing evidence accrued over the ten years he has known her to be certain of how honest she was being. Allowed to be vulnerable by her illness, she bore her heart to him unaware of doing such a thing.

 

It is Asgore's fault that she grew up thinking herself to be replaceable. It is his fault that she consistently behaves as if she were invulnerable. It is his fault that she grew up with a taste for blood. It is his fault that she fell into a coma without having ever heard "I love you." It is his fault that she blames herself for a suicide nobody could have prevented; let alone a child. It is his fault that she reached adulthood believing herself to be wrong and unlovable, a disappointment.

 

It is his fault that she closed her eye thinking if she disappointed him he would leave her. That his affection for her was so conditional any mistake on her end would erase all the love he has for her. If she dies, she will do so convinced she is unimportant to him. She will die without knowing she was loved because Asgore is too much of a blithering coward to confront any of his mistakes.

 

If she thought she was replaceable, he should have let her know there is no soul in the Underground more invaluable to him. If she saw no worth in her life and behaves accordingly, Asgore should have told her she is precious. If she believed the path to salvation was built upon dust and blood, Asgore should have told her what he truly thinks about the war.

 

If she thought she was loveless, he should have let her know he loves her more than life itself. If she blamed herself for her mother's death, Asgore should have reassured her she had no hand in it. If she thought herself unlovable, broken, Asgore should have held her close and let her know her she always deserved the best.

 

If she feared he would abandon her, he should have made it manifest he would never leave her side. The entire world might turn on her, but he would not. As long as he is cursed with life, she would have never been alone.

 

Instead he kept his emotions under lock and key, too painful to regard. She did what children do, imitate, and learnt nothing but to hide all feelings in her heart until they poisoned her mind and convinced her of lies. She was not to blame for her mother's death. She was not unlovable. And heavens know she was not unloved.

 

Asgore failed. He failed to support and soothe her, he failed to comfort her. He allowed her to get ill without never once telling her she is important. He saw her as his own and could not have treated her more poorly. His fear of failure, of responsibility, of consequences, doomed her to an existence as emotionally deplorable as his own. It has not been until he was forced to spend time in the same building Chara died at that Asgore has been forced to confront his abhorrent parenting head on.

 

And now it is too late. His little girl sleeps, apparently forever, and he never told her. She went on to rest amid terrible pain with the false certainty her life was meaningless to him.

 

Once again, Asgore has failed at everything.

 

If she was honest about seeing him as a parent, his failures are worse. She was so starved for love and affection, for any shred of warmth after her mother gave up, that she latched on to him.

 

On to objectively the worst person she could have chosen.

 

Not that she had anywhere to choose from, anyway. After her mother died, Undyne's rowdy behaviour and obsession with revenge scared away most kids her age and their parents alike. She only had him, she grew to care about him, and he failed. He failed not only a child he loves with every last inch of his soul. He failed a child who depended on him. He failed a child who needed his support. His fear prevented him from being the parent she needed.

 

And now he is here, in this hospital again, sitting by a bed, forced to watch his child die. Once more, unable to find answers, he asks a greater power why? Why this? Why her?

 

Why not him?

 

These answers he will never have. A freak reaction to thallium seems to be the only explanation. But at least, had he been anything more than a blithering coward, he would have the quietude in his soul of knowing she passed on loved and soothed. Instead, he knows for a fact she has been lonely and miserable all along.

 

...Twenty is not that old. Hardly no longer a child, hardly an adult, still growing and learning. Her life is getting cut tragically short and, while she is an adult in the eyes of the law, to him she is still a child. His child. Still a scared, guilt-riddled child who Asgore should have comforted yet failed.

 

Her voice will join those in his living room, reminding him every day how she died without having ever received the love she needed because he was too afraid to get close. How she wanted a father and all he managed was to fail. His mausoleum will soon be haunted by one more ghost. Not blaming him for her death for a change, but for everything else. For her life.

 

If she was to suffer so profoundly, she could have at least known she was loved. It was in Asgore's hands to do so, but he did not.

 

All his hands are good for is murder. All he ever does is hurt and destroy.

 

-

 

The heart monitor beeps on. He fell asleep again.

 

Asgore's chin rests against his chest, his neck and back aching. This chair was not designed for long stays; no chair is. He huffs as he stretches his torso, spine cracking. Five days have passed since she fell into a coma, spending nights here is useless. He has to all the same, just in case. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes before opening them--

 

...He must be dreaming. He blinks a few times, his sight focusing better. The back of Undyne's bed props her up into a sitting position. The sound of her breathing is masked by the NPPV instead of the ventilator once again. She herself, pale still, is looking at him through a half-closed eye with a small, exhausted smile.

 

"Good morning, old timer."

 

Her voice is small, hollow, breathy and raspy. It was already feeble before; the tube from the ventilator left it raw.

 

Asgore stands so quickly the edges of his vision blur, walking up to her bed. The writhing feelings in his chest make his hand tremble as he reaches out to brush a strand of hair from her eye. His knuckles brush up against her cheek. He leaves them there for a moment. She is burning up with a fever. Her eye widens in surprise and she lifts an eyebrow, but she leans into his touch, closing her eye.

 

"Did you... Did you have a nice nap? You must've been here quite a while, huh?"

 

...Of course. Of course he has, how could he not?

 

"I could not leave you." His own voice is strained. After five days of emotions ranging from numb nothingness to self-loathing, seeing her awake has stirred awake every other feeling he was in too much grief to feel.

 

She laughs, and although it sounds like a wheeze, it is the most beautiful sound in the world. "You sap. You should've gone home and... slept properly."

 

She pulls away from him to rest her head on the cushions again. The part of Asgore's skin that was in contact with becomes cold, so he lowers his hand to hers. This is what he did when Ch--

 

He holds her hand with gentleness he would have never thought he would need with her. Her fingers are capable of lifting her entire body weight, of bruising, of bending metal. For the first time ever her hand seems frail, as if one wrong squeeze could break every bone under her skin. He rubs the back of her hand gently with his thumb, careful not to jostle the IVs poking out from it.

 

"Did the doctor come already? Should I call him?"

 

As weak as it is, her smile takes on a bashful aura. "No, Asgore. I woke up and... pulled that tube out of my throat by myself. Of course... Of course he was here. I woke up five... or so minutes ago." She rolls her eye. "They're gonna... run a few more tests... in a moment."

 

He should ask what the doctor said, if there is any news, but he cannot summon the words. He is lost in her features. The pale, loose skin. The sunken eye and cheeks, the bones sticking out from under what used to be a wall of muscle, the swelling under the mask. She is awake. After five days, when he had already given up hope on talking to her one last time...

 

"I missed you so much, my girl."

 

She forces her eye open, not managing to lift its lid all the way. She sets her pupil on his for a moment before lifting her arm, trembling from the effort, to wipe a tear from under his eye.

 

"Don't... Don't cry, please. I don't want you to cry for me."

 

...Who else would he cry for, then? If not for her, if not for his daughter, for who? Asgore's head pulsates with dull pain where his eyebrows frown. It is a tension he has had with him for days now.

 

Maybe it is time to let it go.

 

"Undyne, if... If you are up to it, there is something I must tell you."

 

She looks up at him through her hooded eye, nodding softly. This is it. This is the chance he has been mourning for days. He would like to hope her waking up means she will improve, but before the doctor confirms that is a possibility, Asgore's pessimism will not allow such daydreams.

 

It is going to be a rough conversation, so he takes a deep breath. He will not waste this opportunity to his cowardice. Their time is running out. He cannot make up for all his failures, but at least he can clear some things up.

 

He is always too late to being a good fath--

 

"When... When you were awake last time, you--"

 

Her heart monitor spikes dangerously in sync with her hissing in pain, scrunching her eye shut. Her hand closes into a fist in Asgore's hold, clawing holes through the bed sheets bunched between her fingers.

 

"Undyne, what—?"

 

"Worst headache ever," she grunts through gritted teeth, hyperventilating. Tears of pain pour over her scales. "I can't-- I--"

 

...No.

 

Asgore lets go of her hand, smashing the red button to the right of her bed. The doctor has to see her now. He pushes it repeatedly, clicking it over and over. Where is the doctor?

 

"Hold on.” His voice is drowned out by hers crying out. She holds her head with trembling arms. "Please hold on. I need you."

 

This is what he should have told Ch--

 

He failed at that. He will not fail at this. Asgore looks at the door as if his gaze could summon the doctor. Where is he?! He--

 

As the door flies open silence floods the room. The heart monitor stops, the gasps and groans cease. Only his breathing, the doctor's, and the artificial airflow of the NPPV are to be heard.

 

...No. No no no no no.

 

Asgore is frozen, unable to turn his neck and look. He breathes in short gasps, heart pounding. The doctor dons a deathly serious expression as he closes the door behind him, approaching the bed.

 

...Everything is alright as long as they do not give him condolences. As long as they do not say--

 

"I am sorry for your loss, Your Majesty." The doctor bows his head. "We did all we

Notes:

Prompt: I was saving my 10

Chapter 22: Finally!!

Notes:

Alright, i checked. Of the remaining chapters only two of them are extra long -14K and 21K respectively-. THOSE will take a bit longer, maybe. But the others...?

Well, here's one already ^^

Will there be another update today? Maybe. Depends on a few factors. But the next chapter's even shorter than this one, so it's not impossible. No promises though.

Happy New Year, or Novi God, or whatever you celebrate today, everyone. And if you celebrate nothing then have a great day regardless. I hope this update is worth your time, thank you.

Feeling like this isn't an excuse to leave Asgore hanging. Despite the tension in her limbs and the way her heart pounds, Undyne takes a deep breath as she approaches his house.

 

This must be what mom felt--

 

She shakes her head, shuddering. It's fine, it's fine. So far as she continues working towards freedom she'll be alright. She isn't like mom. Mom gave up. Mom abandoned...

 

"I-I can make cookies! That'll help, right momm--?"

 

...Someone who relied on her. Undyne will never give up on monsterkind's freedom. They are not the same. Even if, hypothetically, they were to have the same... the same sort of beast prowling in their head. If this is something Undyne is designed to carry with her, she still won't give up; she's too determined to. There's too much at stake, too many people depend on her. She can't. She won't.

 

White brick buildings jut out from the white paved roads and sidewalks of New Home, dotted with the green of decaying trees and the bustle of an early morning. Kids whine on their way to school dragged by parents who are anxious to drop them off and make it to their shift on time.

 

A mother walks by Undyne with her two children, one secured tightly in each hand, explaining to them why an education is important. "...you'll need it in the future, when you grow up and..."

 

...

 

...Growing up, huh? As if there were anything to look forward to down here.

 

It'll be fine, though. Because Asgore will save them and Undyne will help. If she has any say in it, the siblings she just passed up will flourish up on the Surface with their mother. They'll have a future, they'll have a life.

 

A real life. Not this.

 

For that she needs to get going, though. Ignoring how her fingers tingle from the anxiety that stole her breath first thing in the morning, the overwhelming desire to turn heel and run back home, where her piano is, she presses forwards. She has to continue, she has topush past this slump.

 

Unless it isn't a slump. If it's--

 

From between the solid white of buildings and houses emerges a darker stain. The hospital. Undyne's heart skips a beat. Why? She's only been there once, for her eye, and it wasn't even that bad.

 

...Her mind is all over the place today, tangled up like a noo--. Walking past the hospital is the fastest route to Asgore's place. It's not like making him wait and waste time on her will make her feel any better.

 

If anything, now more than ever, she needs to keep moving.

 

Lest she end up like--

 

Undyne's foot gets caught on a vine something, making her trip. She catches herself as she summons a spear in each hand, turning around to find--

 

...Nothing. There's... What did she think would be there, exactly? One of the white tiles is a bit loose, popping out from its neighbour. She tripped on a tile.

 

What's wrong with her? Nothing grows down here.

 

Vines. The ground--

 

...Maybe she should have slept in for once. It's obvious her head isn't where it should be. Then again, that's precisely the reason sleeping in is a bad idea. Mom started by sleeping in, and then...

 

"For my sw--"

 

From the sidewalk opposite her own a pink-feathered child with a bookbag larger than they are stares at her in awe. Their father, holding their hand, shoots her a disapproving glare before looking away from her and pulling his child along. Why--?

 

Oh, right. She dispels the spears and resumes her walk. No wonder he was looking at her like that. No wonder people think she isn't cut for this responsibility. She summoned weapons for no reason in a civilian area. She tripped on a sidewalk, for crying out loud.

 

Behind her--

 

She didn't dream of anything, right? Nothing reminded her of mom bar the request to "invite friends and family?" What's this all about?

 

...No matter. The important part's working through it, and that she won't give up. Finally Asgore's house pops into view as she turns the final corner. It's such a small, regular house for the King. So in character that he chose this one instead of the palace. He's more of a cozy indoors-y person than a regal one, despite his title. The squat building with the perfectly trimmed grass, the pothos and philodendrons clinging to the windowsills...

 

This is more home than her house is. Her place is nothing. It's... It's functional, but it's also cold, lifeless... The piano's out of tune from lack of use, and there hasn't been a book in there since--

 

There's no life to be had down here. Trying to live would only kill her faster; she needs to snap out of this before it kills her.

 

Usually the sight alone of Asgore's quaint little home is enough to soothe Undyne a little. That place is so... so warm, so full of life. It's a home. Plus, Asgore's there. There isn't any situation Asgore can't improve by virtue of being himself. Today Undyne's just... All jumpy.

 

If Asgore knew his future Captain is this messed up he would be disapp--

 

...Her head... will shut up after breakfast. She slept poorly, so her body's demanding energy in any other form. Breakfast will fix it. And if it doesn't, she'll put on her best smile to stop Asgore from worrying needlessly about her. But he made time for her; she's not going to disrespect that.

 

More than behind, beneath--

 

She steps into his front garden, down the middle of the white cobblestone path. The grass to each side is pristinely kept. It's grown a bit since last Undyne was here; Asgore must've been too busy to trim it. It pops out between the cobblestones leading to the front door, tangling around Undyne's boots as she makes her way to it.

 

As she lifts a hand to knock on the door her stomach seizes, stopping her mid-motion. What... Okay, what is up? She isn't about to go in there to make a scene and make him get concerned. She's still on time to turn back and go back to her house. He'll worry less about her if she "overslept" than if she walks into his place like this.

 

Closer and cl--

 

...She must've had a nightmare again. One she slept through, because she can't remember it. Because what else would cause this? It's the same old, just... amplified, maybe; and with a side of an infectious urge to go ahead and live as if that weren't a death sentence. The slightest thing sets her on edge, her head's all over the place with anxiety. It courses up and down her skin, amid her scales, like a swarm of insects trying to crawl into her. It burns and freezes... Like when...

 

"For my--"

 

...It's... just a rough spot. That's all, a particularly difficult moment. What if it isn't? She's... fine. Really, she is. She isn't like that, she's just having a bad day. All she has to do is power through it. What if it doesn't work? She's overthinking it, it'll be fine. She gave her word to Asgore to be here today. Even if her company isn't all that important, breakfast with her might be the only thing keeping him from working morning to night today.

 

Besides, she can't be selfish. She chose to be there for Asgore, to return the favour. She can't allow herself to fall down the same path mom did and wind up abandoning the people around her. If she becomes so apathetic, she might--

 

On the nape of her neck--

 

She knocks on the door. She's fine. This is all fine. It's a bad day, that's all. If anything, it's an indicator to work harder, to engage in everything she loves to get over it faster.

 

...She's hardly done anything she loves in years, though. And for good reason, of course. But still... What if she doesn't help Asgore with the seventh soul? What if they get her and she dies down here, rendering her whole life meaningl--?

 

The lock clicks and groans as a key is put in it and turned. The door's hinges creak as they're pulled open. Seriously, Asgore needs to fix that.

 

On the other side of the door, shock flashes across Asgore's expression as the warmth from his house pours over Undyne.

 

"Undyne, what a lovely surprise!" He smiles at her, stepping aside to let her in. "Come in, come in."

 

...Surprise?

 

Heart picking up its pace, Undyne steps in. The murmur of the city falls silent when the door shuts it out.

 

"What brings you here?" Asgore ushers her in, walking a step ahead of her down the hallway. "I like that you are here, do not get me wrong. But you usually do not come here of your own accord unannounced." He pulls a chair out for her, looking at her with a gentle frown. "Did something happen? Are you alright?"

 

...

 

...Is he too young to be going senile, or...?

 

He gestures for her to sit, but she stays where she is, grasping her bag's straps. "...Is this a joke?"

 

His frown deepens. "Of course not. My concern for you is no joke." He studies her expression for a moment, dead serious. "What happened?"

 

Undyne tries to keep her breathing even as her heart races faster, harder, aching against her sternum. Maybe... Maybe this isn't as bad as it seems? Maybe he just... forgot, right? Not as in dementia, or anything like that. Just as in... being too busy to remember...?

 

Too busy to remember her. Too occupied to--

 

"We had a date." Her voice is slightly strangled, taut by the knot in her stomach. Whatever was prowling in there is getting worse. "Did... Did you forget? You asked me to come here."

 

...Did he forget about her? Did she do something wrong? Is he that disappointed in her already? Is he going to leave her like--?

 

Asgore looks down to his right, pensive, before pulling out his phone from his back pocket and tapping on it. He hums, scrolling, and cocks an eyebrow.

 

"Goodness, you are right." He shakes his head, sighing in exasperation. "My apologies, Undyne. I forgot about it. It seems I invited you for dinner as well."

 

...He forgot. Just like mom forgot she had a kid when she--

 

Undyne smiles. It's tense around her cheeks, forced. "That's fine. You're busy, it's alright. As long as it's just that and you're doing well, it's fine."

 

She's so unbelievably selfish. Asgore has much more important things on his mind than their little date. He has a kingdom to run, people to save. Her emotions are so out of whack this morning she's genuinely upset over this.

 

As if she didn't already know she's easy to forg--

 

"It is not alright, Undyne." Asgore shakes his head, morose glaze over his eyes. "I am never too busy for you, I do not know how this could have happened." He pats the back of the sofa. "Take a seat, please. I will prepare something for us in no time."

 

As her fingers coil around her straps her stomach writhes. Behind and beneath-- She breathes through it and slides her bag down her arms, slinging it over the back of the chair before sitting down. "Do you need any help in the kitchen?"

 

...Her voice is awfully quiet and Asgore certainly notices. His eyes are doing the thing again. Damn it. She needs to get a grip immediately; this is inexcusable. She can't make him feel bad for having priorities.

 

She wasn't a priority even to her own mother. There's no reason it should be any different with her boss.

 

"You are my guest, of course not. I will be back soon." Before leaving he offers her a sad grin. "I am sorry I forgot about our date, Undyne."

 

It's not like it's the first time she's been forgotten; she'll survive.

 

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Mommy isn't in the mood for--"

 

She shrugs, smiling as casually as she can and doing a damn poor job of it. "It's all good. I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

 

His expression brightens a little. Just a bit.

 

"I will be soon. As soon as I am seated with you I will be fine. Forgive this old timer, please?"

 

...He's her boss. Her friend. Nothing else, nothing more. If she feels hurt it's entirely her own prerogative. She can't dump that on him; it's not fair.

 

"I've got nothing to forgive you for, Asgore." She waves him off. "Now come on, Captain Mush, or we're both gonna be late."

 

Asgore looks at her... For a moment too long. What... What's he looking for? He's looking at her the same way he did when she was off on that three-month training course to Hotland and she couldn't write or text. When she came back he looked at her exactly like this, except he saw her just yesterday.

 

Does she look weird? Is he wondering why he made someone this annoying his Captain?

 

"Just propaganda. The King doesn't truly--"

 

He walks into the kitchen. What the hell was that about?

 

Undyne already woke up feeling miserable. It didn't get better with a walk, it got worse. She's jittery and irritable, and now Asgore forgets about her. Just like--

 

...Which is fine, of course. Asgore's a busy man, he has a lot on his mind. Hauling the future of monsterkind, all their hopes and dreams, is not an easy task. Undyne should've been better at keeping her disappointment hidden. She shouldn't even be disappointed; she's the one whose feelings are all over the place. Scared, anxious, irritable...

 

Perhaps this is what m--

 

Soft tinkering comes from the kitchen. The gas sizzles. Metallic and porcelain clicks travel to the dining room. None of this is soothing in the slightest. If even this place isn't helping she should probably get out before it gets worse. But if she leaves now Asgore's gonna think she's mad because he forgot. And she has no reasons to be angry, or sad, or disappointed, because she's always known he's just an abnormally friendly boss. But still...

 

...He forgot about her. He's never done that before. He forgot about her when they only have scraps of time to spend together. He--

 

Oh for crying out loud, she's being a baby about this. Her focus is on the wrong thing. Her feelings, hurt or otherwise, don't matter. Not as long as she's down here. Soon she'll be as good as new and this crappy morning won't matter. What she has to do is make sure Asgore's fine. He seems alright enough, but forgetting a date is unlike him. He's usually a sap about it, getting all excited and making something special like pancakes in preparation.

 

What if he never does that again? What if he's realized there's a reason mom left without thinking about Un--?

 

She tenses her fists until a knuckle cracks and keeps it at that pressure, breathing as slowly as she can. She's... She's had bad days, but this one has to be one of the worst. What did she dream about before waking up?

 

Behind and beneath--

 

...She has to power through. Resting, laying back, isn't an option. She has to push through until she feels better; there's no other way. Until then, though, she needs to rein in her feelings. This is out of character for her; it needs to stop. She is Undyne of the Royal Guard, soon to be Captain and Asgore's right hand. She can't allow something as juvenile as a nightmare to get to her like this.

 

She shouldn't have come today at all. He wouldn't have noticed, anyway, and she would've had time to sort through whatever shitstorm her brain's conjured without having to worry about putting up a front for him.

 

Then again, if she hadn't come, she would've never seen how weird Asgore's being and she wouldn't be able to try to help him, at least. Does she ever help, or does she only make things worse for--?

 

While she's with him, she'll keep an eye on Asgore. If he gives any sign of being sick, she'll get on his case until he gets looked at by a doctor. She refuses to lose another par--

 

...

 

...Unacceptable thought. Regardless, she'll look out for her friend. And to that purpose, the bizarre sensation snaking like vines and tentacles within her don't matter. She'll ignore them until she can work them off, and then she'll be just fine.

 

She can't give up. Most of all, she can't abandon the people who care about her. They are not the same.

 

...Asgore's piano is right there. Would he mind if--?

 

Another bad thought. Man, what a day she has ahead.

 

-

 

Her legs dangle off the ledge, luminescent water plummeting to the bottom beside her. She dips the tips of her fingers into the water, relishing how cool it is before scooping up some and splashing it on her face.

 

Alright. In layman's terms, she's screwed.

 

Pulsating under--

 

Being with Asgore didn't relax her in the slightest. Normally it does; he makes everything from a bad day to that day's anniversary better, but not today. Maybe it's because she was worried about him, making sure he acted like himself besides his new forgetfulness, but her own turmoil didn't subside by an iota. All through breakfast until she left, her chest pain worsened.

 

Asgore said she looks dreadful, that she should rest. He has no fucking clue what that would do to her. Mom began resting and--

 

...Deep breaths.

 

Undyne knows what she's doing, what she has to do. Would be nice if he trusted her. So even though he said he was worried about her and he asked her to at least have the decency to reply to his texts, she had to proceed with her day. Freedom is the only way she'll escape the hopelessness cursing her bloodline. For it she has to be at her best. If she succumbs, even just once--

 

No. No, there's nothing haunting her. What... What's her problem? She feels it freaking everywhere. In Asgore's place, in New Home, with the Riverperson, here atop a cliff she knows by heart...

 

...Asgore might've had a point. She's only done about three fourths of her intended climbing for the morning and here she is, stopping on a small ledge, because her heart thought she was running for her life and at every passing second she couldn't stop checking for vines, of all things, slithering in and out of the rock wall.

 

The vines her brain won't let go of must be some dream metaphor for the noose, right? What else would be stalking her in every aspect of her life, waiting for her to relax just slightly and bring about her demise? That thing's always been breathing down her neck. That she feels it so strongly today is anything but reassuring. Who... Who knows if mom also--?

 

Alright. This break's gone on long enough. Undyne stands up, stretching to the sides a little before pulling her phone out of her pocket. For someone who claimed to be oh so concerned about her, Asgore hasn't written once.

 

...And that's fine. It's good, it doesn't hurt, it doesn't mean anything. He's busy, he has better things to do. She couldn't even manage to be important to m--

 

The old guy better be okay. If he isn't, if he's been working too hard, or if he got sick again and refuses to call the doctor, he's going to hear a piece of Undyne's mind. Bloody hypocritical of him to tell her off for training on her free day when he hasn't taken a moment to himself in heavens know how many centuries.

 

She writes him a short text asking how he's doing. Ridiculous emotions aside, concern for him is bubbling under skin as strongly as whichever fears stalk her today. She can bury herself in work to hide from the latter, but no amount of training or exertion will spare her from worrying for Asgore.

 

...Even if he doesn't think she's all that important, he's still all she has. She wouldn't want anything bad to befall him regardless.

 

Her finger hovers over the Send button, though. Maybe... Maybe he's too busy and this will bother him. She doesn't want to be annoying and overbearing, either. He doesn't need any additional reasons to realize there's something wrong with--

 

She's being stupid. She sends the damn message and locks the phone, shoving it back in her pocket. If he's annoyed by this it's his own damn fault for being concerning. If he's so busy even a text is too tall an order he should've told her from the start instead of having her worry for him on top of trying to keep her head stable and simultaneously making the most of her day off. If she weren't so worried about him she would've already reached the top and started her descent.

 

...Then she could head back to the house, and maybe, if she had just a scrap of time left, at least tune her--

 

Alright, enough. Why does it feel like doing the one thing Undyne knows is going to accelerate her death is the only thing that can save her now? Why? Just why?! This is ridiculous. This feeling inside her, this itch, almost like it's another biological need on par with breathing, like she'll die if she doesn't indulge in the life she can't have down here, or like she'll die before she gets it, is the worst part of it all. By not doing anything of the sort she's kept herself alive and safe all this time, and that isn't changing now. Undyne stands--

 

Something slithers in the corner of her eye. She raises her arm and a dozen spears erupt from the ground, humming with power. All she can make out among them is the blue rock they were summoned from. What--?

 

Something a vine coils around her ankles, pulling. Undyne calls forth another spear, but the vine tugs--

 

She's falling. Every rock she's used to scale her way up flies past her vision as she plummets to the bottom. There's nothing behind her, just air. Air she's falling through without a way to stop herself. No. No no no, it doesn't end like this. She summons a shield behind her, then another with her other arm. She's got this. She's going to survive. She's not dying without having lived.

 

She's not joining mom today. She's gonna find what the hell tried to kill her and bring them to just--

 

A sickening crunch in time with black spots consuming the navy blue walls of Waterfall accompanies her body and shields shattering against the cavern floor. The dull pain of bruises, broken bones and dislocations blooms all over her limbs and torso. There's no air in her lungs; it got knocked out. Her mouth floods a foul taste as she coughs, broken ribs grinding and protesting at every exhale, making her eye water.

 

Her eye. She can't see anything from it. She--

 

The blackness pressing up against her lightens. Slowly, blurred, the blues and cyans of Waterfall poke through the dark in a distorted swirl of unfocused colours that pulsates with her every heartbeat. She can only breathe in short, wheezing gasps without her ribs stabbing into her innards. Every cough is torture as the broken bones press up against her muscle and organs alike.

 

It's found h--

 

She... should move. She should be getting up, locating the enemy and... taking them down. If... If she can't, she should... she should be sounding the voice of alarm. However, she cannot move.

 

Not because the pain paralyzes her. Not only because of that. She doesn't have the joints in place to move.

 

Her shoulders, her hip on one side, knee on the other, both her ankles. One of her wrists, most of her fingers, her elbows. They're askew, outside their sockets. They grind painfully against the bones supposed to be keeping them in place. Tensing the muscles around them doesn't get them to move, only to hurt so much it takes more energy than Undyne has not to groan. It hurts. Worse than losing her eye.

 

She can hardly breathe. She's trembling, which only makes the pain worse, but she can't stop it. The pain casts a black halo tipped burning gold around the sliver of vision she's regained. It too wavers and pulsates in sync with her racing heart. She's burning up from the fever.

 

She's stuck. She can't move. She has to stop.

 

...How bad are these injuries? Can she recover? If she can't, she's become useless to monsterkind. She can no longer lead them to freedom. She can't save anyone from the same fate mom suffered. She's become useless to Asg--

 

...No. No, she'll be fine. She's jumping to conclusions way too early. This... This is the Underground, someone's bound to walk by. Right? What... What would be the odds of nobody coming here all day long?

 

It's closing in on--

 

...She just has to keep on breathing. That's all, just breathe. As soon as she can, she should call out for help. When there's air inside her again, enough to scream and actually be heard by more than the stone walls echoing back to her. Something is on the loose; it must be stopped. If she can't do it, she must let others know.

 

The world is more defined, sharper now. Little by little, painful breath by painful breath. Everything's less a mass of distorted blue and more distinct shapes which scatter out of focus with every thunderous heartbeat. Everything's upside down considering her posture, but otherwise normal.

 

However, she must have hit her head rather hard when she fell. If the sorry state of the rest of her body doesn't attest to that, the familiar scenery is broken by a golden flower like the ones from Asgore's garden staring down at her. It has a face, to boot.

 

It found her.

 

"Finally," it says. The flower can speak. It has a high-pitched, squeaky voice.

 

...

 

...That should be surprising. It sounds... vaguely familiar, though. This voice she has heard before. Is this a monster? Has she met them before? Did she forget them when she hit her head?

 

...She has to get out of here. If only she could.

 

Beneath and before her--

 

"Do you know how long it took for him to forget you?" The flower sighs, exasperated. "You shouldn't have done that, you know?"

 

...He didn't forget her. And if he did, it's just normal. It's how things are. He has way more important things to do than--

 

How does the flower know that?

 

"H... H... H--?"

 

Her shattered ribs grinding together force her into silence, her raspy voice giving way to a sharp hiss. It's-It's just pain. She shouldn't let it stop her from talking. But it hurts so much combined with every last joint in her body pulsating, covering her with dull, throbbing agony.

 

It's not... It's not just that, though. It's... It's almost as if her muscles had forgotten how to talk. It burns, too. From her jaw to her clavicles, it's searing.

 

The flower continues observing her with its horrifying, innocent-looking smile it uses to conceal the demon it truly is. It blinks at her, elated at the deplorable state she's in. It looks her up and down, gaze lingering on her eye.

 

"If you try to ask for help nothing will happen. You can't talk right now because you've popped your jaw. You look hideous." It sighs, shaking its... head? "You've done this so many times it's pathetic. The way you cling to life is pathetic.

 

"You should've never been born. It's what your mother thought, too."

 

...How does it know about that? How does it know about mom?

 

Reading the confusion on her face, its grin becomes a sneer. This thing is enjoying her pain.

 

It's the thing that pulled her off the cliff. It controls the vines. Any other monster would have already asked for help.

 

This thing wants her to die here and she can't even scream.

 

"You'll live long enough, don't worry.” Its smile morphs into a black, serrated groove in its face. "You'll live until tonight. And then you'll see how nothing happens." Its mouth expands impossibly wide into a toothed grin larger than itself. What is this thing?

 

Who'd've thought death personified looked like a little golden flower?

 

A vine pokes out next to it coiled tight around something. It's a phone with a red case. Undyne's phone. How does it--?

 

"I pulled this from your pocket before I killed you." It dangles the phone over her face. Its screen is too bright for her, stabbing her eye, forcing her to scrunch it shut. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it soon enough, I promise. The battery lasts long enough for you to see how he doesn't notice when you don't appear for dinner; it always does. He won't message you a single time today. For him you're out of sight, out of mind. You don't matter to him, you know? You don't matter to anyone."

 

Undyne forces her eye open; she can't turn her attention away from the enemy. She can only open it a sliver; hardly enough to make out the creature behind a prison of eyelashes. The flower, whatever it is, scowls at her. Her phone's screen casts sharp shadows across its dark features, deepening the gouges it calls eyes and a mouth, turning them into the pits of hell.

 

"You're just a faulty replacement. And now I get to play with you forever."

 

Undyne tries speaking again. Her jaw doesn't move. She should still be able to vocalize something, though anything. But any small amount of pressure in her ribcage makes her gurgle and wheeze or whimper instead. The effort alone forces her eye shut again. Even through her eyelid the screen is too bright. It's giving her a larger headache.

 

This flower, this creature... She's met it before. Somewhere. Maybe? It's familiar, but...

 

She can't focus on anything long enough to find a satisfying conclusion. The pain is too distracting. Thoughts begin, but she loses track of them before they end. Ideas about asking for help, trying to move, to do anything but lay here overlap with ruminations about this being, of mom, of Asgore. Why is the flower so fixated on him? Why does it know about mom? Why does it...?

 

...She has to move. She has to get out of here. She...

 

...has been forgotten. Or she hasn't? It's--

 

"I'm going to tell you a story now." Undyne pries her eye open again. It's less torturous to keep it like that after getting the slightest bit accustomed to the light.

 

The flower sports a gentle smile. It becomes a nightmarish grin full of jagged teeth larger than its face and its voice drops. "A story about a little girl who everyone wanted to die."

 

Returning to its disquieting child-like voice, it tells her about her childhood. About the shop, about doing homework with mom, how the first thing Undyne ever sewed was a purse. It tells her of the day she realized mom was sad, and the ensuing weeks of witnessing her sink deeper and deeper.

 

It parrots back to her the concern and fear she felt, the anxiety keeping her up at night, making her throw up. It tells her how she ran from school that day, excited to see mom again, only to stumble into dust still caught in the electric light, slowly descending to the pile below, and the colourful, mesmerizing noose swinging with the weight of her mother already gone.

 

It narrates more, digging its claws deeper into the wounds Undyne has never spoken out loud. It tells her how desperately, pathetically, she latched onto Asgore for dear life, as if she were anything but a charity case to him. She wanted to be with him because he was the only safe person after mom abandoned her. How she always knew she was stupid for that, because Asgore doesn't care about her more than he does any of the rest of the denizens of the Underground.

 

The high-pitched voice reminds her how part of her interest in reaching the top wasn't as selfless as she tells herself every day. She wanted to help Asgore and return the favour, sure. But mostly she wanted to ensure she was indispensable to him so he wouldn't leave her. So when he saw whatever mom found so repugnant about her that she left, he would still need her.

 

If he couldn't love her, not hating her was enough, right?

 

The flower giggles, laughs, mocks her. It tells her she's weak, doomed, just like mom. It reminds her she's lost her life. She will die here, down here, under all the rock crushing the life out of her lungs as it did with mom, and all Undyne's hard work and sacrifice will mean nothing. She never lived, so death is the only reasonable conclusion to a life that never was.

 

Nobody needs her, it says, nobody wants her. Someone else can do her job. Even mom thought she wasn't enough to hold on a little longer. Even the person who was supposed to love her by default abandoned her, left her to rot. If Asgore hadn't taken pity on her, she would have been alone forever.

 

"And now even he doesn't care. Even he's forgotten you. Do you know how long we've been here for? It's been hours, you idiot. And he hasn't texted once; you can see for yourself. He's forgotten about you. He'll never remember you or think about you. There'll be no funeral, no mourners this time. You are as good as dead, and everyone thinks the same.”

 

...Its grin should not be able to be so wide. That makes no sense; it--

 

"Especially dad."

 

...Dad?

 

"You've been nothing but something for him to play with because he missed his children so much, but he doesn't need you anymore. You're useless and weak."

 

…

 

...Oh. So that's what his is all about...

 

The fog in Undyne's mind parts enough for clarity to shine through. ...There's no flower here, is there? Whatever's controlling the vines isn't this, if there even are any vines. Flowers don't have vines; there are no vines in Asgore's garden.

 

All this is just... some weird manifestation of her thoughts. She must've conjured it up when she hit her head. All it's saying are the things she remembers and thinks that she always runs from; hides from like a coward. It looks like this because it's a metaphor for her emotions. It takes after her favourite place in the world: the throne room. It's where the sunlight reaches most, where she feels closer to freedom.

 

It's one of the places she feels close to Asgore. He always went there with her when she was little. She's never been there without him.

 

...Whatever flung her off the cliff, if she didn't fall herself, isn't this thing. This thing instils her with the fear of death because it's an anxiety she's always carried within her; a perpetual thorn within her. What better for her mind to project all her insecurities and weaknesses onto than a symbol of, simultaneously, the Surface and Asgore?

 

On one hand, her target. The Surface, all she hopes to achieve for herself and her people. To make sure none of them end up like mom, to protect children from attending their parents' funerals. For justice, for revenge. The Surface has been her end goal since she was ten. She has sacrificed absolutely everything for it, and now she finds it amounts to nothing.

 

On the other, Asgore. The only person who cares about her, the only person she has. If he hadn't taken interest in teaching her, she would've spent the last ten years by herself. Alone, miserable, with nobody to talk to or hang out with. Just her with her dreams slowly withering.

 

Because without Asgore her dreams would've crumbled to dust like mom's corpse did; her hopes would've died out. Her eternal fear of being like mom deep down, of being affected by the same insecurities and vulnerabilities, would've come true sooner rather than later. Undyne owes her life to him, she's indebted to him in a way she will never repay.

 

And, as ridiculous and pathetic -as the flower put it- as it is of her, she needs him. She needs Asgore. Asgore is all she has; he's her friend and mentor, the only adult she had growing up.

 

Her father.

 

...Of course, she's always known such thoughts are laughable. Asgore already had children, Chara and Asriel. He doesn't need her for anything, he's just a softy with a big heart. He's always been kind to her because he's a kind person. But loving her, at least to the degree she cares about him? She's always been aware of the impossibility of the situation.

 

There's no reason for which Asgore should care about her. So he doesn't.

 

Perhaps there is a vine-wielding creature loose in the Underground and it made her fall. Most likely, though, all she's seeing is the product of her nature. She's her mother's daughter, after all. Her "little-her," as the neighbours so often put it. The words that once filled Undyne with giddy warmth and joy have became a hex over time.

 

Whatever was wrong with mom passed on to her. Their blood is one and the same. No sane person spends their whole life feeling stalked by a noose. Maybe Undyne's weaker than the average. Maybe she was doomed from birth. It doesn't really matter. Not anymore.

 

The most likely option is there's nothing around her. She fell because she's not good enough for anyone, or anything. The only person who seemed to believe in her was Asgore, but now? He didn't even remember their date. They haven't seen each other in weeks, and he forgot. He's never forgotten before, but now people are talking. They're vocal about their distaste for Undyne as their Captain. It must've made Asgore reconsider. And, if she isn't good enough to lead everyone to freedom, he has no need for her anymore.

 

She woke up wrong again. With her head twisted by the noose, with the fear of death embedded under her scales and in her soul. Whatever she dreamt screwed her up more than she already is, didn't it? It followed her as closely as her shadow all day long. She freaked out when she tripped on the pavement. She's exhausted, she overworked herself just like Asgore warned, and she fell. She really... She really is stupid, huh?

 

And now, as she dies, as her brain exhausts itself before it gives out, or the hope abandons her body as it did with mom, as it was always bound to for someone too weak to move on, she's forced to hear all of this, to stop ignoring it now that there's nothing left for Undyne to run towards. How ironic these final words of doom should come from the voice of someone who reminds her of Asgore and calls him "dad." Just as Undyne wished she could call him so many times when she was younger.

 

As she still wishes she could. Even now, until the very end, pathetic and weak.

 

It's no wonder he's forgotten about her.

 

The flower continues tearing her emotions apart as viciously as the jagged rock did to her body. It's only fair. There's no reason to push anything away to keep herself functional if she'll never be functional again. Unless someone comes to this deserted place right now, she'll never have to force herself to be in prime condition again. The end she always feared she's now brought upon herself for being the same kind of idiot everyone knows her to be.

 

She should want to hold on. She should want to fight, to use every last ounce of hope to stay alive and see if this these injuries are recoverable. But they aren't, they probably aren't. And, without her ability to fight there's nothing she can offer the people she promised to save. There's nothing she can do for Asgore, no way she can repay the favour. She'll only become either a burden for him, or something else to forget.

 

Both of those options... they hurt too much. And Undyne's exhausted. She only woke up a few hours ago, but since the moment her eye flew open and she shot up in bed constricted by anxiety she's been tired. It's not a brand of exhaustion that manifested out of nowhere. It's been with her, in her bones, in her DNA, since she was conceived.

 

It was never a senseless fear, she was right all along. Death has been luring her with its siren call until her inability to care for herself has lead her to her doom. Now she refuses to become a disappointment to Asgore. She's already disappointed him enough. If it's even possible for her to survive, she'd much rather not have to see with her own eye the pity he regards her with if she is found on time.

 

She's of no use to anyone; not even herself if she can't help bring monsterkind to the Surface. She can't reach the freedom she craved, it's too far out of reach for arms that can't move.

 

She can't help Asgore anymore. He's forgotten her, and without him, she's alone as mom left her that day, staring at her remains as the world around Undyne kept on turning with her unable to catch up. So it's best if...

 

…

 

…

 

...Actually, no. Screw that.

 

Maybe she's alone, and maybe Asgore's forgotten. Or maybe she's catastrophizing because her head's all over the place and so is her skeleton. She woke up wrong this morning, profoundly so.

 

Why should she trust a single thought in her head? Since when does she hallucinate flowers, of all things? She's never even hallucinated the noose, despite feeling its shadow over her her whole life. It's been a persistent sensation, but one she's never believed to be objective reality. Why was she so keen on believing this heinous creature before her to be conjured by her mind?

 

Perhaps it is, who knows? But since Undyne can't be sure for certain, all she can trust in is her determination. To get out of here, to save everyone, and to live.

 

She's not dying down here, in shadows, where mom died. Undyne's life is somewhere up there and there is not a force in this universe capable of keeping her tied down here save death itself. Which won't be catching her, not now, not like this, not because of this flower. Whether the flower exists or not, is actually here before her, or is some twisted construct of her mind, she isn't surrendering to it.

 

To it or to anyone or anything, for that matter. She's going to help Asgore. She's going to take every child in the Underground to freedom. She will not let anything, let alone her own mind, on the chance that's where the damn flower stems from, take her to her demise.

 

She is not like mom.

 

Undyne isn't dying until she's played another duet with Asgore, provided he wants to; or if not by herself. She isn't dying until she's had more sunlight than the little bit of it that drips through the throne room. She isn't going anywhere until she can have a home instead of a house, and can start considering settling down somewhere, with someone.

 

Until she hasn't freed everyone and can rest at ease no child will have to see their mother lose hope, until she knows for a fact monsterkind is free and nobody can threaten their safety ever again, she is not dying.

 

If death comes find her, it does so after wrestling her soul from her body, not because she's losing hope. She isn't losing hope, she never will. Whatever the hell is wrong with her this morning isn't stronger than her desire to live.

 

She's never entertained the idea of succumbing to any enemy; born from within or outside her. Wherever the flower stems from is secondary to the fact that Undyne won't give up.

 

...So. Now to figure out for absolute sure if the flower is real or not, just to be safe. Can Undyne summon a spear with only her index and pinky fingers on her left hand? She's never tried, but they're the only ones she can move.

 

She closes her eye, focusing. The flower giggles through its spiel. Does it think its words are getting to her? That she's giving up?

 

...Maybe a little, maybe for a moment. But nowhere near enough to succeed.

 

If it's a figment of her own brain trauma it should know better. And if it knows her as well as it claims to, it also should. Either way, it's stupid.

 

She flexes her fingers and a spear hums to life beneath the flower. The turquoise light seeps through Undyne's closed eyelid as it

 

*

 

Asriel's alive. He's still alive. Panting, trembling, he closes his eyes and revels in the warmth of the throne room.

 

How did she do that?! Every bone in her body was broken, how...?

 

...Alright. Alright, alright. She might be a bit more driven than he'd given the weed credit for. No more taking pointless risks like taunting or being seen. At least not if he's not completely sure she can't move a muscle.

 

Disgusting little stinker. Repugnant thief. Asriel's still got a few ideas in his head for her. She's not getting free of suffering if she has the audacity to try killing the Prince of the Underground. That horrible little--

 

...Why's he policing his own language? Mom's not gonna scold him if he calls someone the b-word. Even if mom knew of him, if she remembered him, if he didn't hate her for replacing Chara six times over, she's not powerful enough to stop him. She's just an output machine to his given inputs.

 

So Asriel can call the weed a bitch. It's fine. It's what she is.

 

On the bright side, dad's forgotten her. Finally, after all this time, dad's starting to forget her!! He had no idea they had a breakfast date, and later he totally forgot to text her despite being oh so worried about her during breakfast. Pathetic. Powerless in the face of Asriel's determination.

 

It's finally happening!! After a few more loads, Asriel can finally stop killing. Dad's attention is his, and his alone. Victory!!

 

Asriel's laughter is breathless with relief. It's taken so long, but every last ounce of effort has been worth it.

 

...He can stop killing, huh...?

 

...

 

...Nonetheless, dad still remembers who she is... It looks like he forgets about her when she's not directly interacting with him, but that might not be the case entirely. Not yet, at least. And she's not greyed out like that useless goner kid, anyway. Just... Just to be sure, of course, Asriel should kill her. A few more times.

 

That's all. It's not fun, but after she had the audacity to try killing him? Maybe it's a bit personal.

 

Only a couple more deaths. They don't have to be anything extravagant or anything; he's just making sure. In the last timeline Asriel spent his nights descending from the ceiling when nobody was looking and putting thallium in her IVs. That was a lot of fun, but it wasn't the most efficient way. Just because the weed deserves to suffer doesn't mean Asriel has to waste a lot of time and energy.

 

Dad was broken and devastated all along, watching his little toy wither away. It's so convenient that was the death which preluded him losing his memories of her at last. Whatever remains of her will be as painful as can be for dad. Excellent. Asriel's a genius.

 

Since dad doesn't seem to remember the weed at all, maybe there's no need for Asriel to orchestrate any more long, annoying deaths. A quick murder might be all it takes to get rid of her once and for all. Or a few of them. Or a bit more than a few, just to be totally sure. He has to be certain he's doing the job well; otherwise it's all for naught.

 

Better safe than sorry, right?

 

Short and sweet doesn't mean painless. Asriel can still have quite a lot of fun with this; especially now that dad's slowly but surely forgetting his useless toy. Watching her squirm as she loses dad's attention and love is going to be delightful.

 

She deserves it. The least Asriel can do, since she forced him into this predicament, is have a little fun, right? It's only fair?

 

He just can't wait.

Notes:

Prompt: Your worst fear

Chapter 23: Best To Make It Count

Notes:

Yeah. two chapters in one day again. What is a self-control? /lh

"I am counting on all of you to be prepared."

 

The training room echoes with the metal clanking of the armour of every member of the Royal Guard saluting in sync, standing tall. Their numbers are not vast, but they are the best of the best. If Asgore is to get to the bottom of this he is going to require all their collaboration.

 

The perfectly arranged block of soldiers threshes into smaller groups dispersing across the room. Some head outside immediately, others pick up equipment they had left scattered about. A minority of them remain behind with their instructor, too inexperienced to partake in this mission.

 

A human is afoot. Or at minimum, something nefarious. There is no other explanation for the oddities which have plagued every corner of the Underground this past week. This sensation of déjà vu, of having lived through a moment repeatedly, is one Asgore is painfully acquainted with. Every time he has senselessly slaughtered a ch--

 

"Why won't you stop killing me already?! I just want to go h--!"

 

...No matter where he goes the feeling persists. It has been embedded in his heart for a week now. In the throne room, in Waterfall, even here, in the training area, there is... there is something, lodged in his chest. Almost like a longing, or perhaps a phantom pain. It is... an absence, in essence.

 

As unreasonable as it is... It almost the same void he has experienced every day since Asriel and Chara died.

 

His feelings alone would not have mobilized the entire Royal Guard, though. Asgore knows better than to trust his heart. It is as much of an old fool as he is and a traitor to boot; and feeling déjà vu is a relatively common occurrence within the confines of this prison where nothing ever changes. No, the signs of human meddling surpass his perception and the eternal nostalgia he shares quarters with.

 

The certainty he has lived through this day before is much stronger and persistent than other times. Beyond that and more importantly, not just in Asgore's agenda, but in his secretary's and other government officials', there was a promotion ceremony scheduled for today.

 

Asgore has not shared this information with the soldiers to avoid panic and speculation from taking hold of the troops, because the candidate to replace Gerson has not yet been found. Despite the event being planned for apparently a month, Asgore has yet to choose the new Captain of the Royal Guard.

 

It is not a choice to be made hastily. He must have considered it with care, but where memories should lay only a hole remains. There is nobody passionate, talented, hard-working, serious and devoted enough for him to promote. It could be an elaborate prank, but it is unlikely. Who could have gotten access to so many private agendas? Why?

 

...Coupled with the familiarity in his chest, the nigh-certainty he has gone through this day before, there is only one kind of creature who could be behind this. Humans and their incomprehensible ability to reset time.

 

Then again, it is a messy explanation. This is not usually how it works; humans do not typically make use of their powers to mess with monsters like this.

 

"I just want to go home. I--"

 

No monster would be capable of something on this scale, though. Of manipulating many official documents? Highly unlikely, but not impossible. Not for a determined monster; especially one with access to private belongings such as a secretary, or even cleaning staff.

 

But the amnesia? Asgore was not planning the ceremony alone; he had conferred with Gerson, the head of personnel, his secretary. None of them remember. They, too, have notes and memos of a ceremony, the vague sensation it is something they discussed in the past at a certain point, yet no earthly clue who the object of the promotion was meant to be.

 

While this is not how humans have operated so far, is it worth writing off that--?

 

Something above him rumbles; rock grinding against rock. A few soldiers scream, their voices overlapping and incomprehensible. A trident hums to life in Asgore's hand as he looks up. The ceiling--

 

His armour clatters loudly against whatever force pushes him into the air. He is no longer on the floor, airborne instead. The ceiling's tiles flying by him. What--?

 

The parquet knocks the crown off his head with a deafening crash swallowed up by a much louder series of crunches and cracks ahead of him. It is hard to breathe, there is no air in his lungs. The training room's ceiling blurs and fades as the back of his skull pulsates in pain.

 

What... in tarnation...? Are they under attack? Is the human--?

 

"Please let me go, Mr. K--"

 

Asgore stands. The floor sways beneath him as his dizzy body accustoms to verticality anew. A grey blur...? No, a cloud. A could of dust in the middle of the room expands outwards, growing bigger and--

 

Dust particles enter his eyes and nose, scratching at them and forcing them closed. Curses. Every time he pries them open tears form, shutting them once more. The dust descends into his lungs, just as the remains of his men did in the War of Humans and Monst--

 

A coughing fit ensues. Asgore doubles over, forced to do so by his torso convulsing with each cough. He is not the only one; a cacophony of coughing and laboured breathing has taken hold of the training room. It is the backdrop to at least three soldiers yelling, asking for medical assistance.

 

Asgore manifests a trident in his hand. He will not allow any of his soldiers to lay hands on-- get injured in his presence. The burden of ending lives freedom rests atop his shoulders; not theirs.

 

He opens his eyes. The scalding irritation shuts them again. Still, he blinks. It takes a moment, but through blinking, tears clearing his eyes, and the dust slowly settling, he can finally keep them open burning sensation and all. The bottom of his vision is blurry and wavering from the small trickle of tears the dust cloud caused.

 

The smog falls to the floor as if it had never been there. Swirls of dust still float in the air, slowly falling down the beams of light the remaining pale overheads cast. All around there are only soldiers. Monsters in armour, a few without it, gathering around the center of the room. Not a human in sight.

 

...That cannot be right. What...?

 

A pile of broken, white bricks lays scattered and broken over the cracked wooden planks of the training facility's floor, the legs of one canine soldier and the back of a bovine one. Their peers gather around them, trying to help. Someone runs off saying something about the hospital.

 

Directly above haphazard mound of bricks, where Asgore heard the first noise, where he had been standing before he was shoved, is a jagged hole in the ceiling. Loose strands of dust and debris cascade from it in a sheen of brown and grey. Broken rafters and wooden planks jut out form the sides like the jagged teeth of some hellish creature.

 

"Your Majesty, are you alright, Sir?"

 

A couple of soldiers look his way, yet it is his sergeant who approaches him. Asgore nods, gripping his trident tighter.

 

Someone attacked the training facility. They are all in danger.

 

"Did anyone see what made the ceiling collapse?"

 

"No, your Majesty. I've already deployed a squad to look around the perimeter. The attack..."

 

...Between the two injured soldiers is a set of armour. There is no monster within it, only dust.

 

"...attempt on your life. Considering how..."

 

Dust lost among the rubble, dust no family member will be able to separate from it for the funeral. A soldier died saving his life. One of his men died.

 

...He knows that armour. He has seen it before. Where? Whose is it?

 

IkkgZG9uJ3QgY2FyZSB3aGF0IGFybW91ciBJIGdldCBhZnRlciB0aGlzLCB0aGlzIGlzIHN0aWxsIHRoZSBjb29sZXN0IHNldCBldmVyLiI=

 

"...hear me, Your Majesty?"

 

The sergeant, right. The sergeant. Asgore nods.

 

IldlJ3JlIGEgdGVhbSBub3cuIg==

 

"I trust your judgement, Sergeant. Now go."

 

...Who... Whose armour is that...? Who died?

 

Eyeing him oddly, the sergeant keeps to himself and salutes, speeding out the door. Asgore should have listened to him, he should have been paying attention, he should be preoccupied with finding the perpetrator of this attack. Every muscle in his body is tense, ready to take off running, partake in the action, yet it is his pounding heart keeping him rooted to the spot.

 

A dismal leader. As much as a dreadful fath--

 

IkFzZ29yZSBjYXJlcyBhYm91dCBldmVyeW9uZS4i

 

...He knows that armour. He has seen it somewhere, he knew the soldier who died. His focus should be on his surviving men, on securing their safety and reducing the threat, but his gaze will not tear from the breastplate and armour dented among the bricks.

 

Someone died to save him. The least he can do is pay respects.

 

Asgore's breath hastens with each step. A few soldiers are inspecting their fallen comrade's armour as well, murmuring among each other. It takes Asgore two tries to find his voice and ask about the deceased. Why? Who was it? Who's armour--?

 

"...never seen her before," one of the new recruits, a slime monster replies anxiously, side-eyeing their peers. "That's-That's what we were talking about, Your Majesty. We aren't sure who it was. She must have been new. Newer than us, anyway."

 

...Impossible. Asgore knows that armour.

 

"Are you certain?"

 

The soldier nods. "I'm not the only one. Nobody else remembers having seen her before, right guys?"

 

A murmur of agreement sweeps over the recruits. "It must have been her first day. One-eyed, bright red hair. I would remember if we'd met before."

 

...Red hair. Chara also had--

 

"Since you will not be participating in today's mission, I will give you one personally."

 

Being given orders personally by the king makes the new soldiers anxious, standing stiff, sharing concerned glances. Asgore keeps his tone as light as he can to avoid intimidating them further.

 

"Find out who the soldier was. Their family will want to conduct a funeral. They deserve to know their loved one died."

 

The soldiers salute, scampering off fulfil their quest with the excitement of those too innocent to know what war entails. In their eagerness to prove themselves off to the king, they forgot to pay respects to their fallen companion.

 

Asgore bends down, placing his hand gingerly on the center of the breastplate, where the soldier's heart would be beating had they not turned to dust. Why does the cold metal under his fingers makes his chest swell as if he were about to tear up? Perhaps it is merely the fact that someone's heartbeat ceased beating so his own could continue. That, after centuries of life, it is the first time since the war he has had to make peace with someone dying for him to live.

 

...And still... It is not that. Not just that. He knew this soldier.

 

SGlzIGRhdWdodGVyLg==

 

His breath is caught in his throat as two tears bounce off the hollow armour.

 

Who were they?

 

-

 

The locket dangles before his eyes, edges ablaze by the fireplace behind it. It sways gently in Asgore's hold. It is a little box of gold, rusted and worn, with a slim chain to go with it. Other than generic clothes, it was the only identifying item the fallen soldier had on them last week.

 

That and a black leather eye-patch.

 

IllvdSBkaWQgbm90IHN1Y2suIg==

 

It must be the hundredth time Asgore opens the locket. Carefully, its hinges are delicate. Someone opened the locket plenty of times, it is brittle now.

 

Something in the photos trapped within it is magnetic. From behind dusty glass panes two monsters unstuck in time stare back at him. On the right, a woman. She had long, auburn hair pulled into an elegant braided bun when her portrait was taken. Her eyes, two black, slitted pupils against yellow sclera, were wide and warm, blazing with the fire of life. They contrasted greatly against the deep blue of her scales.

 

She smiled shyly at the camera; prim, proper and composed. The ruffles of the top of an orange dress covered her shoulders. The seamstress of Waterfall, the one who's funeral he attended ten years ago. The neighbours recognized her immediately, as did Asgore.

 

This is the same portrait they used during her service, and the locket is the one her dust got spread over.

 

On the left, a man of the same species grins wide at Asgore with a toothy, lopsided smile. Unlike his wife, he looked rowdier, yet decidedly less alive. His short, bright red hair stuck out in every direction. He was wearing a black tweed suit. A metalsmith employed at the CORE, he died a decade before his wife. An accident sent him toppling from the top of a scaffolding. He was so high up there was nothing to do, he became dust on impact. His funeral Asgore also attended.

 

...Why did a soldier have this? It has been a week and Asgore cannot let the issue go. The seamstress and her husband died without having children, they had no other living family members. Syren died a widow, and her husband was the last surviving member of his lineage. Besides, the soldier the recruits described to Asgore had bright red hair, much like the old metalsmith.

 

Nothing fits. This is the locket the Syren's dust was spread over during her funeral. Only family would have been able to retrieve it. Something is wrong here, but what?

 

Asgore closes the locket with a soft click, setting it on the sofa beside him. It has been a week since the attack on the training centre and no suspects have been found. The Royal Guard is working tirelessly to find the culprit to no avail.

 

Two surveyors were sent to the training facility. They concurred the wound inflicted on the building was caused by natural weathering, plant life. That is impossible; no plants can grow in brick. No flora grows in New Home to begin with; let alone to such a degree their roots could cause devastation.

 

It was a fabricated event, that much is plain to see. Who and how, though, are questions nobody has answers for. There are no trails to follow.

 

Asgore has trudged through every day with a heavy heart. The mysterious soldier who died for him must have had no family. Nobody has asked, nobody knows anyone who fits the description given, nobody misses a family member or a friend. Asgore has sent civil servants to every corner of the Underground asking if the locket or the description meant anything to them. Bar the elders of Waterfall, who recall the tragic tale of the metalsmith and his wife and recognized the pictures immediately, no one has a clue who the soldier was.

 

The coffee table before him is covered in documents. Asgore had another one before it, one with intricate floral motifs carved into the sides and legs. Why did he change it? It broke at some point, so he recalls. But how? Asgore is careful with his belongings; especially those which Toriel chose before she left. They are the final vestiges that he had a family once.

 

How did the table break?

 

Ikl0IHdhc24ndCBteSBzcGVhciB0aGF0IGJyb2tlIHlvdXIgdGFibGUsIGhvbmVzdCEgIEkuLi4gIFlvdS4uLiAgWW91IHRvbGQgbWUgbm90IHRvIHN1bW1vbiB0aGVtIGluZG9vcnMsIHJlbWVtYmVyPyAgSS4uLiAgSSdtIHNvIHNvcnJ5LiAgSS0tIg==

 

All the registries from the Royal Guard for the past decade lay open in a disorganized, drooping pile scattered over most of the new table's surface. While Asgore does not have a personal relationship with any of the members of the Guard, he knows about them all as he does every inhabitant of the Underground. The names on the documents are familiar to him, every last one. None of them stands out as odd, none of them is missing nor extraneous.

 

A few lines have been crossed out beyond repair, though. In a few documents listing the current recruits, from six years ago to current times, one line at the bottom, towards the end of the alphabet, is consistently crossed out. Asgore does not recall anyone dropping out in recent times; nobody does. Even so, their name would not have been scratched out like this. This is not how drop-outs are handled.

 

All of this is intentional, that much is obvious. There are no trails to follow though, not even a suspicious, vaguely shifty monster to serve as suspect. A soldier died for Asgore, gave her life, and he cannot find who to give her remains to.

 

They are in a jar on the bookshelf. For some reason as much as looking at it makes Asgore's chest seize.

 

IldlJ3JlIGEgdGVhbSBub3cuIg==

 

...What letter did her name start with? It must have been under the S; the monster directly above her name starts with that letter. T, maybe? U?

 

VW5keW5l

 

...

 

Asgore takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. Here it comes again. A wave of sadness unparalleled, something pulling him back to another funeral so many centuries back.

 

Toriel's sobs were so heartbreaking during Asriel and Chara's service it felt as if she were weeping her very soul out of her eyes. Asgore, on the other hand, just stood there, numb and--

 

...Yes, it is tragic. He would have liked it if nobody died for him. Yet this reaction, that of losing his children, is overblown. It has been a long time. Far too long for the death of a stranger to pull on his heart the same way his son and child did.

 

A stranger...

 

IkNoZWNrbWF0ZS4i

 

He cannot stop the tears, though. No matter how many times he reasons with himself there is no reason to feel like this. He cannot help but think about the soldier's parents. Whoever they are, wherever they are. The recruit did not appear out of nowhere, she must have had a past no matter how difficult it is to track down. Whether her parents still live, or more likely have long passed, the agony of losing a child is not one Asgore would wish on his worst enemy.

 

Yet repeatedly he inflicts that pain. Child after child who falls--

 

"I'll never forgive you. You and your people. You're all murd--!!"

 

Whatever he does, wherever he goes, the sacrifice the soldier committed for his sake has clung to him. It is in the back of his mind through the work day as he does paperwork. It is slithering in his chest in the form of anticipation when he speaks to anyone, hoping for any new reveals regarding her mysterious identity. It lays on his ribcage at night, crushing his lungs until he falls asleep.

 

He cannot help but wonder the kind of pain her parents, specifically her father, must be in at the loss of his daughter's life. Asgore has lost a son and a child, not a daughter. The pain must be the same, though. Whoever the soldier's father is, if he lives he must be feeling the same wounds which tore Asgore apart so long ago. The ones this turn of events has ripped open once more, leaving him to bleed for his children, and the parents of the nameless soldier he owes his life to.

 

Children are lively and bright, funny, full of life. Under ideal circumstances, they are happy and loved. Unlike Ch--

 

And regardless of any other factors, they are always innocent. They should not be harmed.

 

"...Why won't you let me go? I don't want to fight. I--"

 

A ball of tension at the mouth of his stomach forces Asgore to stand. No amount of pacing the room frantically will burn it away, but he cannot bear the feeling of sitting idle doing nothing. He clasps his hands, wringing them as he walks from one end of the hall to the other.

 

...That is the problem, is it not? The soldier's death is a warning, a reminder. With freedom growing closer every day, the impending second war of humans and monsters is not as much of a concept, a distant future event, as it is an encroaching reality. One Asgore tries to hide from like the coward he is, one he would rather not think about. Taking things day by day helps him evade the consequences of his actions just a little.

 

As long as he makes it to bed without having confronted a human, it is a successful day. One in which he has not had to deliver on the massacre he promised, one in which his hands are not coated by innocent blood, one in which he can count on exhaustion whisking him off to sleep before any thoughts can bleed into his conscious awareness.

 

His war will make stories like this soldier's commonplace. His war will bring freedom at the price of children innocent as Chara was getting violently butchered. Parents on both sides of the conflict will bear the crushing weight of coffins too small. The pain Asgore has worked so hard to bury deep, the one he always fails to conceal, is the one he will inflict upon his people and humanity alike.

 

There is nothing in Asgore's life that makes it worth living. Not without Asriel, Chara and... Not without his children. He tries to hide from that reality every day by occupying himself in anything and everything that will take his mind away from the voices in the kids' room down the hall. The ones too quiet for him to hear, but that live with him to this day. The silence emanating from his piano, the screams coiling around his neck from the basement beneath the throne room. But these wounds are too vast to hide from indefinitely. Eventually something had to make him snap.

 

The soldier's death was so cruel. On one hand, the mystery plaguing every last inch of it. The missing identity, the crossed out name, the fact someone wanted to make her vanish, provide just enough distraction for Asgore to ponder that instead of the silence when he turns in for the day. On the other, something about her death took a scalpel to the scars which once grew over Asgore's broken heart and have made it bleed anew.

 

If he focuses on the suspense he can almost, just almost, stop hearing the screams, stop hearing the silence. When he does, though, he cannot help but remember a time when he was much younger, before he had children of his own, when after every lost battle he had to inform the spouses, the children, the parents of his soldiers their loved one had died in honour and would not be returning home.

 

It was horrific before he understood what he was doing. He always did, of course, but only after he had children of his own, after he lost them, did he truly comprehend what the words, the condolences he gave, meant. The wounds they opened, the drifts they tore in families and marriages, the devastation they left behind.

 

Soon he will be doing it all over again. When the seventh soul comes, when Asgore becomes a creature unknown, he will have to face countless parents to tell them that, like Asgore, they now as well are cursed with life after a funeral they will never recover from. Their marriages, their home lives, will be wrecked. But they should be happy, because at least their child died for the cause.

 

The human side of things he cannot stomach to think about. He will not be facing any parents, but he will know. He had a lovely human child of his own, one he misses every single day. They are no different from monster children, their deaths cut just as deep. He will know every day his soldiers, the same ones who died, whose parents are mourning, caused the exact same agony in human families.

 

When Asgore dies, if a creature such as him after his ascension can, how will he confront Chara? How will he say: "I killed millions like you to save children like Asriel. I slaughtered every member of your species -babies, elderly, women and children alike-, for our freedom?"

 

The good thing is he needs not worry about that. Wherever Chara is, it is paradise. A nice place for innocent souls to rest, full of the golden flowers they so adored. Asriel is with them, and both his lovely children spend every day in bliss, together.

 

Where Asgore goes after his soul leaves his body will be certainly nothing short of eternal damnation.

 

...How did he stop pondering these issues? How did he manage to hide away from these thoughts for so long? He needed to in order to continue, of course. Otherwise he would have crumbled, and alongside him monster society and its relative peace and tranquillity. He had to, but how did he manage? The emotions brewing in his chest and abdomen he has no names for. They are violent, agonizing, repulsive; fitting for someone like him. A coward, a dismal leader, a child murderer.

 

But still. If he is to deliver on his promise, if he is to lead monsterkind to the only sort of freedom humanity allows, is it ethical to hide from the inevitable outcome of his choice? Even if he has no other, if humanity does not give him any other options, how did he stop thinking about the pain of families torn to shreds on all sides?

 

Maybe if the soldier had not had red hair he would not have thought of Chara. Maybe if she were unrelated to a woman who took her own life in despair because Asgore failed to preserve monsterkind's freedom he would not be pondering why the liberation of his people is imperative. And if those had not been factors, Asgore would not have been plagued by them. By a reminder of what he must do to prevent any more hopeless suicides, and what that will entail.

 

IkRvIHlvdSBwbGF5IHBpYW5vPyAgQ2FuIHlvdSB0ZWFjaCBtZSwgdG9vPyI=

 

The thought alone stabs itself between his lungs. He will massacre innocents to save innocents. He will extinguish hope to make it burn bright among his people. He will tell parents the lights of their lives have died on the battlefield. He will retreat every night hearing the overlapping screams of hundreds of human children murdered in the name of his war. He will imagine what Chara and Asriel must think of him, of the blighted thing he becomes, and how he used their death as an excuse to tear apart more families and bring about ceaseless pain.

 

They would be disgusted by him. But what else can he do?

 

The soldier's death was at an intersection between those two brands of thoughts Asgore has pushed back for so long: a bizarre reminder of what hopelessness has done to his people, what must be done to prevent a repeat scenario; and equally one of what will happen to families on both sides. A reminder of the consequences of remaining idle and of engaging in conflict alike.

 

Asgore truly has no escape. If he lets the next fallen human live, unless they claim his soul, he will witness his people, the people he so desperately craves to save, tear them limb from limb irrespective of age or sins. If he orders his people to show mercy, their hope, their trust in him and their society, will likely crumble because of the hatred he taught them. If the human is determined to leave, they might kill Asgore and, with him, the frail peace of the Underground's society, leaving it ripe for a war of succession. If the human does not succeed in annihilating him, they might go on a violent rampage. If he allows them to take his soul, they might lose their humanity; nobody knows what could happen.

 

If he kills them himself, he will have contributed to the end of yet another household's life, for outliving one's children is no life at all. If he takes their soul he will sacrifice his personhood to become an aberration. If he does that, he will have to go to war with humanity. Not war, Asgore did not promise his people war. He will have to commit genocide on people the same as his beloved child.

 

If he asks his people to settle for war, not genocide, humans will surely try to eradicate monsterkind again. At which point Asgore will have to allow his men to take souls and eliminate humanity all the same, or will have to watch his people be slaughtered by the fear and hatred of humans who have already taken everything from them ten times over. Alternatively, mass loss of hope is always looming on the horizon.

 

Asgore knows this. He knows.

 

Saying he will not go to war with the species who has kept them imprisoned, left to rot and die in the Earth's entrails for centuries; attempting to avoid the conflict altogether will result in civil war. Asgore had a people who were willing to coexist with humans, who had hope in future diplomatic relations. He razed it to the ground with the rage and grief of losing his children.

 

These are his consequences: a society whose hope is the very concept of genocide. A twisted hope born from humanity's actions, from their senseless child murder. The same one Asgore takes so much issue with meant nothing to those barbarians when they saw Asriel.

 

"Asriel? Asriel, where did you go? Why did you take--? What happened? My son, who did this to you? Who--?"

 

Going to war, though, will be a calamity for everyone. There will be no winning side. Monsterkind has forgotten, but he has not. In the end, his sole choices are what kind of conflict he wants: he can choose to watch the Underground tear itself apart over disagreements if Asgore takes his word back when they are so close to the freedom they have a right to; or he can let them get destroyed in a battlefield, forgoing their very existence as they know it, to kill every human,victim or executioner, indiscriminately.

 

These are his choices. That is what he must choose between. The days of seeing this crossroads approaching as a distant event he could temporarily ignore are gone. The pain of witnessing VW5keW5l someone sacrifice their life for his has ripped away the dozens of layers and distractions he used to conceal these raw, jagged emotions from his conscious awareness.

 

He is bound to hurt and fail people whatever he chooses. He is powerless to stop whichever kind of calamity ensues. He is a failure. He cannot win.

 

A soldier died a hero's death to preserve the life of a man who cannot save her, her loved ones, or any monster she swore to protect. And that hurts. It hurts enough to remind Asgore of Asriel and Chara, of his failures as a parent. Of all the households his actions, whichever they are, will fill with the same silence and screams his own house is a victim of.

 

Whatever he does, pain will bloom where there was once love. The hope he reaped from monsterkind with his vengeance centuries ago was the only thing which could stop this situation from getting as out of hand as it will soon. Any day now. If he attempts to return that hope, to remind his people of how they lived before he made the gravest mistake of his life in promising this genocide, it will turn against him.

 

Not that he cares. Without his any of his children, whether Asgore is killed in a coup or not is not something keeping him awake. It is the war that would ensue. If he is killed, it will leave a power vacuum. There are bound to be at least a small handful of monsters who agree with him right? Would that lead to conflict between both sides? Would it end in broken, silent households full of quiet screams regardless?

 

Asgore would rather not find out. Either way he is doomed. They all are.

 

Whichever the path, the consequences of his actions end in dust and blood. He cannot protect his people, he cannot protect the innocent. He is useless, he should be dead, yet someone else laid their life down for him.

 

Someone he cannot even provide a funeral for. Someone he does not remember.

 

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He stops walking, hissing in pain as he holds his heart. He knows. He is painfully aware of the carnage he will inflict on other parents, partners, siblings, friends. This soldier is but a prelude of what his rule will bring to the world. He knows this. His heart aches every single day. The thoughts have eaten away at everything he had to cower from this bone-deep knowledge.

 

Because in the end, no matter how much he ponders them, there is no way out. He is still a coward and a failure. He still misses his children and his wife. He still despises all options he has available. He is still going to kill himself whoever comes next, however innocent they are, and deliver on a conflict he will never forgive himself for because it is the arguably best outcome for his people.

 

Otherwise his people will never be free. They will wither and die down here. More monsters will end the same way the seamstress did. He has a duty to his people he cannot evade. That is it.

 

He has no choice. His fate is sealed. He is obligated to save everyone at any price. Humanity laid out the rules of this vile game. There was a time when he could have convinced his people to settle for war without genocide, the closest they could get to diplomacy; but humanity's barbaric murder of his son and Asgore's own mistakes took it away.

 

As things stand, he is shackled to this fate he constructed with his bare hands.

 

He is no human. He cannot turn back time. He must choose between remaining idle and conflict or dying. There is no other way to...

 

…

 

…?

 

...No... No other way...?

 

The idea is quiet, a whisper slithering between the silence and the echoing screams. It is not composed of words, just an abstract concept. One he must focus on to unravel and put into coherent sentences. Heart still pounding, he leans against the wall for support.

 

...What if there were? Not a quick solution, not one bound to work by any stretch of the imagination. But a potential one. What if there were one final thing to do before reaching the extreme Asgore has promised his people? One they would not be diametrically opposed to?

 

What if

 

*

 

In the throne room again. Asriel sighs.

 

Everything's working out so fast yet simultaneously so agonizingly slow. The king's already forgotten his little pet. But only kind of. Even without memories of her she lingers. She's worse than an infection.

 

On one hand, Asriel's only killed her three times since dad began forgetting her. For the first one, the king still recalled her if he saw her. For the second, she struck him as familiar, but not a friend. For the third, he forgot her almost entirely. He still looks at that locket like it's the damn Holy Grail though.

 

On her end of things, it's been a delight to see just how quickly she's breaking down now that she's lost dad. She was already slipping from all the dying, but seeing dad forget her? She's gone from worried about him in the first timeline, to accepting he doesn't want her, nor does he care about her, in a matter of two resets. It was hilarious how she went up to his house but couldn't muster the courage to knock. She went back to Waterfall, checking her phone constantly for messages that would never arrive from a man who couldn't remember her.

 

She'd disappointed him, as far as she's concerned. Seeing her paranoid and broken, suffering from phantom pains, has been delightful.

 

It's just fair, right? That after all the damage she's caused Asriel at least she provides a bit of the entertainment to keep him going, right?

 

On dad's side, the man is the most frustrating person Asriel's ever met. Whether he remembers her faintly or not at all, he still recalls something worthwhile related to her. She's been convinced he doesn't care about her in all this time, but dad's been miserable without putting his finger on why. Restless, anxious, sad, crying. All for someone whose death has made him suffer, who he can't remember.

 

He didn't miss Asriel and Chara so much. Or at least not Asriel. He was fine when Asriel woke up again in this dang flower.

 

...

 

What a loser. Feelings are for suckers.

 

Oh well. All this means is that Asriel has to work harder to end her. This last timeline was hilarious. She died for the king without thinking about it twice. She died for someone who, as far as she's concerned, stopped talking to her for no reason. Love is such a pathetic emotion, but it makes for delightful entertainment.

 

Asriel ruffles his petals, enjoying the warmth of the sun. This... This is going to end soon, isn't it? Then he'll have his family back, the last remnants of it, and everything will be alright, right?

 

...No more killing. No more plotting and planning. Just... waiting to see if the king can reawaken his emotions.

 

...Just waiting. How... boring.

 

…

 

So. What will he do with dad's little toy today?

Notes:

Prompt: Even heroes die. If you're curious about the indecipherable memories (the only way i could think of conveying Asgore forgetting Undyne), it's all Base64. There's a lot of decoders online, have fun :3

Chapter 24: Unexpected

Notes:

And we're back! Hope everyone has a great 2025, all things considered. Best of luck.

No double update today because this is the 14K word chapter, and the next one is the 21K one so i def won't have time for that. As usual, thanks to everyone who interacts with this fic, it means a lot to the author ^^

Hope you can enjoy the chapter and that's it's worth your time!!

All her life she's thought mom abandoned her out of some sort of... selfishness, maybe. Undyne's been at only half-conscious war with herself about whether that's accurate and fair or not for many years now, but deep down she's always felt angry at mom for leaving. As if she'd abandoned Undyne when she had the choice not to.

 

She couldn't have been more wrong.

 

The MTT hotel rises above her, tearing into the perpetual dusk of the Underground with its vibrant neon lights. Why is she here? Who knows, and who cares?

 

Nobody does. Quite literally.

 

She doesn't walk in, she has nothing to do there. There's nowhere she has things to do anymore. For the past week she's been nothing but a ghost covered in flesh cursed with a beating heart.

 

Not a soul remembers her. Undyne's never been popular among the denizens of the Underground, but she's been more than a presence haunting her fellow monsters. Her infamy for her rowdy childhood and teenage years has clung to her like a layer of dirt she can never wash off in the eyes of other monsters, always staining her accomplishments and her genuine desire to free and help them all. Even if she's more notorious than appreciated, people know her. At least they used to.

 

Now, in Waterfall her neighbours ask, dead serious, if she's recently moved in from New Home, Hotland or Snowdin. In all those places, the once she's been to more or less frequently since she was a child, where she finds familiar faces of monsters she doesn't know, but has seen plenty of times throughout her life, the response she gets is the same. They treat her like a newcomer, a new arrival they've never seen.

 

Even Asgore.

 

It's... hard, if not outright impossible, to understand what's going on. Is she going insane, or is it the rest of the world? She's considered every option she can think of. It can't be a prank on such a large scale. Asgore would never participate in such a thing and, besides, who would be behind it? She has a few enemies in the Royal Guard, or had, before her existence was erased from their minds, but none of them would orchestrate something like this. Any harm meant for her would be geared towards taking her promotion for themselves. Nobody's been promoted to Captain, the position remains vacant.

 

It could be some form of magic, perhaps? But, save the people who despised her for her rapid ascent in the Royal Guard's ranks, there isn't a person in the Underground who cares about her enough to wish to harm her like this. The sole benefit of having no time for anything but freedom is that, while nobody cares about her well-being, they also don't care about her suffering. Going out of their way to hurt her like this is... out of character, for the Underground.

 

If not a prank or magic, she's out of ideas. Maybe someone smarter could come up with something else, but Undyne's never been known for her intellect. If it were solely Asgore behaving like this, she'd understand. She was bound to disappoint him in time, it was inevitable. And when she did, when he realized the kind of person he wanted to appoint as his right hand, he grew tired of her. Too irritated to even reprimand her, perhaps, simply ignoring her existence until she stopped coming around.

 

It isn't just him, though; Undyne doesn't seem to exist anymore. Nobody thinks she works in the Royal Guard, or that she ever did; she hasn't been allowed into the premises this week. She's not even recognized as "the crazy who keeps on coming" or anything like that. Every single time she goes around, the other Guard members treat her like someone they've never seen before.

 

…Seven days already. Seven days since she woke up in a world that has no recollection of her, to which she's never existed. She never left her mark on anyone in a tangible way. She had no close friends, no family, no time for anything but carrying everyone's hopes and dreams to the Surface so they could bloom. But to be wiped away so easily... why? How?

 

Like m--

 

In these seven days Undyne has existed rather than lived. It's what she's always done down here. After all, there's no life in the Underground, only survival. But still, this is... It makes no sense.

 

The morning she woke up to attend her breakfast date with Asgore she was already plagued by... something. The noose, it was in her room. Not physically, not visibly, but she could feel it. More than ever, pulsating, trying to lure her towards her piano, towards the life she can't have while she's imprisoned. There was no clear trigger, but the pull was undeniably there. The sensation of vines tearing into her, of pain beyond what she can convey with words or even abstract concepts, stalked her all day along with an irrational fear of tripping.

 

She knew what it meant, of course. She's always known the noose was behind her, gaining on her if she ever dared slow down, so she forced herself to see Asgore no matter how fast her heart pounded. The one thing she can do to prevent ending like mom did, or so she used to believe, is fighting harder. No matter what, regardless of circumstance, push forwards. Always, relentlessly, fight for the safety and life she and every other monster deserves.

 

It didn't matter that her heart pounded harder still with every step. It didn't matter that, if she wasn't focusing on breathing slowly, she started hyperventilating. If nowhere felt safe, if she jumped at the slightest noise, if she was ready to conjure spears at any moment yet knew in her soul they wouldn't save her, if plant life made her recoil; it all mattered little.

 

She had a date, something to do, and she would. Not because she was particularly in the mood to see Asgore, but because she had to. Because, much like right now, if she didn't put one foot before the other, she'd succumb like mom did.

 

At his door she hesitated to knock. She didn't want to; her fist stopped mere millimetres away from the wood, her lungs were unable to breathe fast enough to keep up with her thundering heart. Something about seeing him, about his house, made the fear buried in her bone marrow expand within her bones, threatening to crack them and the tattered remains of her sanity open.

 

But that was precisely what she was running from. The irrational, senseless fear. So despite every cell in her body begging her to leave, she knocked on the door.

 

It was a mistake.

 

The world before he opened the door, before his eyes looked down upon her with no familiarity, not even an ounce of recognition, was cold and cruel. Its eternal shadows had become rife with danger, an impending sense of doom for her like none she'd felt before. The fear of feeling like her mother, of being damned to suffer like her and end like her, had always been an abstract concept in Undyne's mind. She knew the possibility existed, it made her cower, jumped at her from time to time, but it had always been a fear of the unknown. What did mom feel like? What compelled her to stop breathing? What would it be like to experience it? Would Undyne survive it?

 

The formless, the hypothetical, became a reality that morning. The fear, the anxiety, the certainty nothing good would come from any choice, that nothing was relevant, was so strong in Undyne it kept her stuck under the covers for a while. Until she realized that staying in bed was the first thing mom did, and the fear of vines weaving in and out of her like mom's needle did with fabric could also come from her mattress. Then she couldn't bear to be in bed anymore and concluded she simply had to keep on fighting.

 

Because perhaps, if mom had, she'd still be alive and she wouldn't have left Undyne alone.

 

The world after she realized Asgore wasn't messing with her in some cruel prank but truly, sincerely had no clue who she was, stopped making sense. It was no longer marred by irrational terror and the certainty of encroaching death. It became a nonsensical place altogether; something Undyne couldn't understand.

 

...What did it feel like? What were the feelings frozen in her mind? Could she even identify them? Or even now, after a week of this, are they so painful, so convoluted, that she'd be more successful at conducting an autopsy of herself than she would at dissecting her emotions?

 

Asgore didn't know her. The past ten years, the training sessions, the piano lessons, helping her move into her place, buying her a piano, her promotions, laughing until their sides hurt, sharing meals, the late night conversations... All gone. Without notice, without reason, no explanation in sight.

 

Asgore has forgotten her.

 

Initially she panicked, she consulted monsters she knows as either acquaintances or less, only to find how, without fail, none of them remember having ever seen her. She ran to the training facility, no longer thinking about vines wrapping around her ankles, digging into her flesh, tearing into her bones, and found she was not allowed in.

 

All the way there she'd had the sinking feeling, or... déjà vu, almost, such a thing would happen. It certainly didn't feel like the first time she was turned away at the door. She could've predicted the words the guard barring her from entering said. His soft yet commanding voice echoed in her head before he opened his mouth.

 

The confusion lasted a while, it carried her through the day at least. But slowly it flooded out of her, replaced once more with the fear and danger. In case those weren't enough, they were accompanied by the profound grief of having, as far as she can tell, irrevocably lost Asgore.

 

She hasn't made peace with that even one week later. The world forgetting about her is one thing. But Asgore...?

 

...Without him she's alone. As alone as she was when mom--

 

"For my sweeth--"

 

...

 

There's no one in the Underground who can help her. Walking up to someone and saying "You knew me last week, I swear. Everyone's forgotten me," yields no results. Nobody believes her because the situation itself is unbelievable. She doesn't blame them.

 

Asgore not recognizing her resulted in her very embarrassingly losing control over her emotions and scaring him with the intensity of her distress. He was so kind, so gentle with her, even when he thought she was just anyone.

 

Because Asgore cares about everyone. It's his whole deal, she's not special. She never was.

 

She ran away when he put his hand on her shoulder to comfort her. No matter how worked up she was, even as a child, he never touched her or soothed her. He's always verbal about it, as if touching her repulses him; and for the most part he avoids any form of emotional proximity between them which could turn into something more serious than banter. But when he forgot about all the time they've spent together, when she was as good as a stranger, suddenly--

 

Despite herself, Undyne chuckles. No humour in it, any kind of joy died along with her mental stability last week, but the dry sound comes out regardless. She's living in a world where nobody remembers her for reasons unknown, with no way to fix it in sight, and she's worked up about how Asgore likes everyone better than her.

 

That's hilarious, in the most unfunny way. No wonder he likes just about anyone more than her, if these are her priorities in this situation. If there's even a part of him that has the faintest recollection of her, he must be blissful that he didn't promote her to Captain.

 

She's always been doomed to fail him. A Captain who fears death as profoundly as Undyne does, no matter how hard they fight it, is worthless.

 

She's been terrified all her life, hasn't she? Ever since mom did it, ever since she left, the panic of wondering what lead her to that point, how much of it was Undyne's fault, has been an obsession for Undyne. The magnitude of the emotions mom must have felt leading up to such a dire decision terrified her.

 

Not the dying itself. That part she made peace with long, long ago. It scares her, but it doesn't terrify her; that's a pretty big word for an even larger feeling. But the agony leading up to it... Of the emotions so vile, so overpowering, that only death seems to be able to calm them, to finally make it all stop, that's... That's always been there, right? It never left. Undyne just buried herself in work to prevent being drowned by her fears, much like she burrowed her desire to create instead of destroy.

 

Not that she's ever admitted to it. If it weren't for the current circumstances, she would've probably kept on pushing, and pushing, and pushing, as she did the morning she woke up with this fear carved into her soul. No longer in the realm of speculation, but in her real life. Manifesting within her physically with her every breath and heartbeat.

 

This is what she's always running from. This is what she cast her life away for, what she refused to live for. These emotions are all she's tried to leave in the dust, yet they've caught up regardless. She can't run from herself, after all, and she's the source of this.

 

...What happened last week for her to wake from her sleep like this? The previous day she was fine, able to suppress all this darkness, distract herself from it. Then she woke up and, aside from feeling everything was familiar, turning the Underground into a surreal dreamscape, something had switched in her mind.

 

She was haunted by phantom pains of injuries she's never sustained. She had the sensation of having seen everything, and of every route leading to a grizzly conclusion. That she had to live here and now despite it making no tactical sense. For the first few days she thought surely that oddity must be linked to everyone forgetting her. She tried to unravel it, to figure it out for a while, but she gave up. She was thinking in circles, going nowhere, and suddenly it hit her.

 

...What if nothing of what she's experiencing is real? What if everyone forgetting her isn't fact, but rather something her twisted, obviously broken mind is projecting out into the world?

 

If she can't trust her own head, if it's filled every dark recess of the Underground with panic instead of familiarity, if it's become as broken as mom's was when she died...

 

...Who's to say anything Undyne is perceiving is real?

 

If she senses unseen danger, feels non-existant aches all over her body, and is convinced there's nothing but painful, impending doom ahead of her despite nothing else indicating that outcome, can she be sure she's been forgotten? Or is this all a malfunction in her brain as well?

 

There's no way to be certain, that's the thing. And, without anyone to confide in, alone as she is whether by objective fact or imposition of a sick mind, there's no one who can help her.

 

She is alone.

 

Everything feels real. Then again, it also doesn't. She's positive there's no lit or unlit inch of the Underground that doesn't hold death for her as if death itself existed with a thousand arms under the earth, able to follow her wherever she goes. Then again, no such thing is happening, right?

 

Déjà vu is a relatively common phenomenon, but hers came hand in hand with more. With pain, fear, and perhaps delirium. All this begs one question. One massive question she has no answers for, and the one she never wanted to figure out to begin with irrespective of how morbidly obsessed with it she was as a child.

 

...Is this it? Is this, finally, what mom felt?

 

All her life Undyne's done everything within her power to never find out. It wasn't death tormenting her so violently; it was this. This persistent hopelessness, this sorrow and fear eating at her from the inside, hurting every tissue of her body and soul alike. A mind so dark there's no spark for hopes and dreams to flourish. Apathy, inability to do anything.

 

Was this what lead mom to giving up? To locking herself in the living room, and...?

 

...It was the living room, wasn't it? The living room where she...? How... How funny. How profoundly, deeply unamusing. How bitterly ironic.

 

Well, Undyne doesn't get a choice but to find out now, does she? What she wants doesn't matter. She can't try anything that will distract her from this. It's entrenched so deep in her mind it seeps into every single aspect and activity of Undyne's life. She would train, but if she's turned back at the door and impeded from doing her job for real, or her mind makes it impossible for her, there's no purpose. She'd talk to someone, but the only person who remembered her has functionally forgotten her, irrespective of how real the experience is.

 

She'd play piano, but despite craving it more than she does air, she knows what happens if she indulges these desires. If she lets them take control of her, if she loses herself in passion. Down here, that might as well be selling her soul. She saw it happen to mom, too. Except come the point where mom collapsed she didn't want to do anything anymore; and now that, if Undyne's collapsed as well, this would be about the point where she too succumbs yet there's nothing in the world she wants more than to live.

 

Which might be exactly what mom grappled with for months before she caved in. Years, even. Who knows?

 

...So as of late, Undyne's taken to wandering, walking, keeping herself moving throughout the day. Without rhyme or reason, simply refraining from becoming like mom.

 

Locked in her room, without socializing, or sewing, or eat--

 

"I... I made you cupcakes, mommy! Do you want--? Oh, you're not hungry. But I made your favourite, look! I-- You need to eat something, please. I--"

 

...Even that's begun to lose its appeal, though. After all, here, in front of this crappy hotel she hates, Undyne has stopped. How long has she stood here, just thinking? How long will it take her to start moving again? Where will she go, and why?

 

Before whatever the hell this is happened, she kept herself energetic even if she didn't truly feel like it to avoid ever coming anywhere near where mom was when she died. Now, now that it's been a week and there's no end in sight to this, it looks like Undyne's motor has finally run dry. From training and over-training, working extra hours and exhausting herself, to merely wandering, to stopping.

 

Mom also reached her stopping point, presumably. And, when she did, she found no reason to restart. If she was feeling but a fraction of what Undyne is, if this is the answer to the question she never wanted a reply to, Undyne understands.

 

Mom truly had no say in it. If she felt isolated, exhausted, and found her mind so unreliable that not even outside input could help... Perhaps she never abandoned Undyne. Maybe she only did what she had to to stop a pain larger than her soul could handle. And, if that's the case, for the past ten years Undyne has been nothing but a heartless brat for feeling so angry at mom.

 

...It's funny. In the twisted sort of way, it's hilarious. She's spent all her life working so hard, so excruciatingly hard, to avoid ending up here that she pushed every single thing she wanted to do to the back of her mind. No piano, no social life, not even a furnished house, in hopes of dedicating all her energy to leaving this hole. She has consistently told herself there's no life to be had down here. That her life is up on the Surface, where mom should've been, where maybe she wouldn't have killed herself.

 

All for what? The people she wanted to protect she doesn't have a chance to anymore; not if she's no longer part of the Royal Guard. The only person she was close to, who she was able to love after mom left, doesn't know he was important to her. Even if she wasn't all that dear to him, she wanted to spend more time with him, goddamnit. She wanted to play piano with him, keep him company, help him where it mattered.

 

All she wanted to do for herself, every project big or small, got thrown to the curb just so she would avoid arriving here. And still, this is where she is. Stuck, physically and mentally, figuratively and literally, in what very well might be a brand of hell written into her DNA. The one that took mom away and that, in all honesty, Undyne is too exhausted to fend off any longer. Her mind won't stop telling her resistance is futile. That, at one point, either the pain in her body will burst, or something full of vines will find her. Either way, her life will end before it truly began.

 

Undyne could have played piano. She could've spent more afternoons with Asgore. She could've gone on walks, worked on being able to befriend people. Her fear of reaching this finale, of having her life cut short because she stopped for too long, prevented her from living at all.

 

It's ironic. Beautifully so. She fought so hard to live she achieved the opposite goal.

 

...Should she start walking again? Who knows. It won't make a difference. Seven days of holding on, of fighting against this madness poisoning her bloodline with the feeblest, most pathetic kicks she's got left, haven't made it go away. Maybe it won't. And, if that is the case, then Undyne truly does not mind giving--

 

She's pushed to the ground with force. It found her. She squirms trying to get the attacker off her, but the phantom pains are so strong she can hardly make them budge. The dark gravel presses into her face, pebbles sifting under her scales. It doesn't hurt more than the thousands of non-existent vines crushing her bones, but it's distracting enough to prevent her from making out what the assailant is saying. Their voice is nothing but a constant murmur in the back of Undyne's mind as it struggles to process pebbles embedding themselves into her skin.

 

...Pebbles? The pain from measly little pebbles is immobilizing her?

 

...Ah, at this point, even this doesn't matter. Whether it's a construct of her mind or it's actually happening, it's alright. The stranger palms her pockets. She still writhes, she's spent too much time fighting a losing battle to give up so quickly, but if they killed her here and now nothing would change except--

 

"I said stop moving, you thief!"

 

The deep, guttural snarl comes with a blow to the head. Undyne's ears ring so loud she

 

-

 

Undyne shoots into a sitting position, high-pitched inhales pushing away the silence in her room at the elevated pace of her pounding heart. What...?

 

"...stop moving!"

 

...What... What an odd dream.

 

Beneath, not behind--

 

She closes her eye, rubbing it as her breathing slowly returns to a less hectic rhythm. Regardless, her chest tingles, as does her entire body. Her diaphragm seems to have been twisted and pulled into a knot. Her muscles are tense, ready to run yet unable to move.

 

...Did... Did she have the dream again? If she did she doesn't remember, which is odd; she never sleeps through nightmares of that day. Is this--?

 

No, no. That's ridiculous. Who knows what mom felt like? Why... Why is Undyne even thinking about that?

 

She doesn't think about that. She doesn't want to know, and she never will. Because she's not like mom, and she's going to live.

 

Undyne has to get out of here. She has a lot to do today. She has to be in New Home in an hour; she can't keep Asgore waiting. And unless he doesn't want to see her or something, she can't do him the disservice of--

 

...Why wouldn't... Why wouldn't he want to see her? He's a busy man and all, but he invited her. What the hell did she dream about?

 

Her muscles are tense first thing in the morning. Part of her needs to move, go anywhere, right away. The crevasses of her room the echo flowers outside don't light up feel sentient, as if tendrils of darkness could writhe until they free themselves and hurt her. Thousands of points all over her body sting as if she'd been injured.

 

Behind and beneath and around and within--

 

She's breathing through her mouth. Why? Why is it so hard to breathe? What kind of nightmare did she have to affect her this much?

 

Unless it wasn't a nightmare. Unless it's finally caught--

 

No. Fear of a magnitude she isn't acquainted with is controlling her limbs like a puppet, but nothing's caught her. She tries to move, get out of bed, but she can't. She can only breathe. Breathe and regard the darkness surrounding her as if she were on guard duty. As if it weren't the absence of light in her room, but rather a well to an ever deeper layer of hell than the one she's in. As if she dared blink, something would break free and--

 

...She can't. She can't be paralyzed like this or she'll... She has to move right away, she can't... she can't give in. She isn't like mom; she'll be fine. Undyne's been here before; she'll drag herself out of here even if it's harder this time. She can't let Asgore down or give him any reasons to hate her, she can't make him worry. Does he worry, though? Or is he so busy he only thinks of her when she's directly in front of him? She has a full training course today; who knows when her next day off will be?

 

Every day could be the last, right?

 

Her head. It hurts. Sharp pain radiating from the crown downwards. What is this? Every time she blinks, every second she's unable to keep the darkness under surveillance, her heart rate spikes.

 

...It's not the first time she's felt like this. When she was little she'd react the same around bugs. She would stare at them like they would careen at her if she looked away, until mom came and always--

 

"Aww, it can't hurt you, my sweetheart. Look, this is a beetle. They--"

 

Simultaneously though, with every passing minute wasted here, letting it come closer and closer, the pain gets worse. All around, invisible lacerations. Is she actually injured? Did something sting her when she was asleep? Is this--?

 

...

 

...That... That isn't right. Her arm is supposed to be blue, not grey. Maybe it's the lighting? No, it's always the same, every day, and she's never looked like this. She...

 

Thank goodness. Maybe this is a dream? Maybe this is the nightmare, and when she wakes everything will be alright again. Or perhaps she has brain damage affecting her vision. Because...

 

...She can't make out anything but the outlines of her bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers and door frame in this light. The echo flower outside's soft, blue glow doesn't precisely help her eye distinguish colours clearly, either. They're there albeit muted, sure. But maybe... Did she rub her eye very hard? Is she having complications from only having one eye working overtime? Is that even a thing? Does she need to see a doctor for this?

 

She stands; she needs to get out of here. That's enough, she doesn't have time for this. She dashes to the living room and turns on the light--

 

...

 

...Her hand... Her grey hand ending in equally grey nails goes cleanly through the fixture. It doesn't budge, it doesn't click. Her fingers are ethereal.

 

...What the hell?

 

The knot in her incorporeal stomach tightens as she approaches the oven, twisting all its knobs. They don't turn. The door won't open. Her cabinet doors don't move, she can't pull chairs out from under the table nor push it. The doors to the empty rooms don't react to her, either, but she can cross them all the same by just... walking through them.

 

...What... What's going on here? It's a dream, right? Everything... Everything is in colour except for her. She looks down, at her pyjamas. The red tank top she put on last light is grey, as are the matching shorts. She can pull on their fabric, soft and thin between her fingers, creasing as it's tugged taut.

 

She raises a hand to her face, palming around for her eyepatch under her fringe. Her fingers dig into the vacant hole her eye once filled. She took it off for sleep. She returns to her room--

 

In the dark--

 

...It's just her room. It isn't... It isn't a dark cavity in the side of the house, a hole that will certainly swallow her if she steps foot in it. All she can make out is the window at the end, lit blue by the flower outside. A bright blue, hazy pupil in an otherwise black void.

 

She's frozen to the spot, frozen in fear preventing her muscles from moving. Some Captain she'll make if she can't even do this. It's her room, for crying out loud. She hasn't been afraid of the dark since she was six and that idiot kid in school wouldn't stop telling stories of shadows breaking free from--

 

Who cares? Afraid or otherwise, it's safe to assume her fingers won't touch her eyepatch, either. There's... There's no need to waste time on that with everything else going on.

 

...She's such a coward. Avoiding scary things is also what mom--

 

Undyne hugs herself. She's hugging herself? Pathetic. What disappointingly pathetic behaviour. She wants to stop, to let go of herself, but she can't. There are too many disparaging emotions firing from the base of her skull through her body. It's hard to breathe, the hair falling in front of her eye as she doubles over is the wrong colour, there are aches, bruises and cuts where nothing but healthy scales cover untouched tissue.

 

What's happening? Is this what mom...?

 

Her nails dig into her sides. No. Of course not. This... This is a dream, it has to be.

 

What else could it be? Mom... Mom wasn't mad, right? She was normal, she was perfectly normal. She just lost hope because of the shit-hole monsterkind's stuck in; it's not... It's not something Undyne can inherit. She's fine, right?

 

The wave of agony doesn't wash over. It remains stormy within Undyne, filling in every cavity and orifice in her body. Her legs tremble, struggling to keep her standing. Every inhale brings more anxiety into her lungs. If she stays here, unmoving, like this, she knows what will happen. The ending to this tale she's already read and she refuses to follow in its footsteps.

 

She won't. She won't, she will not. With more effort than she exerts during weapons training she disengages from herself. Her body is a trembling, aching wreck as she goes to the door. Uneven, rasping breaths accompany her; the sole soundtrack to her clumsy walk, as there are no footsteps. How? How... How is this possible?

 

If a medical examination revealed her diaphragm is slowly being sucked up her oesophagus she'd believe it. For an apparently bodiless entity, she can feel bile scorching its way up her throat clear as crystal. Her abdominal muscles demand she stop a bit short of the front door, right next to the piano.

 

The piano...

 

IkRvIHlvdSBzdGlsbCBwbGF5PyI=

 

...Huh? That... That thought, what was it? Has she forgotten something?

 

Slowly, her trembling index finger hovers above the B flat key. It doesn't press down until it steadies just long enough to pluck that note specifically. It... It has to be that one.

 

Her finger goes through it. She can't...

 

...She can't play piano.

 

...No. No no; she can't accept this; she won't. This... This is all some stupid dream, or-or a nightmare or something. She hasn't... This makes no sense, damn it! She tries again, and again, and again and she won't stop until she hears the damn out of tune B flat echoing through her living room.

 

…

 

…

 

...She's lost her chance. She's... Whatever's going on she's here, down here, and she never played. Always waiting for the Surface, she... Can she even get to the Surface like this? Everything she sacrificed, the life she left behind... did it amount to anything in the end?

 

A tear slides down her scales onto the keys, vanishing on impact. It doesn't pool on them, they don't get wet. Not from the first tear or from the few that follow.

 

Why... Why is she crying? Why is it impossible to stop? Why does her chest ache as if her heart had been ripped out? Why do her legs give out, forcing her to collapse onto the stool? Why is she sobbing so loudly, where does this sorrow come from?

 

It hasn't been this bad since mom...

 

"For my sweeth--"

 

...This is pathetic and inexcusable of her. Weak, proof that everyone was right and Asgore should've elected anyone else for the position of Captain, but she can't help it. These bottled feelings cascading out of her come from so deep within her soul she hasn't the foggiest how to make them stop.

 

As ridiculous and childish as it is, she's afraid to die like mom. She always has been, and now she's also scared of whatever's going on. She's afraid to make a life down here only to lose hope like mom did, feel whatever it was that made her leave. She's afraid she wasn't good enough to keep mom alive. And, as laughable as it is coming form someone of her position, every last nerve ending within her craves Asgore's presence.

 

As if he didn't have more important things to do than tend to his future Captain's frail, worthless emotions. As if seeing her like this wouldn't disappoint him so much he'd rather forget she ever existed.

 

No no, Asgore wouldn't. He wouldn't forget her. He's her boss, but also they're friends, right? He wouldn't... Why does she feel like this?!

 

Where is this coming from?

 

She's never been this afraid of the dark, she's never been paralyzed by fear, she's never had these psychosomatic pains, she's never had what's either the worst nightmare ever or a hallucination, she's never been this close to vomiting. Not when she lost her eye, not even when she lost mom! So what gives?!

 

...What's happening to her?

 

-

 

Death's breath is still rolling under her scales and penetrating her skin. It always has been, metaphorically, but today it feels quite literal. Something is covering her body, making her clothes rub wrong against her scales, feverish and shivery.

 

The part of her convinced this is what mom went through, what got her to abandon life and Undyne with it, is drowned out by reason. After all, mom wasn't invisible when she died.

 

Nobody can see Undyne. Absolutely nobody.

 

Crying her entire life's worth of burrowed pain out against her will emptied her of emotions long enough to leave the house. Through the door in the most literal sense; she couldn't open it, her hand went through. She stepped out to the spectacle of Waterfall, the glowing light of flowers and mushrooms bouncing off of the gems embedded in every wall of rock, and she was still grey. Even the light went, goes, through her. She leaves no shadow wherever she wanders.

 

She'd barely realized she left the house in pyjamas and was wondering if it would be possible for her to change clothes when a group of schoolkids with their mothers rushed by her front door, late for the Riverperson's ride to school. Not only did they pay Undyne no heed, one of the children walked through her. The little boy stopped in his tracks, looked around, shivered, and ran to catch up with his mother and siblings up ahead.

 

Heart pounding through the numbness her crying spell left behind, Undyne went out to find more people. She waved in front of them, spoke to them, stood in their way. It was always the same; they can't see her. For a moment she contemplated this being some sort of twisted, twisted prank using some complex magic she doesn't know of, so she threatened a civilian with spears. Not her proudest moment, but overall irrelevant: they didn't see her.

 

It's a good thing she can still conjure them. However, it seems she can't use them against anything. They're greyed out too, and stab into rock and plants but leave no mark behind to prove they were ever there. Much like Undyne, in her staunch refusal to live, also hasn't left a mark in any--

 

...

 

She went to Snowdin. The snow didn't crunch under her weight, she left no footprints. The town's warm, bright colours made it manifest that it's only Undyne who's lost colour.

 

To all effects, she's a ghost.

 

If this is a nightmare, Undyne's brain has earned a standing ovation for creating such a perfect, down the most minute detail, recreation of the Underground. If Undyne was asked to describe the nice chill of New Home, the scent of the dying plants, and the bustle of the city during her waking hours, she couldn't come up with something this accurate. But, if not a nightmare, what else could it reasonably be?

 

She's traversed the entire Underground from the entrance to the Ruins to the capital, skipping Hotland because, somehow, its high temperatures still affect her disembodied... whatever this is. Spirit, essence. Body? Disembodied body? That makes no sense. She didn't attend enough higher education to wrap her mind around the philosophical and spiritual implications of this experience; provided it isn't simply an elaborate dream.

 

It... would certainly be the first time Undyne's had a lucid dream. Because if she's sleeping, the fact that she's questioning if this is real or not is already more awareness than she's had in any dream, ever. But... it has to be a dream, right? Even with that, there's a first time for everything, right? And there's no way this is real, so it must be a dream.

 

Simple process of elimination.

 

She had to hitch a ride with the Riverperson by waiting for someone else to sit with them. It made her feel like a stalker, inappropriate, as she overheard the monster's entire conversation with their ex about what sounded like a messy divorce. That information was not meant for her ears; her unwitting co-passenger had no way of knowing they were being listened to. But what else could she do?

 

She needs to see Asgore.

 

...Whatever's happening with her, if there's any chance this is real, he must be worried. And if he's not, well... It'll hurt, fine. But objectively all the better, right? He's already got so much to concern himself with.

 

He... He's working right now, so she's headed towards the palace. But he always worries too much, so her not appearing on time for breakfast must have made him concerned right? She just...

 

What can she do? There's nothing for her to do like this. If it's a dream she has to wait it out. On the horrifying chance this is somehow truly happening...

 

Even through the numbness still keeping her stable, her gut twists.

 

She wouldn't know what to do if any of this were real. If she doesn't reach a point where she opens her eye and finds herself in her room, free of the overblown emotions that seem to have hollowed her out, blue and red as she's meant to be, she doesn't know what she'll do. Will there be anything to do, or will she be doomed to live out the rest of her days like this?

 

...There is a third option, of course. That none of this is real and her mind has followed in mom's footsteps. Who knows? Maybe mom really was...

 

The emotions from this morning, the inescapable panic and fear of death, might hint in that direction. But mom never gave signs of seeing herself as invisible...? She interacted with Undyne just fine until--

 

"For--"

 

In any case, if this is a dream, seeing Asgore won't hurt. The same applies if it's all unfolding in the confines of her skull. And, if it isn't, if there's some way for this to be truly happening, he'll never know she checked up on him.

 

...He'll never know from her again. Unless there's a way to reverse this, but...

 

...Who knows. Isn't it ironic? How for all her hope, Undyne's never learnt how to get her own hopes up?

 

The thoughts and feelings that consumed her earlier in the morning aren't gone. They've been pushed to the back by the more impending concern of her current conundrum, but they still pulsate right under the surface of her conscious awareness.

 

Like every other monster born in the Underground, Undyne was born into darkness. The recesses where no light reaches, the ones impossible to peer into, don't scare her. They only did for a very brief time period when she was younger than seven after hearing a horror story at school. The concept of a serious, adult fear of the dark is rare down here. Everyone's shrouded every hour of every day from birth to grave. To have such a visceral reaction to the very element that has coated her entire existence is...

 

...Foreign, but also familiar? A vague echo of something she once knew, in those years where one is too young to form concrete memories, but not small enough to not recall vague, shapeless impressions.

 

To an extent... To make this more surreal, everything today feels as if Undyne's already done it at some point. As if her fear were more the result of subconscious knowledge, instinct maybe, rather than irrationality. Which is ridiculous, but considering her current predicament she isn't ready to discard any possibility outright.

 

Even so, as she travels the streets of New Home as bodiless as the breeze playing with the hair and clothes of other passers-by, phantom pains still attack her fittingly phantom body. She can't help but look above from time to time, into the infinite void of darkness blanketing the Underground, and fear parts of it writhing into tentacles. Tentacles pinning her to the ground, piercing the spots where her her flesh prickles and stings.

 

It's funny, in a very unfunny way, that such thoughts should be the source of the discomfort and fear marring the otherwise bland numbness allowing her to proceed with her day. Even if such tentacles existed, they couldn't touch her. That's exactly the problem.

 

Nothing can.

 

The palace where all royal affairs are worked out rules over all other buildings in the capital. Finally, Undyne's here.

 

Twice as tall as even the fanciest houses in the inner circle and thrice as wide, the foundation of all bureaucratic affairs of the Underground lays behind a pair of white wrought iron gates with the Delta Rune worked into the pattern of swirls. It's open, as it always is at this time, allowing entrance to all, provided the stern guards on each side permit.

 

Topped by hydra statues so white they seem to emerge from the stone itself, a white stone fence taller than Undyne and thicker than her body from arm to arm encases a lush, fake garden. The twin hydras stare down at citizens with cold, judging eyes, as if deeming them unworthy of entering the emerald green garden of dead grass, trees and flowerbeds. The plants are beautiful despite being corpses lit by artificial light as authentic as the Underground can manufacture, imitating the Sun's splendor as best as they can.

 

...It's a good forgery of the Surface, but to anyone who's seen real sunlight in the throne room it's a very obvious fake. The lights here are hidden in the trees, so they come from every which direction and cast haphazard shadows.

 

Not that this doesn't have its own charm. It makes the trees glow, at least.

 

The sturdy, white marble building lays several meters into the flora graveyard, adorned with stained glass and gilded balustrades. At every corner of the E-shaped floor plan sits a round tower capped by shimmering white crown steeples ascending two floors above the rest of the construction. Between them, from the center of the construction, a fifth tower rises taller than the rest, as if attempting to pierce the rock ceiling keeping monsterkind imprisoned.

 

...Rarely has Undyne been here; three times at most, only for filing official paperwork. The sheer size of it, its craft and beauty, are still mesmerizing to behold. The incorporeal muscles in her neck strain as she looks up the central tower. It's so tall the top almost vanishes into darkness.

 

Could she be promoted to Captain she would've been here, at the main stage, by the end of the week.

 

...The advantage of being as she is right now is that the guards cannot prevent her from entering. Two tall, strong monsters in full armour stand in front of the massive, depressed-arched main entrance, axes to their sides. Undyne walks past them with the quiet air current drafting into the massive entrance hall.

 

She seldom feels small. This building, though, has the ability to make anyone feel tiny. Perhaps it is the sheer size of it. Or maybe that the first time she entered she was twelve years old and many months away from her growth spurt, so the world appeared even larger to her.

 

Floors of marble covered by strips of red carpet a janitor is vacuuming. Paintings on one side of the hall recreating as much of lost monster history as painters could recall in the aftermath of the war. Stained glass to the same effect doing the same on the other side. Sculptures, bookshelves, coats of arms and recreations of old monster armour.

 

There's so much to take in it always overwhelms Undyne for a moment upon entry. Diligent civil servants dodge in and out of the rosewood walls through arches topped by Delta Rune-shaped drip mould. Golden chandeliers fend off the darkness, leaving no shadows save the one everyone and everything bar Undyne casts on their surroundings.

 

...To think Asgore could've lived here. The Underground only counted with two surviving architects by the time monsterkind reached New Home and began its construction. Both were fighting over who should get to build the royal family's home and, in an effort to please everyone, Asgore instructed both to give it their best shot "without going overboard." To prevent there being any losers and making everyone happy, Asgore said whichever building wasn't chosen would serve as the bureaucratic center of the city.

 

One architect made this masterpiece and the other made a 1:1 recreation of the Dreemurrs' old home in, well, Home. It's obvious which one of them personally knew Asgore.

 

...Despite the mess at hand, Undyne smiles. Choosing the small, family home is so much like him. The architect who build this place is immortalized in a portrait on one of the upper floors. He must've been upset his construction wasn't chosen, but in a cruel twist of fate, Asgore spends more time here than he does in his empty house.

 

In theory, Undyne could take any passage she wanted. The chambers and halls intended to be galleries, libraries and music rooms have become offices and archives. They're furnished beautifully with shelves and drawers of carved, flowery wood, of course, but the luxury one would expect from the palace's exterior only exists in its halls. At a certain point in monster history, pragmatism overtook the Underground's neigh-pathological need to dress their incarceration under layers of beauty and, towards the bowels of the building, where no outsiders are meant to go, furniture and walls are less decorative and more practical.

 

The ability to go wherever she wants is intriguing, but she has too much going on to get lost in a little unguided tour. She came here to see how Asgore's doing, most of all. She knows the way to his office just fine as long as she sticks to the familiar path and doesn't stray from it.

 

Her sight roams the walls and ceilings as she travels through winding hallways, flights of stairs and waiting rooms. It's a shame, how much of monster culture and tradition was lost to the war. She wouldn't have enough in one lifetime to see all that is preserved within these walls, but even that's barely a fraction of all her people had before humans banished them to die.

 

The weird, numb, dream-like déjà vu state of her mind also lets a bit of rage simmer through the coat of nothingness it has doused her emotions in. Humanity's monopoly on freedom will expire soon.

 

With or without Undyne's assistance.

 

The first time Undyne was here was for her second Christmas as an orphan. Asgore had been training her for several months, he'd begun to deal with her talking to him out of training hours with the patience of a saint, and he wanted to do something special for her. Or so she assumes, because he's never given her an explanation.

 

She had no family for the holiday nor was she in the mood for it, and Asgore has been allergic to any family-related celebration for the past half millennium. Since neither of them had anything to do he proposed to give her a private tour of the palace on a day nobody would be there.

 

He took her up and down the corridors, showing her the paintings and books, the flashy, interesting parts for a child. Upon her request, though, to sate her curiosity, he humored her and showed her to his office as well.

 

Undyne will never be good enough to compensate for all he's done for her.

 

The wenge door riveted gold which to her child self seemed huge only appears slightly smaller now. It's at the end of a hallway lit by long tubes overhead. Opposite his office is his secretary's. The door is ajar, and the quiet rumble of her voice sneaks out too quiet to be understood. Did she leave it open on purpose, or was it an air current? Is the ventilation system down again and she was getting hot in there?

 

Undyne could wait for his secretary to come consult something, peek inside, see him well and call it a day. Or she could let herself in for a moment and then go; it's not like walls are an issue.

 

Where will she go to, though? Where does she go after this? What's her plan?

 

...Step by step. She hasn't seen him yet; she'll figure out the rest later. Walking in on him is invasive, she can't do that. Waiting it is, then. It's not like Undyne's in a hurry right now. At least when his secretary knocks he'll be expecting someone in there. It'll be less intrusive like that.

 

Minutes tick by, each one longer than an hour, as time tends to do when one is waiting. Undyne sits on the floor beside Asgore's office's door. How can she sit if she goes through everything? She should be using this time to think about her situation, but she has nothing left to consider. She woke up with fear both hers and foreign injected like adrenaline into her heart and coupled with the strongest desire to live she's ever had, she found she's now grey and incorporeal, and after wandering for a bit she decided to come see Asgore.

 

She can't interact with the word around her to leave any sign of her presence. Nobody can see her. This might be a dream, or a conjuration of a sick mind, or somehow reality. As long as she can opt to reasonably believe she'll wake up any moment and put all this behind her, she'll do so. Not only is it the most plausible option, all things considered. It's the only one keeping Undyne functional for now. The prospect of this being the beginning of following in mom's footsteps, or somehow even worse, the rest of her life, make the sheen of numbness her mind has eased her raging emotions with waver.

 

Feeling the equivalent of watching paint dry isn't enjoyable, per se. But that crying spell earlier at home, the fear, the ache, the certainty vines will sprout from any surface and attack her...

 

Beneath and within--

 

She shudders. She's better off like this. And, to prolong this until she either wakes up or finds this is a reality she must face, she has to ignore the second probability entirely. So she will. Because the emotions pecking at her like vultures this morning scare her, and there's nothing to gain from senseless panicking anyway.

 

Whether she panics or remains calm the ending will be the same. If this is a dream she'll wake up, and if it's not she's screwed.

 

Just like--

 

...Well, if this is all a dream, if it's baseless and unreal, maybe she can admit whatever's happening right now is horrifying and not be weak for it. Not dwell on it, that would turn this confusing dream which currently only borders on the realm of nightmares into a fully-fledged one like the one she had this morning; but she can admit it. Quietly in her mind, where she can forget about it as soon as the thought is over.

 

But yes. This is one of the worst experiences Undyne's ever had the misfortune to "live" through. If When she wakes up she's going to double check what she had for dinner last night. She can never buy this brand of whatever it was again.

 

...

 

...And, if it's a dream, maybe it's also okay to briefly admit the reason she's here isn't only concern about Asgore's tendency to worry. Maybe, just maybe perhaps, she itches for his company since this morning. Every since her heart became so full it overflowed, she's had this urge to be beside him nagging her, pulling her in the direction of New Home.

 

Even if he can't see her, even if he forgets her, she can't help feeling like this.

 

It's stupid and shameful. Childish, even. She's twenty, she's already an adult. She should be able to manage everything on her own, like Asgore does. He never asks for help, he never complains about anything. He works hard for his people without respite and is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for them. Even if they aren't always thankful for it, or don't understand what this means for him.

 

He's always been the hero she aspires to be.

 

Ever since she met him, though, he's the only person her nervous system seems to relax even the slightest around. Hearing his voice makes muscles she wasn't aware she'd been clenching ease. The only place Undyne can ever truly be calm after mom's funeral is beside him.

 

He would hate her if he knew. He probably already does, anyway; so if anything he'd hate her more. He's nice and kind, the best person she has ever met. But along with the relentless feeling of having lived through this day before also comes the certainty that Asgore doesn't need her.

 

Which she's always known, of course. It isn't news, precisely. That's... That's why she wanted to become essential to him, right? To help him, yes, but deep down, in corner of her mind she often purposefully overlooks, to be someone he couldn't discard like mom did when--

 

"For my sw--"

 

He'd be so disappointed in her if he knew to what extent she cares about him. He'd think there's something wrong with her, that she's trying to replace his children. It's not that, it never was. Maybe as a kid, when she was very young, she was slightly jealous of Chara and Asriel. The dead children, the ones who didn't need a father anymore, while she had nobody back in Waterfall, had Asgore's heart and always will.

 

While she grew out of that mentality, with how kind and gentle Asgore's always been with her, she wasn't able to outgrow her affection for him. That said, though, she's always known their bond isn't a two-way street. He accepts her in his life as a friend, and for that she's thankful. It's given her a vantage point to see just how profoundly he cares about his people, how much he's willing to sacrifice for their freedom and well-being. To ensure nobody else loses hope, and...

 

"I'm fine, sweetheart, just a bit tired. Mommy's going to be fine, just give me a--"

 

...The point is Asgore's amazing, but he doesn't need her. So if he knew she had a dream bordering on hallucinogenic in which she was so distraught, hurt by emotions she'd buried so deep she wouldn't have guessed they could resurface, and what she did in it was wait to catch a glimpse of him, he'd realize how weak she is and how... over-attached, to call it something, she is, and then...

 

...He'd be disgusted with her. He'd leave her, and then she'd be alone. Undyne pulls her knees into her chest.

 

Alone... is something she never wanted to be. It's one of those things she never admits, never thinks about, because she's too busy trying to lead everyone to salvation and ensure Asgore's company, but it's the truth. And if this is just a dream, she can think about it without remorse. Because when she wakes up it won't matter, and she'll forget in a couple of days anyway.

 

For someone deemed worthy of becoming the youngest Captain in monsterkind's military history, Undyne sure is a coward. All she's done her whole life is run.

 

She ran from her fear of being like mom. She ran from fear of having to experience what she did. She ran so far from trying to live down here and having her life wilt like mom's did that she left nothing behind.

 

If, as is most likely, this is all a weird, brain-made, factitious experience... It must be reflective of more than her shameful attachment to Asgore, right? So maybe... It's hard to tell, but maybe it harkens back to everything Undyne wants to do on the Surface, too? The ones she avoids doing? With the piano being inaccessible to her, it's not a stretch to think that, right?

 

On a technical level, she could do all that down here; it's not like it's impossible. Accept more of Asgore's invitations for tea, learn piano, write a piece, learn to sew, read books, listen to music... Nobody's stopping her from doing any of that, right? Everyone... Civilians, and even other members of the Guard, have lives outside of work.

 

Undyne doesn't have that luxury, though. If she wanted to climb the ranks at the speed she did, if she wanted to be worthy of all the attention and time Asgore devoted to her, if she wanted to keep him close and repay him in the only way that matters, she had to work hard. If she wanted to make her time count and not end up like mom, doubly so.

 

So Undyne told herself, anyway. The ugly truth behind every day off consumed by training and every leisure activity cast aside is that fear was the motivator. A fear of letting herself grow fond of life down here only to eventually realize there is nothing to live for while they're incarcerated and end up like mom. The fear of seeing other people, other children, have to go through the hell of losing a loved one to the hopelessness dripping from the darkness enveloping the Underground.

 

She wants to bring everyone's hopes and dreams to fruition. She wants every child, every generation after hers, to grow up with fresh air and sunlight. But it would be deceitful if she didn't admit now that she can, now that it doesn't really count, that she wants that for herself, too. Not just as poetic justice for mom, but out of a profound fear of having to live with whichever emotions were so insurmountable for her she crafted her own way to freedom the only way she knew: with fabric and thread.

 

Always behind--

 

...Nobody was there for her, to give her hope. Undyne would sooner die than remain idle while monsters' dreams are confined to this prison. That much is true, her motives were never lies. There were simply other reasons as well. Ones she ignores whenever her mind rests on them, because they're painful, or unproductive, or any other combination of useless things.

 

She wants this promotion to save everyone, to spare little kids and parents alike the suffering of hopelessness. She also wanted it to ensure she will never suffer like mom did. And, after being left alone, abandoned, as she sees saw it, she also wanted it to ensure she'd always be close to Asgore. To help him, to return the favour the only meaningful way she can.

 

In doing all of that, though, she hasn't done most of what she wanted with her life. Freedom for the sake of freedom is already a worthy cause. However, there's a lot Undyne wants to do with said freedom. Activities she longs for, those it was physically painful to part ways with when she set her sights on this path. The ones which are right there, always one choice away if she wants, yet she unfalteringly sets aside.

 

Because it would be a waste of time, or because as long as monsters are down here there's no life to live. But maybe, just maybe, now that she's dreaming nonsense she can think that there's a chance it might also be because in her haste to organize her life around survival, she's gone so far down the road she has forgotten to actually live. Her pursuit for life has, for the time being, just until they're free, stopped her from living the life she seeks.

 

...Which isn't accurate, of course. It's but another irrational fear concocted for this nightmare. Yes, there's a lot she wants to do. But there is truth in her reasoning that, if she does it down here, it won't qualify as truly living. It would be the equivalent of putting make-up on a corpse. Humans do it, apparently; yet another reason to wipe their freaky species off the face of the earth. It's meant to make corpses look better, but it doesn't make them stop being corpses.

 

Fake gardens, celebrations, festivities, hobbies... They're all the same principle: a mimicry of life, but no life on their own. Without a baseline of freedom upholding all that, monsters are not living. Merely surviving.

 

Undyne hasn't thrown her life away. It simply hasn't had the chance to begin yet. But with her hard work, in time, she will. It'll all pay off and she'll have the most beautiful life she can conceive.

 

...But time is limited. Hers and everyone's. Her hours are numbered and for the past decade none of them have been spent living. What if... What if in the end, she constructed a prison within a prison for herself?

 

She hugs her knees tighter. Just... Just stray thoughts; nothing worth listening to or devoting any attention to. It's a valid fear, maybe, to consider she might die young. Then the freedom she fought for she'll have contributed nothing to, the same as if she never tried at all, and she won't have lived her own life, either.

 

But she won't die young. Because she's strong, she isn't like mom, and Asgore needs her. Not in the same pathetic, dramatic, emotional way she needs him; but by his side in battle. She can't die until she's done something useful to justify turning her life into hardly an existence.

 

At this point, she'll take any excuse to stay close to him. Here she is, in a dream where she could go anywhere and do anything, sitting with her back to his door in hopes of catching a glimpse of him because his presence alone is comforting. She may be replaceable and forgettable to him, yet another monster he'll outlive who he shared some of his time with, but overall nobody special, nobody relevant; but to her, he is...

 

…

 

That might be something she's afraid of as well. Being meaningless. Might. Not even in a dream will she unravel this, though. Some things are best left undisturbed, right?

 

...How long has it been? How long has she sat here? For an incorporeal dream body, her legs and back are starting to ache from being in the same posture all this time. It's a welcome change from the phantom pains that rendered her prone at the start of this nightmare, but they're a hassle to deal with regardless. She gets one dream where she's a ghost and she still has to deal with physical grievances?

 

Bullshit.

 

Undyne stands up, walking back and forth. From Asgore's office door to his secretary's, then back. It--

 

Across the hall, the phone rings. Eavesdropping is rude, but none of this is happening until proven otherwise. If Undyne's mind thinks she should be able to hear what Asgore's secretary is saying, who is she to disagree?

 

Her voice is nothing like Undyne had imagined. Very rude of her brain to change pre-conceived notions like that. It's a much gentler, lilted voice than Undyne thought. It tells the person on the other side of the phone the King can't receive any calls nor be bothered, since he's on sick leave.

 

...What?

 

Undyne steps closer to the door. In a rich, melodious tone the secretary confirms what she just said, explaining the King didn't say when he would return and that, in the meantime, all calls should be derived to her.

 

Asgore never takes sick leave. This may be a dream, but until she wakes up it's Undyne's reality. She gets to worry about him, then.

 

Manners be damned. She returns to his door, crossing neatly through it. The familiar office, the wenge room encased by shelves surrounding a crowded desk, is dark. Once again, the shadows appear to wiggle and writhe, as if they were alive, in agony, ready to use their ethereal tendrils to pierce Undyne's ethereal body.

 

...She has to get out. Get out before she trips on something and doesn't get back up.

 

She retreats back to the safety light of the hallway. This... This might be a nightmare, after all unless it's real. Concern corroding the blissful comfort of nothingness, Undyne's heart pounds once more. She takes off down the corridor, any wonder for this marvelous place lagging behind her, unable to catch up, making her dash as fast as she can towards the exit.

 

Dream or otherwise, if Asgore is sick, she's going to check up on him and see if he's okay.

 

-

 

She'd never let herself into his house like this. Screw propriety, though. Undyne knows this place well enough to ignore hallways and rooms. She knows which wall to go through to end up in his bedroom.

 

She has to pass through the hallway first, no need to enter the living room. His bedroom door is open. The inside is dark, but the warm light washing over the hall from the living room is enough to outline the rough aspects of his furniture in the glum: the bed is unmade yet empty, and his desk has several books, notebooks and papers scattered about haphazardly. All the drawers are open, pulled out at different depths.

 

...This isn't right. There's something really wrong with this. No amount of hoping knowing it's a nightmare is enough to ease Undyne's mind. Asgore's the most organized person she knows. She's never been in his room, but it would be beyond bizarre for it to be this messy.

 

Something isn't right. After all, bad things happen in nightmares. Undyne can't handle the idea of Asgore suffering no mater how unreal the pain. Nobody deserves to suffer less than him.

 

She turns towards the living room. There he is. He's sitting at the table, back to the hallway, doing... something, for sure. Writing. From the way his left arm and shoulder move, he's probably writing.

 

Undyne rounds the table, standing through Asgore's sofa. Save the frown of concentration he's sporting, Asgore seems fine. He isn't coughing, he isn't overdressed because of shivers, his breath comes easily, without mucus. The only sound in the room is his even breathing and a pen scribbling furiously against the paper of... a notebook, it looks like. A purple notebook.

 

He's fine. He's not down with anything; he's alright. Still, it's not normal for Asgore to skip a work day, let alone lie about being sick. Whatever he's working on must be terribly important for him to...

 

...There's something else on the table. It's propped up before him with its back to her. A pink marble rectangle leaning against a black stand... Oh. It's the picture frame holding the photograph he took of the two of them years ago, during a training session, before Undyne lost her eye. It's the only picture of the two of them he's put up in his living room.

 

Is he writing about her, or...?

 

She takes a step towards the table, then another. This might be real, but chances are it isn't. Why would Asgore be writing something important enough to skip work over that's related to her? He wouldn't do that point blank; let alone if he can't remember her. This is her mind being itself again. The part of her that's always coveted his affection providing it in the only place he can't find out.

 

She stands behind his shoulder--

 

...He changed it. He replaced their photograph, the only one he has of them together. Now it's a picture of the bed of golden flowers in the throne room.

 

...

 

She already knew it would happen. She knew since she woke up. For years, actually. Asgore has more important things to think about than someone like her. She wasn't even good enough for her own mother; who the hell does she think she is?

 

Well. What the heck is he writing that's so important, then? What's so imperious that he just had to skip work and--?

 

He's... He's been crying.

 

Ink isn't the only thing pooling on the page he's writing on. His eyes are reddened and puffy, glassy. He blinks rapidly, but a couple of silent tears pour regardless. One stays trapped in his fur. It's too matted to stop the other one from sliding onto a corner of the notebook.

 

He changes their photo, gets rid of the only image he has of her, and he's the one crying? What is he writing? A list of every single time Undyne has let him down across the years?

 

...What is this dream? It's obviously not a pursuit for comfort. It's not a nightmare either, if it's only reflecting what Undyne already knows. She's replaceable, just another soldier. One he took pity on, one he can get rid of. She already knows that. It's not like anyone ever lets her forget.

 

The man is so massive even standing right next to his shoulder, it and his head shield most of the notebook. The benefits of being dreamt up disembodied include that Undyne can stand where he sits and he won't even notice. He might shiver, like others have, but that's about it, so--

 

Asgore squeezes the pen so tightly it cracks in sync with a quiet yet pained sob. The moment Undyne stepped into his space he started crying again.

 

...What the hell is this? Why is he...?

 

Asgore leaves the bleeding pen on the table, wipes the ink off his fingers on his shirt and takes the frame in his hands. He holds it delicately, the way he might something frail, and rubs its glass with his thumb. Two drops of water land on it next to a faint smudge of black ink, distorting the image. Asgore takes a deep breath, regarding the photograph before turning it around in his hand and popping the back lid off.

 

He takes out the picture, mutters something unintelligible under his breath and stands up brusquely. The chair's legs grate against the wooden floor as the frame he'd been holding so gently clatters against the table when he haphazardly drops it.

 

...What is he doing?

 

He heads over to the dresser, the shelves above it, and does the same to all picture frames. He takes them, pulls out the pictures, and leaves them any which way on the shelves. His movements aren't careful and graceful as usual. He shakes his head when he fails to locate whatever he seeks, growing more frantic with every upturned frame.

 

He needs help. On the off-chance this is truly happening, Undyne has go find a way to bring someone here. Someone who--

 

A white stone frame flies through the air, through her chest, and into the wall behind her, shattering on impact. Asgore runs a hand through his hair, breathing heavily.

 

It's pointless, but Undyne goes to his side. Her grey hand hovers above his arm. Even if this is a dream, or at least ultimately he can't see or feel her, her ethereal heart races as she lowers her hand in a comforting gesture. She feels nothing, but Asgore recoils, frowning as if he were in pain.

 

...Why is she having this effect on him? Everyone else shivered at most. Why is she making him sad?

 

Maybe... Maybe she just has this effect on people. Maybe Undyne's been right all along and that's why mom--

 

Asgore kneels down on one leg before a set of drawers at the bottom of the dresser. He tears the middle one open, pulling out napkins and table cloths, throwing them onto a disorganized, wrinkly pile on the floor, until his hand closes around a photo album. He balances it on his knee and opens it. The pictures are protected from the world beyond them, that moved on without them, by transparent plastic cases. Instead of regarding the faces unstuck in time smiling back at him, Asgore pulls out every photograph from its designated pocket and checks behind it before moving to the next and doing the same.

 

He's looking for a picture. That's what he was doing with the frames, too; searching for a photograph. He held the frame which used to guard their picture, got sad and began upturning every picture frame and album in his house looking for it.

 

What...?

 

That doesn't make sense. He's the one who changed it, right? If that's the case, though, why is he looking for it so desperately?

 

Unease trickles through Undyne's decaying numbness, her heart punching more holes into it with its strong beat. She looks around the house. The sofa, the TV, the kitchen and the dining table.

 

The familiar ambiance, the one that feels more like home than her barren house, radiates danger. It sends a shiver down Undyne's spectral spine.

 

...If this is a dream, it's certainly a nightmare. If it isn't, it's even wore.

 

Unable to stop Asgore from his rampage on the photo album, Undyne returns to the table. What was he writing about while looking at the photograph distressing him so much? What was so painful it made him snap his pen?

 

Reading his stuff isn't right. If it's a nightmare, though, it's a moot point. If it isn't...

 

Undyne sits on the displaced chair. If it isn't, then she's sorry. She has no way of communicating with him or with anyone. She has no clue what else to do.

 

The opening sentence is cut in half, presumably having begun on the page behind it. Undyne turns the page-- Her fingers don't connect with the paper. Of course they don't; damn it. If Asgore started writing a lot of pages ago she's going to miss most of it.

 

It already starts badly. His normally ornate yet neat writing is a messy wreck of uneven loops and cursive.

 

"...forgotten something. Or perhaps I have not. It is hard to tell, my mind is hazy today. I woke up with profound grief in my heart. Grief I have not felt since the day Toriel and I laid Chara and Asriel to rest."

 

This is definitely personal. Undyne shouldn't be reading this; not even in a dream. But he's searching for her picture, right? The constant sound of pages turned violently ahead of her doesn't leave much room for interpretation.

 

So if the problem's her, maybe he knows something about her current conundrum she doesn't?

 

"Back then I used to have the impulse to prepare meals for four people every morning. Over time I managed to get used to the solitude their deaths and her departure left in this silent house. Why it is that today, after so long, I had the instinct of preparing breakfast for more than myself is beyond me."

 

...Beyond him? They had a breakfast date, they confirmed it over text last night. She didn't come, but still. Did he really forget her, in the most literal sense, or...?

 

"The profound sorrow in my soul is incapacitating. It feels as if my life were missing a vital puzzle piece hidden in plain sight yet invisible to my eyes. As I had breakfast I kept staring at the chair before me, convinced it should have been occupied. A presence was there, with me. Or an absence, perhaps. A void, something missing, the lingering feeling of having lived through this day."

 

...Just like her. Déjà vu, he's describing it too. But that absence, the person who was supposed to be sitting in front of him, was her. ...He really doesn't remember her, doesn't he? That's... Not normal. Not that anything today is, but she's the one who's... like this. Why does Asgore also--?

 

With a frustrated sigh, he tosses the photo album to the side and digs through the drawer again. Its contents rattle as they're more thrown than taken out until Asgore pulls out a red-bound thick tome, opens it, and resumes his desperate search.

 

Through the cacophony of his violent page-turning and heavy breathing, Undyne takes in his words.

 

"It isn't that alone. This nostalgia, this pain, comes with a plethora of absences beyond that of a mysterious presence I kept expecting to materialize out of thin air. The lack of... something -no, someone-, is omnipresent in this house.

 

"It is in the kitchen and in the living room. On the sofa and in the hallway. Down in the throne room, under the beams of sunlight. It is an inaudible voice which has joined the choir of silent screams cursing this home.

 

"I have had the impulse to head over to the training area since I awoke despite having nothing to do there. Once I realized this mental state would not allow me to work today, after finding the picture frame, I called the guards at the training facility and asked if, perchance, I had left something there which would explain my fixation with that location?

"They said there was nothing out of the ordinary, nor anything of mine, besides the training trident which I often leave there.

 

"...Why do I have a training trident? I have never personally trained recruits, that is not my job. Yet why does it feel like I should know why I ordered it made? Why do I have the sensation I was elated to have it forged, as if I were looking forwards to using it?

 

"With who?"

 

...This is a nightmare. This is a nightmare, this isn't happening. This can't be happening, it's--

 

Behind and beneath and around--

 

--A nightmare. It's a nightmare. Undyne will wake up any moment now.

 

"I am not sure if staying was a good idea, though. I wandered the house as if I could find the answers to my queries hidden in any nook or cranny. The piano lured me in. The piano which has not emitted a sound since my children last played it was calling out to me. The sound of a B flat echoed in my head over and over. It does so even now, in the dead quiet of this forsaken mausoleum to the life I once had.

 

"That is the first note Asriel ever played. The first key his little fingers pressed at four years of age. Why is that memory not sufficient to explain why I am fixated with that pitch? Why does it feel like there is something more to my fixation with it? It was an F sharp for Chara; what could I be missing of such dire importance with a B flat?"

 

...A B flat was also the first note Undyne played.

 

"My wanderings, the repeated up and down through the house, eventually lead me to the dresser, to the pictures. I thought maybe one of them held answers, or at least a hint, as to what the pain burrowed in my soul today is. Then I found it. The reason for which I dusted off my old diary and started writing anew; to document all these oddities since everything points to my memory failing at last.

 

"The picture within the rose marble frame has been changed. It is one of the garden now. I do not remember what the original photograph was. What I do know for certain is that it was a picture of one of my "

 

A dollop of ink consumes the rest of the sentence.

 

Undyne reads it again. This... This is all about her. The parts about Asgore's house could be about anyone, even if Asgore doesn't have so many visitors nowadays. It could be about someone he outlived, an old friend he never mentioned to Undyne, one of the many secrets he keeps for himself and him alone.

 

But the B flat, the sunbeams in the throne room, the breakfast date this morning, the training trident, the picture frame... It's about her.

 

The reason Asgore's feeling this bad, the reason he's brutalizing his living room, that he's so upset... He's thinking about her. Not in a repulsed way, either. It's not like he's getting rid of the picture frame, or described any of these feelings as the relief of having forgotten something unpleasant.

 

He said... He said he hasn't felt this way since he lost his--

 

There, out of the corner of her eye. A little yellow flower with a face stares at her from between two bars of the railing descending to the basement. It blinks at her, then smiles.

 

...It can see her. It...

 

It found her. She has to run. She--

 

"...Can you see me?"

 

Her voice is raspy from having spent who knows how many hours silent and the intense emotions tearing her inside out. The little flower cocks its head, grinning wider. ...So wide the bottom of its mouth slides off its disc floret.

 

...She's seen this monster before. Not a monster; but a thing. Where? Where did she see them? It's so familiar it makes her hands tingle and flex, prepared to summon spears. She twiddles her fingers, itching to conjure them.

 

She should. Right now. Everything within her tells her she should, but should she? Can she trust her own head right now?

 

...She has to keep her cool. She can't threaten a civilian with a weapon. On the off chance this isn't a dream, she has to keep her wits about her.

 

It's not a civilian. It's the reaper itself.

 

"Can you hear me? Who are you?"

 

Its grin becomes wider, impossibly so, as green vines ascend from the dark bowels of the basement, twirling around the bannister.

 

...The tendrils of darkness.

 

A dozen grey spears hum to life as they shoot towards it. It giggles quietly, as if it knew her spears don't affect anything but her. How does it--?

 

Against all odds, when the first spear reaches its head, the flower's floret sinks into its

 

*

 

Panting, Asriel's eyes shoot open in the throne room. He looks down at himself, palming his face with the end of one of his vines. That disgusting usurper. Sly bitch. The pain from her weapon still burns. She almost killed him! Replacing him alone wasn't enough; she tried to freaking kill him!

 

He'll show her. Oh, he'll show her good. She's going to regret the day she...

 

...Wait, that makes no sense, it shouldn't be possible. He's been watching her all day long; everything goes through her. Her weapons, her magic, shouldn't--

 

...When that stupid goner kid became grey like her, Asriel could still touch them. He was able to get as many more kills as he wanted. He could toss them, catch them, hurt them. The cavernous walls of Hotland didn't harm them anymore, but his vines did.

 

...Huh. That's something he didn't test out when he was figuring out the specifics of erasing someone from existence. Then again, the kid just cowered and cried; they didn't fight back like the pathetic loser they are.

 

Maybe it's because Asriel's the one deleting them in the first place he can still interact with them? Just him and him alone?

 

Well, that's good. It means he can kill her a few more times. To eradicate her from dad's heart for good, that is. Because he noticed Asriel replaced the photograph and went ballistic despite no longer remembering her and her finally turning grey; so clearly what Asriel's done so far to eliminate the weed isn't enough.

 

Asriel ruffles his petals, exhaling slowly. That was scary; he'll have to be more careful moving forwards. He can't taunt her or be seen by her in any way lest he be stuck loading whether he wants to or not every time she threatens his safety.

 

That said though, since dad still feels longing for her, it's... it's okay to kill her some more, right? She deserves it after trying to kill him; this is more self-defence than ever before and it's all thanks to her. Last time seeing her die was so much fun. Convincing the guy in the alleyway she was the one who'd stolen his watch and seeing him kill her so easily because she was already a shell of a person was hila--

 

...Different. It was different; a kind of death Asriel couldn't try before because it's taken almost 300 deaths to break her. Then again, getting entertainment from her after all she's done and the hassle erasing her's turning out to be is fair payment, right?

 

She's tried to kill Asriel twice. It's personal, and maybe it's just a little fun. As compensation for her existence. After all, if she didn't exist at all, Asriel wouldn't be stuck here doing this; he'd just have dad all to himself and that'd be the end of it.

 

It's personal, and it's... Alright, not fun. But it's entertaining. And that's fine, because at the end of the day it's her own dang fault.

 

That means Asriel can get creative moving forwards. He can try a lot of new things he hadn't considered. Now that nobody can see her, there's a whole new world of possibilities! He can make it so--

 

...So that he can get rid of her so he can get his emotions back. Right. He'll erase her from dad's soul for good and then he won't ever have to kill again. She'll just be a grey stain, walking around like a ghost. Like that dumb goner kid, always looking over their siblings load after load. Pathetic.

 

...But if Asriel had to kill her for any reason, like her being persistent or something... Or just as annoying as she is naturally... Well, as far as he doesn't load or reset, once he manages to kill her it'll be fine, right? She'll be gone, dad will be his and his alone, and that'll be the end of it.

 

But if he had to load and off the weed again, he'd have no consequences. Not that he wants to kill, of course. He just has to. And, if he had to again, he could. And if he was in that situation, he could use a bunch of cool ideas he hasn't had the chance to try out yet.

 

...Hypothetically, of course.

 

Purely hypothetically.

Notes:

Prompt: Mugging gone wrong

Chapter 25: ...Uh Oh

Notes:

Hi!!

So here we are!! One chapter away from the end, save the epilogue!! Ah, i'm one excited demon ^^

So this chapter's over 10% of the total word count of this fic. Unhinged, a mess to proofread, but it's here!! I hope that you can enjoy and that it's worth your time. Thank you!!

Out of breath, Undyne shoots into a sitting position.

 

What the hell?! What the hell was that about?! The fear from her nightmare still courses through her body, forcing her to stand and move, walk out to the kitchen. Might as well make some tea while she's here; she can't wait to have some at Asgore's.

 

She was grey, invisible to everyone except to a hauntingly familiar flower, and Asgore was feeling miserable and he'd stayed at home. He'd changed the--

 

…?

 

...Her hand. It... It's going clean through the cabinet door, unable to touch it, and it's grey like in her dream...

 

No... No no, that was just a dream. Just a dream, a nightmare. And she was aware of that through it all. So it's fine, because she woke up, and now she's alright. She's a-okay, she's not like mom, who wasn't insane, and who Undyne couldn't have inherited anything from because there was nothing to inherit. She's just... right, she's just exhausted. Because she works too hard, maybe. But she's fine. She blinks the tiredness out of her eye, rubbing it hard, and reaches out for the cab--

 

She can't touch the cabinet door. She wasn't standing too far from it, so why can't she feel it? She opens her eye.

 

She's still grey.

 

Her heart pounds. Sure enough, she can't touch anything. She phases through doors, walls, furniture and her piano alike. Her incorporeal head stings from the tension.

 

...This...

 

"...Can you see me?"

 

...This can't be happening.

 

*

 

"Yes, I will be fine. Worry not."

 

His secretary is kind and gentle. What Asgore likes most about her is her ability to mind her own business. Although this is third sick day Asgore has taken in five centuries, she does not push the issue. She will take care of everything and inform anyone who needs him to direct their queries to her.

 

Asgore hangs up the phone, concluding all instructions he needed to give out in order to stay home today.

 

First he ordered the Royal Guard to be more alert than usual, as well as Dr. Alphys. Today they must inform Asgore of any and every anomaly, no matter how small. He did not give them a reason as to why, but they will obey regardless and that is all which matters.

 

This feeling in his chest of having been hollowed out, this numb pain coursing through his body, he has only felt on one occasion. Echoes of it still assail him when he least expects, but never like this. Those are the remainder of the wound, the part that will never heal.

 

What he awoke with today is the exact, indescribable pain inflicted upon him the night Asriel and Chara died. Just as agonizing, just as throbbing. A vivisection performed on Asgore's soul, exposing every painful, irritated nerve ending to every kind of stimulation the world has to offer. He woke up with tears in his eyes. His chest and throat have been taut from keeping them in ever since.

 

Intense déjà vu runs like an undercurrent through it all. Exacerbated by this house, the memories within it, and, oddly enough, thoughts of the training facility from time to time, it is significantly stronger than what Asgore is used to. Yet despite being more fierce than normal, it is but a faint echo lost under the weight of the profound grief he roused with.

 

Asgore cannot recall having dreamt of anything capable of causing such an intense emotional reaction. If his dreams lead him to the funeral, to the divorce, to that piercing blue, remaining eye staring at him through a half-closed lid, or to the other five murders he committed in the name of freedom, he cannot remember. And still, for the most part, at this point in life dreams do not usually seize him in a choke hold so potent he cannot bring himself to go to work and entomb his pain in duty.

 

Hence alerting the Guard. This is not normal even for him; best to be safe rather than sorry. Déjà vu alone cannot indicate the presence of the seventh victim human. But whatever this is, it is so, so much more than just that. While it is most likely nothing but a construct of Asgore's old mind, there is less harm to be found in prevention than in carelessness.

 

The grief and the déjà vu could be linked. Provided Asgore's fears are correct and there is reason to fear a human's appearance, Asgore will soon be forced to lead an army to the Surface.

 

...He cannot push it back any longer; this might be the end of the road. The freedom he promised his people could have arrived. The final sacrifice to summon it could be on their way, and if they are, Asgore will...

 

…

 

...It is possible. It would be reasonable enough to be in shambles at the prospect of being forced to slaughter another innocent or open the cabinet where the buttercups are and abandon his people to their fates like a cowar--. But still... Why the training facility, then? Has he fought the human there in some other timeline?

 

It does not feel right. ...What else could it be, though? What is Asgore overlooking?

 

His children's absence is a pain Asgore is close with. The door separating him from them, the one under which their quiet voices slide and fill his house with silence torn by the screams from downstairs, he made peace with long ago. Yet the pain, the absence, digging into his heart today, is... different. As if another voice had joined the quiet choir of departed angels haunting him. One so silent, so ephemeral, he cannot hear a trace of it.

 

He can only feel its absence.

 

...That is unreasonable. It has no logical explanation. There is nobody Asgore has allowed himself to become so close to in this time. The friends he has made in these centuries, the ones blessed with regular lifespans he has outlived, also cause him pain. Yet not like this. Nothing in the world could elicit such suffering if not the death of one of his own children.

 

But his children are dead and buried. They have been for five hundred years now. Is this some form of delayed mourning, then? But why this morning? Why so strong? For all the times he awakens with a start, slowly grounding himself into the present when his mind is still stuck in a funeral finished so long ago, he is never this devastated.

 

There is a pressure in his chest buried under the tautness. The same he felt when it sunk in he would never hold his children tight again. A knot in his throat, a desire to cry, of tears burning in his eyes.

 

Is it because, if he is correct and there is a human nearby, he will soon administer the same loss to countless households, monster and human alike? Is this his punishment for promising genocide he is now bound to...?

 

...Bound, correct? Bound by his grief, by his anger, his desire for vengeance. Bound and tethered by the inexcusable mistake of likening hope to murder. Bound without escape except...

 

...That is no escape at all. That is merely the ultimate form of ducking responsibility for the mess he made.

 

What would Asgore not give to undo it? What would he not sacrifice to find another way?

 

…?

 

…Another way...

 

*

 

In the violent, howling wind tossing her hair around, Undyne extends a hand towards the downpour of rain. Her grey scales are pelleted with large raindrops. They drip off her fingers and vanish against the white cobblestones of New Home.

 

Everything's dry except for her.

 

...It's... It's a dream because it has to be. But it also feels... oddly real. Like a memory, almost. One long forgotten.

 

A memory of untying a child's foot from some vines under a stream of water pooling on the streets of New Home. Of going out with Asgore into the storm, worried about him, only to push him out of the way of the Music Hall's ruins.

 

She stands before it right now. Construction workers are doing their best to fix it from the untouched scaffolding, screaming at one another over the bustle of machinery and the steady thud thud thud of a hammer somewhere. If the storm were real, the scaffolding would have dissolved into a wreck of mismatched parts, the workers would be nowhere to be seen, and the building's facade would hurtle down to kill... her.

 

...Which can't be, because grey or not... she's here, she can't... She can't be...

 

The earth grinds as something makes its way out, brushing up against her arm, but the city stays the same. The ground itself remains unchanged; there's nothing here. The citizens of New Home march through the hellish storm unaware, untouched, as if the irate swath of grey were only for Undyne alone.

 

...Dreams are meant to feel real, right? That's their whole thing. Undyne's no lucid dreamer, she's never been aware of being in a dream. They always feel like reality. One she can't escape until she wakes up and realizes the absurdity of the garbage her mind produced in its slumber.

 

Surely no matter how real this feels it has to be the same? It feels real precisely because it's a dream?

 

...Or is it destined to be something else because she's aware? In her dreams, after all, she doesn't question the veracity of whatever she lives through.

 

Ever since she "woke up," assuming she isn't still asleep, odd things have been happening.

 

She looked in the direction of her bed expecting to find vines poking out from it at the exact moment they did. Except, despite the sound of cracking wood and the accompanying feelings of piercing pain covering her body, nothing indicated the vines were there. They elicited so much fear, too. And despite it all, her mattress and bed base were as unscathed as the Music Hall and its workers are.

 

Just the same, ever since she walked into the Capital, Undyne's been in the middle of this... storm, to call it something. A storm that exists solely for her; much like she's the only one who can hear the stone streets grinding and cracking under the pressure of the intangible water and wind. They're not; obviously. Everyone would have noticed if they were, and besides...

 

Their integrity is intact. There isn't even a hint of a crack anywhere in sight; the sounds are purely in Undyne's head. Three times now the phantom crackles of thunder came accompanied by an intense yet millisecond-short, burning and paralyzing pain.

 

It hurts now, too; albeit it's a different kind of ache. Dull all over, as if bones were splintering and flesh was being rendered asunder and she were about to turn to dust. As if part of the Music Hall had indeed hit her. As if she'd died saving Asgore.

 

...Dead, huh...?

 

She... She can't be dead, she's here. She can't be dead; not yet. Not without having lived, or at minimum given some form of meaning to her death.

 

The vines, those tentacles of darkness, weren't confined to her bedroom. They've stalked her through Waterfall and New Home, overpowering whichever hold the noose has had Undyne's psyche in for the past ten years. So unavoidable, so ever present, as if they really had, maybe in a another life, chased her through the Underground.

 

At one point she stepped on what seemed like yet another area of Waterfall, unremarkable, and a slew of vines erupted from the ground directly beneath her. They didn't, of course. Nothing truly happened. It simply felt as if they had, as if Undyne could remember them doing so, and her body responded accordingly with erupting pain.

 

These vines she keeps thinking of... They're an invasive species, nothing native to the Underground. As foreign as she seems to be to a world that can't perceive her. Every time she senses, -recalls?- the vines, different points in her body ache in turn. Almost as if it were reacting to being injured, killed, by those vines in some... past life?

 

The storm rages on, invisible water attempting to knock her over. Which it can't, because it doesn't exist. Under its murky, incorporeal surface lay vines. The invasive ones, the ones she's never seen but could draw from memory. Undyne knows where they are. If she approaches them she can feel them. Their tight grasp around her ankles and shins, tearing through scales, skin and muscle alike to wrap snug against her bones.

 

They don't trip her or stop her, much like the non-existent water does nothing to her, but the sensation is so... vivid, and visceral.

 

Where would Undyne have picked up something even remotely similar to being cut so deeply? She's sustained no comparable injury, so why does it feel so real?

 

She remembers more. She remembers seeing a noose swaying from a grey roof where there was no surface for the fabric to be tied to. She remembers being restrained by vines somewhere in Hotland, near MTT's stupid hotel. The pain of thorns tearing her flesh apart, pulling bones out of socket and removing digits entirely. The same fingers, unmarked but burning in pain all the same, are getting drenched in a dry city by a storm affecting only her.

 

...It has to be a dream. A bad one at that. But if it were would she be questioning it?

 

If it isn't a dream, though, she's officially insane. Just like m--

 

If Undyne's to take the sensations in her body as trustworthy witnesses, she's died many times within the same day. Coughing up some foul-tasting fluid, writhing on a hospital bed, lured by a voice in a dark alley, pushed off a cliff on more than one occasion, paralyzed, stabbed, torn apart, tortured. The pain of each demise lives in her bones, telling the story of every time her life ended, reassuring her it's true.

 

But that... How would that even work? She didn't attend enough education to understand the philosophical and spiritual implications of--

 

...It isn't the first time she has that thought, is it?

 

...No, that wouldn't make any sense. It's just... It's just déjà vu is a bitch. And it's hitting hard today for some reason?

 

...

 

...That doesn't feel as convincing as it should. But then what else could be happening? This... Surely this can't be real, right...?

 

While most of her bizarre "memories," to call them something, revolve around death, there's many that don't. In the background of the storm she's literally and figuratively in, under layers of fear and horror, other events lay submerged.

 

Moments of strength and of vulnerability. Of her emotions running so wild she was forced to pry her own scars open and peer deep within them. Acknowledging she's always been afraid of mom having something inheritable, of being like her, of living like her, of living down here knowing her life will wither without freedom, of living at all.

 

"Recollections" of talking to Asgore, arguing with Asgore, worrying for Asgore, being ordered by Asgore. Over, and over, and over. The same morning, the same pieces, arranged in a different order each time.

 

Going to Waterfall and training, staying with him, staying home, not having the chance to get out of bed at all. Having poisoned tea, playing piano with him, going to the training area. They overlap in her memories head, a confusing mass of every potential way the same 24 hour period might unfold.

 

It... It's too much. The overflow of emotions in Undyne's head is only manageable because she's become as numb as she did in the direct aftermath of walking in on mom's dust. The nothingness that filled her small chest until their neighbour walked in and broke the spell, confirming with her presence what Undyne had seen wasn't just happening within the confines of her mind, where she could snap out of it; but rather in the real world, where no amount of wishful thinking would save her and mom was truly gone.

 

That numbness came and went for the first few months. It was her sole visitant besides Asgore back then. At times, Undyne stared at a wall, so her caretakers said. She would nod or shake her head when questioned, but she gave no other indications of being aware of her surroundings. Her memories from those instances are nothing but a blur. A distorted mass of emptiness being slowly invaded by the sorrow and anger which came with acknowledging her new reality.

 

It feels more or less like that. Except mom's death, mom's intentional departure, leaving her alone, was somehow more comprehensible and easy to make sense of than this.

 

Yesterday, or in her previous dream, maybe, Undyne felt the same at first, too. It lasted a while, until she went to Asgore's house and saw the flower.

 

Until then she was in this same... spaced out, disoriented state, as she is now. Aware enough to know she isn't quite present, yet not present enough to do anything about it, fix it, or even care to. As of now she is merely a vessel for disorganized experiences flooding into her with the same force the water did New Home during this storm that never happened. Memories of feeling loved, of being confused and angry.

 

Memories of that little yellow flower.

 

The holes serving as its face, the carvings in its disc, pierce through the protective apathy Undyne's mind has cast upon her. That thing could see her. That thing kept her captive in Waterfall and tore her apart. It pushed her off the ledge, it tried to convince her Asgore had forgotten her, to get her to lose hope. It visited her at night when she was in the hospital, it's the one controlling the vines.

 

...Asgore's son, or so it said. There was a time Undyne tried being nice to it, befriending it. Long, long ago. She was embarrassingly jealous of it, of how Asgore would have no more need to spend leisure time with her if it was around, but she was happy for them regardless. Asgore deserves happiness, his children should have never been murdered, and every child needs a parent. Even if it meant Undyne no longer had a place in Asgore's private life and their relationship would be severed to only fit into a professional setting, she was happy for the two of them.

 

But Asgore still wanted her around, for some reason. He kept inviting her, and it gave her a glimmer of hope. She could only imagine how horrifying it must have been to die and be reborn in a body so fundamentally different to that of a monster. She did her best to be helpful to Asriel. She promised if she ever found his sibling she would tell him when she found out he entertained the hope of Chara having also returned.

 

All for him to attack her. There's no chronology to these "memories" and emotions drowning Undyne more so than the invisible storm. They bump into and off of each other, turning every last corner of her conscience into a time and place at once now and not now. Today, and not today. She's but an observer, still as she is amidst this storm, watching the memories collide in her mind.

 

But, if she had to pinpoint her first death, she'd bet it was at the top of the cliff, hanging out with the flower she thought she could trust, was her friend. Maybe because it doesn't fit the pattern of any other death, or maybe because of some subconscious thought process she can't grasp. Whatever it is, it feels right. A certainty embedded into her as much as phantom thorns and vines.

 

She continues walking through the city as if she were being pushed around by the intangible water and wind. She walks through people sometimes. They're dry, merely shivering at metaphysical contact with her.

 

Asgore had a different reaction, though. When this happened last time, Asgore cried.

 

More than that, it looked... It looked that, while he'd genuinely forgotten her (not metaphorically, not as in "lost interest" in her presence, not as in "too busy for her,") he remembered... something. Something that made him miss her, that made him really, really sad to not be with her. He was looking for their picture together so desperately, and all he wrote... The damn flower interrupted...

 

...The flower. If there's any chance any of this is real, that flower might be there. It says Asgore's its father, after all. And, for better or worse, that vile thing is the only thing that can see Undyne.

 

She should go to Asgore's. It's not like she has anything to do beyond wandering, anyway; and that's not getting her anywhere. If she's over at Asgore's at least Undyne can keep an eye out for that flower, keep it away from him. If this is a dream, a hallucination, an adverse reaction to something she ate, she can feel silly about it when she comes to. At least she'll do so with the conviction she was a good soldier and protected her King come hell or high water.

 

...

 

Screw it. She's in a maybe dream, maybe limbo, maybe madness state. She can admit it and it won't have consequences, nobody will know, and she already knows, anyway, so lying to herself under these circumstances is pretty pointless.

 

She's gonna go protect her father. And if it turns out none of this is happening she'll feel like a blithering moron later. Best case scenario she's being an idiotic worry-wart in her own head. Worst case scenario all this is real and Asgore really does need someone to protect him from that thing.

 

He cares about her. And even if he didn't, there are no gambles she's taking with his life. Enough wandering around aimlessly; she's got an old timer to keep safe.

 

*

 

Restless, Asgore holds the frame in trembling hands. This was not the picture he had framed in it. What was it? This was certainly not it.

 

Why would he take a photograph of the spot his son died on?

 

Just looking at it brigs to mind the wet sound Chara's body made as it fell when Asriel's body exploded into dus--

 

Floor swaying beneath him, Asgore steadies himself against the wall next to the dresser. It was an important photograph. One of... Of him and the kids. Of him with his children. What pose they were in, if Toriel was there or not, he does not remember. But it was a photograph most vital. He can feel it in his heart. Being parted from the mysterious picture feels like being severed from one of the last things he has left of them.

 

Asgore sets it down on the table and sits before it. ...What picture was it? Why was it not hidden away from sight in a photo album, like the rest? He has taken a cursory look through the other photographs on his shelves. They are all correct, all familiar except this one. Questions of who it unstuck from time and why it has been changed cross his mind occasionally, but they get drowned out in the panic and profound loss having this picture taken from him cause.

 

What was it? Who was in it? When was it taken?

 

Why can't he remember?

 

SGlzIGRhdWdodGVyLg==

 

This is but another layer of oddity to this blighted day. He was trying to make sense of the faint whisper of an idea he had earlier, but the profound sorrow of loss kept growing and growing within him until it became larger than he could contain, it pressed up into his mind and he could no longer think.

 

The ache between his ribs throbbed so much he doubted reminiscing all he's lost for once would do more harm than he was already suffering from. The pictures which hurt too much to dispose of and too much to regard could hardly make his situation any worse. And so, Asgore opened the photo albums for the first time since his family fell apart.

 

For a while he was correct: Asriel and Chara's little faces smiling back at him from within the photo album, so close yet so far away, brought him a modicum of comfort, at least. Then, looking up as he turned a page, almost by accident, he realized the picture in the pink marble frame has been swapped and the peaceful lull became a thorn in his side as well.

 

...He should be attempting to make sense of the idea he had before it is consumed by the pain instead of wallowing in his own misery. It was tenuous and frail; a silhouette in his mind with no words to solidify nor define its shape. If Asgore waits too long to unravel it and discern if there was anything worthwhile in there besides an old fool's despair he will be unable to make sense of it. Yet every single synapse in his brain is clogged up by grief.

 

For all Asgore knows, this is the day he has feared for so long. The day he has eluded and pushed back to his people's detriment. The day the consequences of his actions corner him. If he is correct and there is indeed a human in the Underground, Asgore will have to take action one way or another. Remaining idle ends in his people dying buried under ground. To not do anything would be worse. He has a duty to his people, they look at him for hope.

 

The human children looked at him, too. Some with hatred, some with wide eyes pleading mercy--

 

"I'm Imani, I'm fifteen. I wasn't doing anything when that guy captured me, I swear! I just want to go back--"

 

Asgore bows his head, exhaling slowly. It does nothing to alleviate the pain in his chest. A mesh between the sorrow of the children he lost, the ones whose lives he stole, and the ones his war will reap; and the repulsion, the inability, to go up to the Surface only to kill the same people his child once belonged to.

 

The ones who can be as kind and innocent as Chara was. Just as loving, just as precious. The ones Asgore, whatever he becomes, will murder.

 

There is no pit in hell profound enough for him. None to accommodate all his sins.

 

...He must do it, though. It is his duty. When it comes to humanity it is kill or be killed. Humans have made clear there is no option for peace. And still... He had an idea, if only for a moment. It was fleeting, burnt away by pain, but it existed.

 

Was it truly just transient? Was it his idea at all? Or, if he is correct in his concerns of a human being in the Underground, could it be one of the...?

 

...Not memories. Asgore never retains memories proper when humans fiddle with time; yet he does seem to know things he should not. About the humans themselves, mostly. But also less frequently about the events leading up to encountering them. It is always in the form of déjà vu, and is that not what he has been consumed by since he awoke?

 

If there is the slightest chance at all his idea is less “his”, or less an “idea,” and more one of those bizarre, intangible, inexplicable recollections he learnt in another timeline, should he not examine it? Even if it winds up being a fruitless endeavour is Asgore not obligated to at minimum consider it instead of standing here, licking his wounds and achieving nothing?

 

Thinking about it now, suffocated in sorrow as Asgore is, is as effective as trying to retain water between his fingers. The emotions making his heart thunder also beat his mind and logic into a corner. Yet if he truly had an idea, the miracle solution he has been awaiting since that little girl's corpse was placed in his arms as the soldier awaited praise, of all things, he cannot afford to let it go.

 

Then again, a good leader Asgore is not. He is merely a coward. Perhaps that is why he is unmoving, staring at a picture frame, instead of pulling himself together.

 

It could be nothing but a waste of time, simply a daydream ungrounded in reality. But if it is not, Asgore would not forgive himself for allowing it to fade into the obscurity of oblivion. Even if nothing he does not can save him nor his people anymore, it is worth a try.

 

He needs... First of all, Asgore must clear his mind. And for that he must first unblock his heart of the paralyzing pain consuming it whichever its origin. He tried playing piano earlier, yet it is impossible. As effective as that would be, its silence is less painful than attempting to play it alone. Who did he normally play it with?

 

What... Who does his head believe itself to have forgotten?

 

IkhleSwgb2xkIHRpbWVyLiI=

 

…

 

Thinking is not working; he needs pen and paper. The picture being wrong, the déjà vu, the fear of the final human's arrival, the sorrow of loss for someone who does not exist, the phantom idea... They might be connected. They probably are not, but what does Asgore have left to lose? This is most likely the conclusion of his sins catching up to him, of the voices from the basement never allowing him to forget the depravity of his crimes.

 

Whatever is going on, if there is any order to it at all, attempting to unfurl it in his head is proving vain. Is his mind not the cause of this deplorable state to begin with?

 

What Asgore needs then, if not a piano, is paper. Pen and paper, effective immediate. Nothing is making a shred of sense. There is no reason for him to feel this grief. If there is and the cause is a human, Asgore owes it to them to try everything. Even if it does not save them, even if it does not exonerate him.

 

He cannot take the seventh life. He always knew he would not do it.

 

Tripping over the carpet, Asgore makes his way to his room. This is all for naught, there is no other way. But he has to consider it at minimum.

 

There is no point in turning on the light, what he needs is in the first drawer of his desk. It has not been used in so long, but it should have plenty of space for him to empty his chaotic thoughts onto.

 

He grabs a pen from the stationary cup. The cap gets caught on something else, a ruler or some scissors, or maybe another pen. Whatever it is, it scatters writing utensils over his desk.

 

No matter, no matter. What Asgore is thinking of, what he is feeling, is too nebulous in his head alone. He must commit it to paper before it evaporates.

 

He pulls the drawer open and palms inside--

 

Books there are many, but not his diary. Where was it?

 

Asgore opens every drawer beneath his desk. Books, books, more books. Thick and thin, long and short-- There. This is the leather cover he sought. It is at the bottom of a pile of books. Asgore pulls on it until it comes out. The books make a dull clatter against the wooden drawer. Off to the living room again; there is too much of a mess here to sit down and write and he will not waste a second on anything that isn't writing.

 

...What is it that is driving him despite the pain? Is it inspiration? Despair? Both? Something else? He knows the end to this tale is found not within the pages of a notebook, but carved behind the cupboard in his kitchen.

 

He has known all along. Otherwise he would not have kept those around.

 

...Still. If what he reads upon coming down from this emotional ride is nothing but the disjointed ideas of an old fool, he will have wasted a morning; nothing will have significantly changed. Instead of focusing on the human, of preparing himself for the inevitable end, come it today or not, he will have spent hours writing nothing but ramblings.

 

If, however, it happens to be something else... Something, perhaps, tied to the déjà vu plaguing him, something he learnt in some other timeline and promptly forgot...

 

...It is not. It is more certainly not. But there is nothing to lose in trying. Asgore grips his pen and opens the notebook.

 

Here goes nothing.

 

*

 

Curiosity tugs at Undyne in the living room's direction. Asgore's writing more than yesterday, without her standing through him and making him snap his pen. Besides writing for longer, uninterrupted, the day is repeating step by step as it did... yesterday? In Undyne's dream?

 

Whatever it is, it feels like reiterating is all time has been doing ever since this flower appeared in the Underground, or in Undyne's head.

 

Then again, she can't let her guard down. The point of coming here today wasn't snooping what Asgore's up to, but rather keeping that flower away from him just in case. And, if possible, getting answers.

 

"And now even he doesn't care. Even he's forgotten you. Do you know how long we've been here for? It's been--”

 

...Wishful thinking and little else. The flower won't give her a single word of truth. All it has are lies and an arsenal of pain.

 

She patrols the house hallway up and down. She'd go down to the basement, where it was luring her to yesterday, or in her previous dream, but precisely because it was trying to get her to go down there she won't. Giving herself up to the enemy like that, going to their home turf, is rather stupid. And Undyne might be dreaming, may be mad, but stupid's something she's yet to be. She hasn't been stupid in very, very long.

 

No, she won't leave Asgore's side. Whatever's happening, whatever all this is... She has to keep moving. She has to continue going forwards, she has to do something. Doing nothing isn't an option. It only leads to losing hope, and then...

 

...Then ending up like mom.

 

And maybe, maybe if this is what the rest of Undyne's life is going to be, be it by insanity or by somehow it all being real, maybe that's not such a bad thing. But she's not there yet, so why the hell would she consider it, or do anything which may facilitate it?

 

There are many things she can't do right now, like playing piano, or reading a book. Talking to Asgore, going out for a leisurely walk, preparing a home-cooked meal. But there's one thing she can do; and that's look out for the flower.

 

If this is real or not... It's real to Undyne, right? This is the reality she's in right now. It'll come to some abrupt end soon if when she wakes up, but in the meantime it's obvious that no amount of wishing or hoping's going to snap her out of it. So might as well make it count, right? The only thing she can still do is keep that thing away from Asgore. Watch out, keep an eye open. Do her job as a soldier, as someone who cares a lot about him.

 

He stops writing from time to time and regards the pink picture frame with his eyes once again containing all the sadness in the world behind the green irises. "Sorrowful green" isn't a shade of colour Undyne was ever taught about in art class. Then again, it also doesn't exist outside of Asgore's eyes.

 

...This can't be real because people aren't turned grey and erased from everyone's memories. That's not a thing that happens in the real world. That's for the plot of movies, for dreams, and for insanity. It's not something reserved for factual reality.

 

But everything one isn't supposed to be able to do in dreams, Undyne can. If she pinches herself it hurts, if she holds her breath she runs out of air. She can read, space-time is consistent, there are way too many details for her brain to conjure while it's sleeping...

 

...But there's also a lot going on that can't possibly be real? Like the fact that in this very instant she's standing inside the accent table Asgore used to replace the one she skewered with her spear nine years ago. People don't become incorporeal in real life. That's something for fiction, right?

 

Unless that flower... If that thing's real, it's been somehow screwing with time.

 

Befriending her or killing her, doing it fast or slow, getting Asgore to kill her...

 

...Asgore didn't kill her. Dream or not, he didn't. The first time, something echoed rather loudly somewhere behind him and he fell forwards. His eyes were wide with surprise, with horror as he realized he was about to--

 

Undyne's intangible gills burn. The sensation travels deep into her throat, much like two of the trident's prongs did that time.

 

Something ran into him from behind, and the only creature with enough vines to wrap the entire Underground in puppet strings and have them all dance to its whims is that thing.

 

The second time he... Asgore did punch her. Quite hard, when she wasn't expecting it, when she felt safe. And she died. But for the second before, he was staring at somewhere behind her. He bore the exact same haunted expression he did during the storm where the Music Hall's facade almost crushed him. He was running away, he saw something and stopped, lost focus, lost his tridents. It was as if, in both occasions, he'd seen a ghost.

 

And as for the tea... Asgore wouldn't poison her. He just wouldn't. Every time she's died and he's been around he's been a wreck. He's cried for her, for crying out loud. The King of all monsters who lost all his family and somehow found the strength to keep on leading his people without faltering cried for an unwanted child like her. As if there weren't droves of those in the Underground, festering in orphanages like the one mom dumped her in after she decided to leave.

 

It's... It's all an angry scribble. Twisting and turning, winding on itself, making the coils tighter and tighter around Undyne's mind. But Asgore didn't do it. That thing did. Whatever it is, it gave him the wrong blend.

 

And it's also the reason he forgot about her. That he saw her and hardly recognized her at first, then not at all. There was a brief period where Asgore did remember her, but only so far as she was in front of him in the moment, right? That... That must've come before the full-blown forgetting, right?

 

Who'd've thought ethereal heads could get such intense headaches?

 

All of this can't be real, and at the same time it couldn't matter less if it is or isn't. Either way, Undyne can't return to reality. Assuming this isn't, which is the only sane assumption. So while she's here she'll do what she can, and all these distracting ponderings are futile.

 

When that damned flower appears she's going to try getting answers out of it. And if she can't, she'll kill it so it leaves Asgore and the rest of the Underground the hell alone.

 

Nobody's safe with that creature on the loose. As the future Captain of the Royal Guard, even now Undyne will protect everyone with her life.

 

*

 

He will need to read this again when his chest isn't trembling with contained emotion and parental sorrow, but it seems... It seems, at least for now, he had a coherent idea.

 

Messy words spanning multiple pages are laid out in Asgore's diary. Not what it was intended for, for sure, yet it could know no more meaningful use than this.

 

He did not manage to find a single clue as to who the picture frame used to protect. If Chara, Asriel, both of them, or VW5keW5l, or--

 

...?

 

Whoever it was, Asgore did not manage to get a lead. The emotions in his heart are still as vibrant, as exposed and vulnerable, as they were an hour ago. Yet in attempting to tie them to the déjà vu accompanying them, to find a link between everything -the piano, the breakfast for two, the training room, the training trident the guards insisted is his sole possession in there...-, Asgore managed to make sense of the faint idea which almost slipped through his fingers and drowned in the pain flooding him.

 

Mystery of the vanishing picture aside, the only connection he can make between the grief and the déjà vu is, indeed, a human. Not necessarily here, in the Underground right now. While it is not off the table, the likelihood that they could elude the Guard and Dr. Alphys' cameras is ridiculously low when one keeps a cool mind.

 

However, there is truth in the fact that a human will arrive. Humans have always come. Ever since Chara lit up the Underground with their warmth, over the course of five hundred years, six humans have come. Another eventually will, and when they do Asgore will be forced to deliver on the genocide he promised his people or abandon them after takes the cowards' exit.

 

The conundrum, as the tortuous outline more engraved than written on the page staring back at him explains, is ridiculously simple:

 

Peaceful coexistence between humans and monsters is not possible.

 

Evidence being:

 

-The War of Humans and Monsters (in which humanity's baseless fears sparked the genocide of monsterkind)

-The on-sight murder of Asriel, a child

-The lack of diplomatic news the Underground has had from humanity over the past five hundred years (they have had more than sufficient time to attempt fixing inter-species relations if so desired. It is ergo not desired.)

 

This leaves monsters in a bleak disjunctive. A forked road marked by unsteady traces of back ink on the page. When cleaning his notes up, Asgore would do well to bring a ruler with him.

 

...A ruler with a ruler. That pun... Tor... She would love it.

 

"Come on, King Fluffyb--"

 

...

 

On one hand, written on the left page:

 

Remaining in the Underground.

 

If monsterkind does so, as Asgore originally planned, there are very, very few benefits, and many sensible counterpoints:

 

-Avoiding having to forgo monsterhood to become a new species

-Avoiding a second war

 

As opposed to:

 

-Monsters being deprived of the freedom they are entitled to

-People losing hope like the seamstress of Waterfall

-Overcrowding and overpopulation (← we are already here)

-Resources running out

-Eventual civil war/otherwise collapse of the Underground

 

Staying caged under the earth is not an option. Just because humanity would like for a Surface free of monsters does not mean they are entitled to such barbarity. Monsterkind belongs on the Surface, and Asgore will be sure to take them there, leading to the other branch on this forked path.

 

Returning to the Surface.

 

This... This is where everything gets complicated. Whereas the other option contains nothing but a few lines, the path to the Surface is as serpentine on paper as it is in reality. Arrows branching off, adding bits of text thought of later, crossed out words and crammed corrections on the margins.

 

There are two main ways to go about it, neither without their intricacies.

 

A. Killing every human indiscriminately

 

...It is the easier of the two. The one Asgore initially offered his people, the one he swore on Chara's dead body and Asriel's dust. The option forged my anger, by the loss of those most precious to Asgore. Of two innocent children who should have lived their lives, grown up and become whoever they wanted to be.

 

Killing every human who falls is simple. It only takes murder an unknown number of times until they lose hope. And, from a cold standpoint removed from morals, it is decidedly the most practical of the alternatives. However:

 

-It is unacceptable to kill people if they pose no threat. Even if many of their kind do.

 

There are no pros to this path, only cons. One single con, but one large enough to counter any hypothetical benefit one more twisted and heartless than Asgore could conceive of. An irrefutable one.

 

Option B, Being selective of which souls to take/waiting for a kind human to die a natural death and then take their soul, is the inverse of option A. It has one single pro, that of justice and morality, but many... not cons. Asgore could not bare to call them “cons” considering the context. Option B is the objectively correct one to choose.

 

That said, the correct path is seldom the easiest one to walk. For it, a slew of not cons, but complications. spawns from electing to do the right thing.

 

-Humans cannot leave the Underground without a soul. My soul. For as worthless as that is, I cannot abandon the Underground to its fate

∟Could lead to war after a power vacuum and destroy my people

∟Someone has to lead monsterkind. It is a burden I do not wish upon my worst enemy

∟I am opposed to committing genocide on humanity. Other monsters who could replace me are not

-Provided a harmless human falls to the Underground and wishes to stay, considering how monsterkind rightfully mistrusts humans, asking the people to give the human a chance might also lead to civil war. With lack of resources and overpopulation the people are already riled as is. I would much rather if my people did not slaughter one another

-Any human, no matter how pure their intentions, might snap in time. Asking monsterkind to take such a leap of faith when blind hatred of humanity and celebration of their murder has given them hope for centuries would be problematic

-The longer any fallen human lives, the longer monsterkind is imprisoned. On the off chance I could ask of monsterkind to simply trust the presence of a human and that did not spark waves of hopelessness at best, if not riots, I would be asking monsters to watch their own children grow up in darkness so one human might survive to adulthood. In the current state of affairs, with overpopulation becoming a problem of large proportions, asking that of my people might lead to at best riots, and once again destroy the frail hope my promise of blood gave them so long ago

-Provided we could find a way for a human to return to the Surface without my soul, there is no telling if they will speak of us and what will happen next. Will humanity be content knowing we are perishing down here? Or will they send down a squadron to finish what they started so long ago? A virus with a plague, perhaps? Some mechanized weapon we cannot defeat? Again, I cannot risk my people's integrity like that. Humanity is not a friend. Humanity is hostile. Humanity is keeping us here because they want us dead.

 

Had Asgore, of course, not spread the fire of blind hatred among his people five centuries ago, the list of complications would be at minimum halved. That mistake he will never be able to compensate for.

 

...They were just barely starting to recover from the War. They had hardly finished their expansion project. Chara fell and reminded everyone how things could be. It reminded monsterkind of the times of peace on the Surface, before the war, and gave them all hope they could return to that.

 

Then humanity took that away in the same motion they robbed Asriel of his life, and what little remains of aiming for peaceful coexistence survived, Asgore snuffed them out by ordering monsters treat humanity the same way they had been treated. If there was a chance for the Underground's society to ever return to working towards co-existing with humans, Asgore slaughtered it when he made genocide a synonym of hope.

 

The monsters who still remembered life on the Surface, those who disagreed with his choice back in the day... Only Gerson and Toriel remain. The newer generations have been brought up on stories in which humanity is only ever solely evil, in which complete extermination of every last one of them is the only way to achieve peace. In which the mere notion of existing alongside them peacefully, as monsters once did, is ridiculous.

 

Time and time again, the deaths of the children who have fallen to the Underground have been celebrated. Irrespective of how much of a necessary evil that was, of whether there was another way around it nobody thought about, child murder should have never been praised and glorified.

 

The only reason it ever was was because monster children grew up with bedtime stories of the joys awaiting them on a Surface free of humans. Because they grew up on threats of "Behave well or the humans will come find you." Because no book of monster history after the death of Asriel, no school lesson, no college lecture, ever acknowledged humanity as a multi-faceted species just as much as monsterkind is. Asgore saw to it when his grief lead him to promise genocide and, in times of utter darkness, it served as a light at the end of the tunnel for his desperate people.

 

The reason the first human was mauled, not just killed in the most painless way possible... The reason her vile, inexcusable slaughter was applauded, was because monsterkind was not seeing a child. Without reliable, accurate knowledge of what a human is, they did not see a child.

 

They solely saw an enemy. Does anyone ever let insect larva live because they are juveniles? Of course not. They are pests to eliminate, to nip in the bud. Asgore cast humanity in the exact same light when he proposed annihilating them and razing their societies to the ground was the only way for monsters to obtain their rightful freedom and liberation.

 

With only one soul left and six child-sized coffins in the basement, the method through which monsterkind acquires the seventh soul is a bit of a moot point by now. Granted, if Asgore can save one single life he will without thinking about it twice. Yet larger problems arise where both paths once again fuse into one same outcome.

 

What will we do once we are on the Surface?

 

Three branches. One with two lines, the others with significantly more.

 

A. Attempt diplomacy. Writing this feels like a joke.

 

B. Genocide.

 

The easiest alternative. The one he promised. The most depraved one of all. The one he would sooner die than bring to fruition.

 

-Eliminating all humans is what has been giving monsters hope for centuries. To deprive them of this might, again, lead to riots and infighting at best, if not all out civil war.

-Eliminating all humans prevents a situation like the War of Humans and Monsters from ever happening again. Monsterkind would be safer. But at what cost?

 

Two ""positives"" for two counters.

 

-Civilians and the Guard alike have no idea what a real war is like and what taking lives en masse would do to them. Nobody would leave such conflict unscathed. The part of monster souls which is made of compassion would make most anyone cease and desist, or lose hope and die.

-Genocide is not an option.

 

...Such a simple line holding so much meaning. Morals cast to the fire, Asgore cannot kill all humans. He would sooner kill himself; why else has he had buttercups in his kitchen all this time? How could he eradicate the same people as his child? How could he do to another species the irreversible harm done upon his? How could he punish all innocents unrelated to the massacre of monsterkind for the wrongs of their kin?

 

How could he become the exact same sort of creature he has hated for imprisoning his people in his quest to free them? How could he pave the path to their rightful freedom in the blood of innocents?

 

He would more readily eat those buttercups or allow the seventh human to end him.

 

And then... Then the third route. The one laying somewhere between A and B, in terms of execution, yet to the far right of this page, letters squishing into one another in an effort to make this flowchart fit on one page to be seen at a glance.

 

C. Sensible conflict.

 

An oxymoron. No conflict is sensible. Yet Asgore is not confident enough in humanity to assume any other option bar genocide would ever work; and that one is no longer an option at all.

 

There will be war on the Surface. It will all happen again. Inhaling the dust of his fallen soldiers, witnessing the innards of humans splay out in the battlefield. The scent of blood, the silence after a battle, echoes of screams scarred into the minds of everyone present. Telling families their children have died in battle, their partners will never return, their siblings are gone for good. Being unable to provide the dust to the families for the funerals, impossible to recover after the brutality of battle.

 

It will happen again. Humanity only responds to violence and Asgore has an unshakable duty to his people. Immovable force versus unstoppable object.

 

What he has dubbed "sensible" conflict, the baseline of violence required for humanity to see monsterkind and listen to their demands of freedom, is the only viable option. Diplomacy should be it, but it will not be. In absence of diplomatic relations, battle is inevitable lest he leave his people festering in the hollowed out bowels of the earth.

 

And he will not. The coffins in his basement attest to that.

 

Then again, no conflict should ever aim to eliminate every last man, woman and child of the enemy. It should acknowledge the enemy is still people, and will never be anything other than people. They cannot be tortured, their deaths cannot be drawn out. They cannot be toyed with, they cannot be stripped of their sentience, and all rights associated with that fact, purely because they are enemies.

 

Once fundamental, inextricable rights start getting denied on any basis, situations worsen rapidly. Monsterkind would know.

 

If battle is unavoidable to free the Underground, Asgore will face it. Asgore will lead his people. He will deliver on his duty to them all and make sure not one more generation of monster children grows up entombed in darkness. What he will not do for that end is bring about the obliteration of humanity. There are lines. And no matter what he promised, no matter what he fooled his people into thinking would bring them the freedom they crave, he will not cross them.

 

Total annihilation of the enemy is a barbarity. If peace cannot be found through diplomacy, if violence is necessary, let it solely target those who are responsible for the oppression of monsterkind.

 

This option, the one balancing realism with ethics, is the one with the most notes. Rephrasing of previous concerns, mainly how monsterkind will not take kindly to this. Asgore already has a sizeable number of detractors who believe he will fail to bring freedom to monsters. That the fact he refused to take one soul when they had it, collect another six on the Surface, and break the Barrier centuries ago is evidence that Asgore does not want to fight humans.

 

And in all honesty? They are correct. Every last one. Asgore has no desire for the war ahead. He has been there. He gets to live with the memories every day. He cannot fathom another war.

 

And perhaps... No, certainly. His negative to accept monsterkind's conundrum, the situation they are in and its precariousness, is the reason he has allowed generation after generation of monsters to grow up with the belief humans are a hive mind of evil which must be eliminated in its entirety lest they reproduce and multiply anew. Because giving them “hope” in such a fashion was easier than facing the bleakness of their alternatives head on.

 

Asgore never intended to go back to war. Not if he is honest with himself, and right now he is too emotionally devastated to continue pretending. The pain, this pain tearing him asunder when his children died, lead him to make a mistake. He told his people, people who could by and large no longer remember any humans besides Chara, that genocide was the sole path to happiness. He turned the crime of wiping out an entire species into a glimmer of hope. The light which kept his people going in the darkness of the Underground, the reason they got up in the morning without succumbing to hopelessness.

 

And by the time he realized the gravity of his error, there was a maimed and disfigured six year-old's frigid corpse in his arms, one eye short, staring with her remaining, unseeing eye into his soul and blaming him for the blood caked around her mouth and plethora of open wounds. Instead of realizing what he had done, the soldier expected applause.

 

That was the exact instant Asgore realized every last word he has committed to paper today. Not in a conscious, organized manner. In the messy way thoughts and emotions tend to collide instead. In that hazy, nebulous fashion which is more felt that reasonably thought.

 

He had told his people genocide was the way. In absence of knowing humans, they believed him. They trusted him, they trust him. To upturn said trust could be devastating to the relative calm of the Underground. If Asgore suddenly changed gears, if he altered his decree, if he asked monsters to trust humans just slightly, if he went back on his own words, it could be the end of their brittle society. It has been hanging on by a thread for so, so long the slightest change in order might push them over the edge.

 

He cannot do that to his people, and he also cannot deliver on his promise. So he found some buttercups instead and kept them for emergencies.

 

Emergencies being right now, this instant, where the seventh human might fall at any moment, may have already fallen, and Asgore will be forced to either challenge the frail order and hope his people have clung to for dear life for centuries, or commit an atrocity of unmeasurable proportions.

 

Then again, taking his emergency exit and leaving the Underground without a leader is no solution, either. It is merely a coward's exit, one where he would not be forced to bear witness to the magnitude of the calamity his reign has been for the Underground.

 

In a sense... Asgore has never accepted the reality of their situation. Ever since he lost the war, since the moment he has shoved by human soldiers, packed tight among his people, pressing up against them, with their cries and whimpers echoing under the blazing red evening sky, being forced into an inhospitable hole in the ground, herded like cattle, swallowed by darkness...

 

Something within him broke in that moment. Something he cannot make peace with, something he has been pushing against all this time.

 

And that inability, or unwillingness, or both, to accept objective reality and plan accordingly, lead to this very moment becoming not an approaching reality, but some distant, blurry event he could not possibly make plans for. For to sit down as he has now and plan war, plan to return to a scenario such as the War of Humans and Monsters, to the potential outcome of losing, of having to face something as humiliating, depersonifying and heinous as genocidal exile, or worse...

 

Dust floating in the air, reflecting the red, dying sun. Inhaling the remains of his friends, his men. Screams. Blood clotting against his fur, once warm, then cold. The tang of smoke mingling with the metallic scent of entrails--

 

...He could not. Asgore could not. It was easier to pretend the day would never arrive. To "take things day by day," and in the meantime hide from reality. The people who said he is a bad ruler were entirely correct. They were never wrong.

 

Asgore is an atrocious monster and an atrocious king. Monsters and humans alike deserve something better than him.

 

As long as this day was not a certainty, but a possible situation among many, he did not have to confront how dire the situation of monsters is; nor just how badly Asgore messed up when he told them humanity were a single manifestation of evil with no redeeming qualities nor worth in their lives. A human fell, they were slaughtered, Asgore kept his people hopeful, safe, and while the counter got closer and closer to that forsaken 7, it still was not 7. He did not have to kill all humans, he could not do more for his people. He was bound, tied, it was miserable.

 

But he was not here, planning conflict. And as daunting as this is. As painful, as breathtakingly horrifying as it is...

 

This is the only good move he has ever made as king. For the past five centuries, this is the only good idea he has had, wherever it may hail from.

 

Every choice Asgore has made up until this point has been geared to avoiding reaching this realization. Sitting down and doing precisely this. Not consciously, without premeditation, yet the result is the same. Asgore knew he had messed up, that with every passing day fixing his mistake would become harder and harder. He has allowed himself to become trapped by his promise of genocide over the course of centuries.

 

Because he knew, deep down, in the quiet parts of his head he never visits, he would not deliver on it.

 

He knew he would die, he knew how he would go. He knew if he committed to genocide, the sole end would be his death. The bars of the prison Asgore finds himself in now, the ones binding him to this conflict, were built by he himself with words and inaction. Because if he was tethered to this outcome, if there was truly no other way, he would not have to go to war again.

 

He would not, because he would have to die. It would not be his fault, it would not be something anyone could hold him accountable for. He would miss the catastrophic end of his people and their society, he would miss the bloodshed on humanity, the screams and sensations of the battlefield, and he could elude blame for it.

 

Deep down... he has always wished to die.

 

Ever since his children died. Without them, there was nothing left for Asgore to live for. Nothing save his duty to his people. Ergo, if his duty lead him somewhere he could not follow, which forced him to choose death... would he not be relieved of his duties and allowed the eternal slumber the pain of loss burnt into his soul?

 

This conflict, this chain and ball around his ankle, has been manufactured by him, albeit subconsciously, in an attempt to finally die. To have no other alternative, to be forced to. That his entrapment to his own words has become stronger and stronger with time, that he did not even attempt to fix things when the first human fell, was by design. All he wanted was an excuse to lay down and rot, to not feel the emptiness within him anymore.

 

And for it, he has doomed and tortured the same people he forced himself to live for.

 

He has been aware of his people's suffering from day one. He has listened to them, befriended them, been close to them. He has heard their woes, seen their miserable living conditions, witnessed their pain and agony, their concern, the ones who lost hope. He has heard their ideas about humans, seen their celebrations of child death.

 

But to fix the former, he had to go to war; genocidal or otherwise. And to fix the latter would entail snatching from monsterkind the faintest glimmer of hope they still retain. Asgore can do neither, so he did nothing. He muttered to himself like an old fool his hands were tied as if he had not been the one to craft said binds and moved on pretending this day was not rapidly approaching; telling himself his life is an acceptable price to pay for the weight of his sins.

 

It is. If dying could fix this problem, Asgore would. There is nothing keeping him attached to this miserable, lonely life of his. Unfortunately, he has a duty. And he cannot compensate for all his crimes in death.

 

If he wishes to do something meaningful, whether he likes it or not, Asgore must live. Whether he deserves it or not is irrelevant. He is of no use to his people as dust.

 

All this he has known all along. He merely worked hard to not know, if that makes sense. To be too busy to linger on it, to have too much to deal with so he would never be forced to face his sins head first. What would he see if he had? That he has allowed a misconception he implanted into his people to flourish into hatred? That his mistake has compromised the meaning of “hope” for the same people he wanted to live for? That his misery and contempt towards life made him sacrifice them all?

 

He conflated genocide with hope. To take that hope back would be a devastating blow for monsterkind. Yet delivering on genocide is not something Asgore will be doing. There will be conflict, yes, humanity will make battle inevitable if history is to repeat itself. But Asgore will not erase them all with the same heartlessness they did to his people.

 

He will also not be telling monsters, from one day to the next, there will be no genocide. That would be counter-productive, it would lead them to despair. Asgore cannot harm his people for a mistake he made and, in his cowardice and denial, has neglected to fix for the past five centuries. That would not be fair in the slightest; his people are not expendable. That said, it may not be too late. Asgore may have one opportunity left.

 

The only way to mend what he has done is through education.

 

Once upon a time, monsterkind knew humanity was multifaceted. Just as much as monsters themselves. They knew, for they remembered humans. The ones who had fought alongside them, who had been mowed down by their own kind. The ones who had been neighbours, friends, family members. The ones monsters would never lay a finger on irrespective of their despair.

 

Later, removed from humanity, relying solely on the grieving, foolish king they, trusted for guidance, they learnt humans are not potential allies capable of good. They learnt humans are a selfish plague on the planet, and for it the only solution is to kill them all until they may never rise again. Monsterkind turned that belief into the core of their hope, of their will to hold on despite their bleak conditions.

 

If hatred can be taught, it can be unlearnt. The fact that hatred is taught has never been exemplified better than by whichever child is supposed to be sheltered behind the glass of the picture frame tearing up Asgore's heart. Unaware they were meant to hate one another, that their differences were supposed to be, or perceived to be, insurmountable by many, Asriel and Chara did not attack one another.

 

Instead, they became a family. And in their bond they fostered hope. Not just for them, but for everyone.

 

Changing the minds of monsterkind will not be easy. The reason they are so excited about an atrocity is the culmination of Asgore's many failures. Telling them to reconsider their stance on humanity at this point would be useless. The kindest soul could appear among them and, provided this hypothetical human managed to garner sympathy, there would still be a number of monsters who would see their death as a sad necessity, a building block towards monsterkind's freedom.

 

But what if Asgore begins much, much earlier? What if he begins at a stage of development earlier than when hatred is internalized?

 

If he were to begin this process with children, the newer generations, and little by little, in ways their parents cannot object to, managed to open their minds... Future generations of monsters may be less hostile, less willing to employ violence on all different creatures. More likely to accept that, while humanity must be confronted and such confrontation will still entail blood and dustshed, it does not need to be a genocide, nor is it ever acceptable to aim in that direction.

 

It... It will take a while. Decades, at least. But there have been six humans in five centuries. Decades passing between them is not an impossibility. At least one century passed between the orange and blue souls' appearances. It has not been unheard of.

 

If the adults of tomorrow, those who will be the ones fighting the upcoming war, can comprehend their enemy is as alive as they are, as full of innocents as the Underground is, Asgore will sustain both keeping the hopes of monsterkind intact while also removing the desire for humanity's annihilation running rampant in his people. He cannot restore life to the six children who he slaughtered, but perhaps he can prevent another's death. Many more's, if he succeeds.

 

No council will agree to this. Not in the current state of affairs. Asgore will have to work slowly and insidiously, making small changes in the education curriculum all monsters will learn at school. Until universal hatred and clamouring for genocide are the mutterings of old people younger ones nod along to to prevent an argument, and not out of genuine agreement.

 

All Asgore needs is time. Time to shift monsterkind's hope, to preserve and protect it, while also aiming for a better future where peaceful coexistence with humanity is difficult, but not an impossible. Where things can be as they once were.

 

...In a sense, despite being torn asunder by the loss of his children, by whatever awakened it along with himself this morning, this is the first time it feels like Asgore is breathing in five centuries.

 

What he was doing before, before today, before sitting down and gathering his bearings, acknowledging the reality he is in, and not the make-believe place he would like to be, was not living. It was hiding, cowering. Hiding from the fact he would indeed have to confront humanity once more, and such a thing would entail war. Hiding from the fact he had warped the meaning of hope for his people. Tethering himself to invisible chains forged by himself and his own denial, carrying himself through each day, dreading the second the seventh human came, planning his own painful, miserable death and finding freedom in it the same way his people were lead to find freedom in genocide.

 

He could not accept he had messed up so profoundly that a small girl's brutalized corpse was given to him as a sign of celebration. He could not accept he had failed his people so spectacularly they were trapped here, in the Underground, and would never again know freedom. He could not accept he would have to return to a battlefield to seize back all monsterkind had lost. He could not accept he resented his duty to his people for barring him from the death he craved. The blindfolds and thethers he used to shield himself from the reality of this heinous existence became the shackles suffocating him more and more with each passing day.

 

But today the shackles are no more. Asgore lost the War. Asgore disfigured his people's view of humanity, their sense of hope. Asgore committed atrocities in the name of preserving his denial.

 

He cannot undo all that, but he can do something else. Asgore will return to a battlefield. He will lose men again, he will tell widows and orphans their loved ones are dead. He will inform parents their children will never return. He will tell siblings their families are broken. It will happen again, and he will do it.

 

But he will not do so on the terms he had promised. He will not do so in a way which turns him into the exact same creature he has hated with a passion for the past half of a millennium. In the way which forces him to die.

 

There are six coffins in his basement. Six children who could have been in the unfortunate situation where they had to be stopped to save monster lives, or who could have been as happy down here as Chara was. Asgore's cowardice, his permanent denial, caused their deaths. The lies he told himself to avoid having to be here, his inability to confront the inevitable outcome of monsterkind's imprisonment and the severity of his errors, served as the motive and justification for their murders.

 

Asgore created a society where asking monsters to give the humans a chance, to apply the wait and see approach with them before slaughtering them, would have entailed riots, discord, instability, and as a consequence loss of hope at the very best. He can no longer fix that, but he can create a society where resorting to violence is not seen as the first and only viable option.

 

Everything humans did was ill-intended. From the start. Why would they make it so their own kind was forced, whether they wanted to or not, to take a monster's soul in order to leave the Underground? As punishment for entering it to begin with? Or to force this "kill or be killed" narrative they were so fond of during the War of Humans and Monsters onto every monster and human encounter in the Underground?

 

To force monsterkind to engage in the murder they were so hesitant to partake in during the war? To be able to further vilify and depersonalize them by demonstrating how "violent" monsterkind is when humans were the ones who created the Barrier in the first place? To point fingers and say: "See? We were justified in removing them from the Surface. All they do is kill humans!" as if the only reason this has happened is that monsters were imprisoned and humans made it so that the only way to leave was by acquiring human souls for monsters; and vice-versa for their own?

 

The Underground is a trap. Truly, that is all it is. A death trap for any who enter. For monsters it was a blatant genocide. It is to this day. For any human who falls inside, out of foolishness, arrogance, or much darker motives, it becomes a choice: to remain down here, or to murder whether they want to or not. Which puts monsterkind in the miserable situation of being forced to kill humans irrespective of what they want.

 

The system is broken. It is designed so that nobody leaves the Underground, or both humans and monsters only leave after having committed murder. It was envisioned with the core tenet of tormenting and eradicating monsters in mind, and further justifying it by forcing them to kill humans for their freedom. Why? So that, were they to escape, humanity would feel justified in destroying them again using the number of dead humans in the Underground as pretext?

 

All along, all these years, Asgore has played by the rules humanity laid out. He made up his mind when Asriel and Chara died. If humans only respond to violence, let there be violence. But the solution to an unjust system is not to abide by its rules. It is to break apart and build something new.

 

If the solution to a broken system is genocide and child murder, it is no solution at all.

 

The society Asgore built fuelled by the pain humans branded into him, the one reawakened today, is not a sustainable one. The fact that every monster in the Underground is either more than willing to personally kill a human child, or perfectly fine with the fact others might do it, is beyond twisted. Asgore is the sole culprit of that for instilling in his people the hatred and despair consuming him at his children's funeral.

 

But hopefully, if the next human takes a little longer to fall down, there may be a workaround for it. Asgore might have succeeded by then. Monsterkind might not be comfortable with the idea of killing every last man, woman and child of the enemy's side. Then... Then he may not have to kill another human at all. Perhaps they will live out their days in the Underground and, upon their natural death, their soul will be taken. Maybe Dr. Alphys has finished the Determination Experiments by then and, instead, Asgore can leave the Underground with a human as proof of just how possible coexistence is between humans and monsters.

 

Most importantly, though, when he tells his people the battle which will most likely ensue on the Surface will be one of liberation, and not obliteration, they will agree. They will not lose hope, nor look at him with mistrust. They will not turn upon one another with fear and disgust, wondering if their neighbours, friends, and families, are one of "those." Either those who still believe genocide is the only way, or those who are "too trusting" and have been "swayed" into believing humans are just as complex a people as monsterkind is.

 

That is it. That is the solution Asgore has long sought. The one he always had, was always an option, but he was too much of a coward to accept. Yes, there will be conflict. It will be unavoidable. Irrespective of the repulsion the mere idea of stepping foot into another battlefield causes him, Asgore will have to do it. No matter how much he misses his children, how much he craves to rest, he will have to live. And the only thing to do in such a disjunctive is to plan according to current circumstances and focus the offensive on those responsible instead of anyone and everyone.

 

...Still, Asgore will not spare his people the pain of taking souls. If his troops ask of him once more, he will not stop them. Not this time. He will not allow his people to be herded into a maw of illness, starvation and hopelessness once more. His idea is to be the only one. To become a wretched creature of such power there is no need for any of his people to forsake their monsterhood and "ascend" into a being unknown.

 

But if he were wrong, if more like him were needed, he would not object. Last time he objected it landed him here, now. Father of three dead children, leader of a nation whose hope is genocide, trapped under the...

 

...Three?

 

VW5keW5l

 

His mind sure is scattered today. Nostalgia and pain can alter an old timer such as himself's cognition.

 

Asgore's chest aches with each heartbeat. He will never see his children again, he cannot return life to the six he sacrificed to his cowardice. But perhaps through annihilating his own monsterhood and becoming an abomination, he can save many more. It does not absolve him of his sins, nothing ever will, but it is all he can do now.

 

Sometimes people who commit heinous actions do not die in a bout of divine justice. Sometimes they and those around them have the misfortune of their lives extending. When that happens, all efforts must be devoted to doing as much as possible to never be such an evil entity again.

 

This pain, this wound nestled in his chest... It will repeat. With other families, in other households. Echoes of this agony will ring through human and monster houses alike. Homes will become nothing but mausoleums, much like Asgore's. It is mostly inevitable. But Asgore will reduce their number as much as he can. Every innocent he can save on either side he will. He will only attack when attacked, in defense. Only until monsters and humans are equal on the Surface anew and nobody is enshrouded under rock.

 

It will happen again. And admitting it instead of covering it up under wraps of justifications, pretext, deceit, defeatism and denial is the single most liberating thing Asgore could do.

 

It is the first time he is breathing since his children's funeral. His life is a sin, but he may still do one good thing with it. And, as the only person who knows peaceful co-existence is an option, he must live to see it through.

 

Putting his diary down, Asgore takes the pink marble frame in his hands again. They are trembling. Of course they are; the sorrow of losing one's child is heart-stopping. Except, for some cruel reason, life has the indecency of keeping one alive after the light of their life is gone.

 

...Was it Asriel or Chara? Both of them? Which one of them, if only one, is Asgore to thank for this bout of clarity? For this pain to return as intensely to him as if he had just lost them today, and not five centuries ago? For as much as Asgore hurts for them with every breath he regretfully takes, he did not know it was possible to feel loss so vividly so long after the fact.

 

VW5keW5l

 

...?

 

He caresses the glass with his thumb, swallowing back a sob, but not the tears it came with.

 

"Thank you."

 

Even in death, even when they are so far apart, Asgore's children continue to be his guiding light. The sheer refusal to imprint this pain into every single human irrespective of innocence or guilt has finally given him the courage to confront what must be done.

 

There is no turning back. As soon as Asgore gathers his bearings and becomes more stable, it is time to pay the Minister of Education a little visit.

 

*

 

The storm raging on outside, the one rattling Asgore's windows with spectral rain and wind only Undyne notices, has been the setting of her death countless times. If this is real, of course. Which it can't be, no matter how it feels.

 

Asgore's still at the desk, re-reading whatever he wrote. He looks at the picture frame from time to time, pensive, and goes back to reading. Sometimes he adds a few notes, more words, then he reads once more. What wouldn't Undyne give to know what it says? Is it still about her?

 

She can't get distracted, though. That flower's gonna come at some point. It won't have any answers for her, none that it's willing to give, anyway, but it won't touch Asgore. Not on Undyne's watch.

 

This is all she can do. Might as well do it.

 

She peers through the closed doors from time to time, just in case the flower's hold up on the other side. It never is. It's taking its time today; what is it up to?

 

End of the hallway... and back towards the living room. Asgore's still reading. The flower's not here.

 

...Was there ever even a flower? Or did Undyne make it up? Is... Is this really happening? Because for a dream... For a dream it sure as hell's lasting a long time, right?

 

But... But if it's what happened to mom, then it's not working, right? Because as despairing as it is, Undyne doesn't want to die. She's been close to giving up a few times, provided any of this is actually real, but she's never actually craved...

 

...

 

...No. And not just because she's afraid of death. It's just... She hasn't lived.

 

How... How many times has she had that thought in this...? Time loop? Cycle? Resetting timeline? Nested dream? Whatever it is, if it's anything. She's had that thought countless times, right? It even started bleeding into her desires. It gave her this... this yearning, this longing, for playing piano, and for spending time with Asgore, and making friends, and just... living.

 

But did it give her said desire... or did it just amplify it?

 

The first days Undyne didn't play piano she was anxious and moody all day long. Then she wasn't, but only in the way old wounds go from aching violently all the time to merely throbbing on occasion. The pain didn't go away, her love for music wasn't exorcised from her body by her mounting number of duties. She just got good at ignoring it.

 

The same goes for... everything else, really. Walking by the Librarby in Snowdin is like picking at a scab. Undyne was never a stellar student, but she wanted to finish studying, damn it. She likes knowing things. History, Sciences, Maths... She wanted all that, she craved it. She just cast it to the side in favour of working harder.

 

...Living down here's an oxymoron, though. How does one live in the house of death? In a prison with no escape. Mom tried, and she paid the price with her life.

 

But... Was it really...?

 

End of the hall. No sign of the flower. To the living room again.

 

...Was it really being down here, that...? Do humans up there... Do they never...?

 

No. No, of course they don't. They have a vast sky above them full of possibility, of freedom. Their hopes and dreams, their lives, aren't crushed out of them every single day. Why... Why would they want to die?

 

Wanting to die is living a life so miserable it feels like death is the only way out, right? Monsters down here do that because they lose hope. Because there's nothing to hope for until they're free. Why would they reach such lows up there? Up where they're free, where it's safe. There's no reason--

 

"...pink marble frame? I was wondering if you remember what photograph it had?"

 

Who's Asgore talking to? He's not at the table anymore, but his voice comes from the living room regardless. Where is he?

 

"Are you sure you cannot recall?"

 

He sits on the piano's stool, holding his phone with one hand and the picture frame with the other. He stares at it fondly, with warmth. That's the photo he must have replaced, yet can't seem to remember. The one that got him so emotional in the first place, that reminded him of--

 

"That is why I called, I seem to have forgotten. Besides the electrician, your plumbers are the only ones who ever come to my house. I do not wish to be a bother, but I know it was an important photo. Try as I may, I do not manage to remember."

 

...Of course he doesn't. It's... It's how the story always goes. Even mom at the end didn't remember she had someone who needed her. History's as much of a loop as whatever circle of hell Undyne's in right now, right?

 

"All I remember is it was a photo of my children. Or, I am inclined to say, of only one of them. It was a picture of my beloved child."

 

No, no it wasn't. It was a picture of her. It...

 

"I am positive. A picture of me with my child. It was invaluable to me."

 

...Invaluable? But it wasn't... It wasn't anything special, it was just...

 

Her.

 

What...? What the hell's this supposed to mean? He's misremembering her for one of his kids? That doesn't make any sense. Why would he feel that way? This picture, the fact that it's gone, is the reason he's like this. Yesterday he destroyed his living room looking for it, now he's going to lengths to figure out what it was. It was a picture of the two of them, and he remember it enough to know it's out of place, that it was something else before.

 

Why's he remembering it with such intensity? Why's he so worked up and emotional to think it's a picture of him with--?

 

A B flat rings through the silence as Asgore nods along to whatever he's being told. A B flat, the same note she first plucked from an instrument. Asgore absent-mindedly presses it again as he wraps up his conversation with whoever he called. He's left the frame on the music stand and continues to regard it with warmth in his eyes. He presses the same key.

 

...A B flat. Why is he--?

 

"Hang in there, my girl. I know someone who can save you."

 

"It is, and I am sorry, my dear."

 

"He wanted you close because he loves you."

 

No. No no no, this isn't right. This... This is what proves it's all a dream, right? There's no way Asgore ever said that. He can't have, there's no way. They-They were friends, sure. Close friends, whatever. Undyne was the only person he let into his house, and the only one he was ever anything but formal with. He wanted to spend time with her and was always getting on her case to take care and "eat proper food" and all that.

 

He braided her hair when she graduated and he was there, front row, clapping for her harder than any of the other cadets. And maybe... maybe they did have a deeper bond than just boss and employee, because there was a time where Undyne thought of him as a friend, who also saw her as a friend and not just a replaceable employee.

 

She only... She only started thinking so coldly about him after Asgore killed her, right? It's... Damn it, it's all a tangle. A tangle of vines cutting through her memories the same way they cut through her body, but there's a before and after. And, seeing as she seems to have retained subconscious memories of past lives all along, the only thing that could cause that would be Asgore killing her.

 

Except he never did that. It was the flower. The damn flower smacked into him at the training room and... and it was also somehow behind the other two deaths. It's that thing, it's...

 

...

 

...Does the flower exist?

 

The flower... It's a golden flower, like the ones in the throne room. And it wields vines, but flowers don't have any of those. Besides, flowers don't talk.

 

Has Undyne... Has she ever really lived through any other iteration of today? It feels real, sure. But is it?

 

Has anyone else ever seen the flower? Or is it just her?

 

None of the children who were lured somewhere unholy by the flower ever saw it despite mentioning it; at least not in front of her. Undyne never saw it at the same time she was with the kids. Asgore saw something both at the Music Hall and training center, and something ran into him. But was it the flower?

 

Undyne never saw. She's the only one who's ever seen a flower who's apparently capable of resetting time. A flower who has vines, who can torture, paralyze and dismember. A flower with a face that changes, that sometimes becomes larger than the size it has physically available.

 

...

 

Ah. That makes more sense.

 

She's not really here, with Asgore, watching him lose his mind over apparently having forgotten her and saying all manner of insane things. Just like he was never beside her at a hospital bed telling her he cared about her, and why he never said he was proud of her in a cave which doesn't exist as she died in.

 

She's never even died before. The pain, the odd discolouration of her scales... It's not real.

 

None of this is happening.

 

Which means she's either dreaming, or there's something decidedly wrong with her head. While mom behaved quite unlike herself in the weeks prior to falling down, she never did anything... like this. She didn't wander aimlessly, stared at people, totally lost sense of who or where she was.

 

...Unless when she couldn't get out of bed, when she was too sad to move, to get up in the morning, and Undyne had to bring her breakfast in bed, this was exactly what she was doing. But that can't be, right? It just can't, because mom responded to the world around her. She replied to Undyne's queries, she sat up and ate, she wished her a good day before heading off to school.

 

Even... Even on that day she did. She even...

 

“For my sweethe--”

 

...

 

...Mom had someone who forced her to react. If... If she was going through anything remotely similar to this... If this is a fraction of what she was experiencing, if in her head things were as nonsensical as they are in Undyne's, she had a daughter to snap her out of it, even if momentarily. Even if it wasn't enough, if it wasn't good enough, if she wasn't good enough. She interacted with mom, kept her grounded.

 

But Undyne... She's pushed everyone away, hasn't she? Any person who could care, even Asgore... She's made sure they all stayed away. That they never came close enough for her to grow to care about them more than any other Underground citizen she swore to protect. Because that would be making a life, and Undyne's already decided she can't have that down here. That mom did and for it she died.

 

If it was that, though, why the hell is Undyne in her exact same shoes right now?

 

Why's she most likely laying in bed, hallucinating the most miserable of existences, with nobody to reel her back to reality once in a while?

 

She did everything right. She didn't try to live so her hopes and dreams couldn't get swallowed by the darkness of this cave. She pushed everyone away. Not just everyone, everything. All Undyne wanted to do she left it for later, for the Surface, for the place where she wouldn't be consumed like mom was.

 

She didn't do a single thing she wanted, as if warding off her happiness and desires would also ward off death. Not just death, damn it. Dying like this. Suffering, disconnected from reality, hurting so so bad death feels better!

 

She didn't want this. She didn't want this, this is what she's always been running from. Her death won't even have meaning now. It'll be just as pointless, as devoid of purpose, as mom's was.

 

Undyne let Asgore down. Whenever her dust is found he'll be disappointed. She promised. She promised she'd help him with the souls, that she'd always be there. She swore she'd be useful to him, that she'd return the favour in the only important way.

 

And now she's failed at that, too. She's failed at everything.

 

She's stuck here, in a world constructed by an ailing mind, filled with possibilities. Possibilities? For her death, if anything. For every possible way her pointless, hollow life could end. The only thing they all have in common is that, however she dies, it's a senseless way to go after a life devoid of anything meaningful.

 

Because in the end, Undyne wasted her life.

 

Every chance she had to live, to do something that'd bring her a modicum of joy, she let it pass her by. Because not doing so was what killed mom, she told herself. Over and over, like some sort of mantra. Like a prayer to avoid ending up right the hell here. All for what?!

 

Her dedication to the cause, to monsterkind's freedom, her inability to partake in anything she wanted, her eternal fight to please not be like mom; do everything like she didn't... What was it all for? What was it for if now she's here?!

 

The worst part of being like this, or perceiving herself, more accurately, is that she can't even flip a damn table or toss a single thing to alleviate the frustration swirling in her chest. What was it all for?!

 

She didn't learn new songs. She never finished learning how to sew. She sacrificed her final years of formal education in favour of military training. She never watched a movie or a series. She didn't rent out books at the Librarby. She didn't go on walks, didn't meet people, didn't make friends. She was so engrossed in running away from a no longer existing noose she threw her entire life away just to end up at the exact same spot mom was at.

 

Stuck in her own head, suffering, unable to see any way out bar death.

 

...

 

If mom didn't die because the Underground's a prison and trying to live in it is a death sentence. If she didn't die because there's no life to have down here, and "living" like Undyne could have prevented it. That... That means there's nowhere safe. That means the life Undyne desired so profoundly up on the Surface could have reached the same finale hers has and mom's did before her. Because obviously it's not related to living or not making a life down here.

 

That means the kind of suffering mom had... The one that made death look palatable... The pain, the actual going through it of one's own volition, the sensation of turning to dust, of suffocating in those final seconds...

 

There's no running from it, is there?

 

Even if Undyne hadn't been struck by whatever this is, even if she'd lived long enough to meet the seventh human and take them to Asgore, then made it to the Surface and survived through the ensuing war... She still wouldn't have been safe. Because she refused to do anything that mom did and ended up here just the same.

 

Or is this happening because she did have hopes and dreams? Just ones she stored in the Surface, but still had. Is this some form of despair? Of fear that she'll never reach the Surface and hence will never live? Or is it just something that's been sleeping in her DNA all along and it woke up with her this morning, ready to claim her at last?

 

Did mom make this happen? Is she still angry at Undyne because she wasn't good enough to keep her alive?

 

...If Undyne dies now or not... It doesn't really matter, right? Refusing to do anything that could make her life happy, shoving it all out of reach, onto the Surface... It was never living. It wasn't whatever the hell mom had going on before she fell down. It was an existence, but not a life.

 

The truth is Undyne, in a sense, already killed herself long ago.

 

By refusing herself any comfort no matter how small, by never engaging in anything she sought, by leaving it all in some future and never taking action... She already deprived herself of a life. In service of a future she'll never get to, will never be useful to regardless, she denied herself the chance to live.

 

They aren't so different, her and mom. Undyne just made the lead-up to her inevitable demise much less colourful and significantly more miserable than mom did. Before it got bad, it was really good for mom. One could say... One could say she was, if not living, doing the next best thing that's available down here in hell. But Undyne?

 

Her physical death's just her body catching up to the life she terminated ten years ago, when she decided living was too scary if it ended in death and it was better to forget about it entirely.

 

Giving death a meaning, limiting mom's problem to the location she was trapped in, and not something deeper, more insidious, defining and clearly delimiting the issue with the simple of explanation of "living leads to death..."

 

...It sure does, doesn't it? Whether one's enjoyed it or not. Whether death is peaceful or agonizing, regardless of everything. They're all gonna die, and one day Undyne's body is going to do the exact same thing mom's did and scatter all over the floor, making a mess of fabric and remains for someone to find.

 

She can't stop that, can she? Trying to give her death significance was just a way to attempt to make it less scary, more meaningful, justified. As if dying, something everyone's doomed to, required justification.

 

As if dying, ceasing to exist, becoming a wreck of dust and fabric on the floor, were the most terrifying fate of all.

 

Refusing to live down here, always placing life in the future, on the Surface, after the war, provided she survived it... It was just a very convoluted fear of death as well. Or of the feelings leading to death, maybe. Of feeling whatever the hell mom did, running away from that, never giving it any depth beyond "the Underground is cursed."

 

Because if mom didn't die solely because of this place, it means there's nowhere safe. That even the future Undyne dreamt of, fought for, refused to live to attain, was also uncertain. The emotions mom experienced to make her long for the messy aftermath of her death could find her anywhere, and Undyne never wanted to face that, did she?

 

It's... So funny, in the unfunny sense of the word. All she's done, all the life she had and wasted... To run away from the inevitable conclusion everyone reaches.

 

It's hilarious. So hilarious Undyne could cry. If she could feel anything right now besides disbelief and bitter, bitter irony.

 

What a fucking moron she turned out to be, huh? Seems every person who mistrusted her was correct from the start.

 

She sacrificed everything for a future she won't have, out of a fear of the inevitable because... Who knows why! Maybe if mom had died of old age, if Undyne hadn't come back home when she was still a snotty kid to find her scattered corpse and the noose still swinging, she would've thought of death differently. It wouldn't have hid in every corner of the Underground, stalking her as much as the vines of her hallucinating mind have been doing for who knows how long.

 

It's a proven fact Undyne was a pretty useless, stupid kid. Maybe someone better would've known how to cope without obsessing over death to the point of turning her own life into a never-ending funeral.

 

She's wasted her entire life. Every last second of it for the past ten years, wasted. Incredible.

 

...Asgore's gone. Well, he was never here to begin with. He's just a projection of what Undyne wants; to be connected to someone, to have a family, to be loved in the same way she loves others. But the conception she had of him's gone, leaving her as alone as mom did ten years ago.

 

As alone as Undyne's kept herself by pushing everyone away. As alone as she'll always be now that she's trapped in her own head.

 

As alone as she'll be when she can't take this anymore and just dies a pointless, meaningless death to end a life as hollow and senseless as its end.

 

What a bitterly fitting conclusion.

 

-

 

...Alright. Alright, something's really wrong. Besides the obvious, that is. Something's not right.

 

And today's the day. Undyne has a choice to make.

 

Asgore can see the flower. Not just Asgore, everyone. It's not... It's not a product of her imagination. Unless the entire world around her is, which is not only totally possible, but the most likely conclusion to draw.

 

Then again, what initially convinced her none of this is real is that, at the time, as far as Undyne knew, nobody else could see "Asriel." But now everyone can, so does that still hold water?

 

It's been a month since she picked herself up from Asgore's empty house and returned to her own through the phantom storm of New Home and the hundreds of ghost vines assailing the Underground. She lay in bed, waiting for the moment where despair consumed her to come, but it didn't. She just got really bored after a while and started walking around again.

 

She went to Snowdin, like she did with mom, and saw the new residents. Two skeletons, a tall and a short one. They... They looked real friendly. They were discussing "the miraculous rebirth of Prince Asriel," and that piqued Undyne's curiosity. Out of all the things she would've thought her head could concoct, resurrecting Asriel wasn't one of them. So she returned to Asgore's place and found it. The flower.

 

Asgore was beside himself with joy, shaking and all, holding that cold, soulless creature close. He didn't see her, obviously, but the flower did. The one she was positive existed for her eye alone was interacting with Asgore. And, later on, with the entirety of the Underground when Asgore launched a celebration a week after "Asriel's" return.

 

The itch to fill that bastard with spears is overwhelming sometimes; almost as much as the urge to play piano and do anything she should have done when she still could. But instead of giving in, Undyne's spent all this time observing it among other, less productive activities. She's most definitely not the only one who can see that thing. However, it's decidedly the only one who can see her.

 

It's attended public events, it's helped Asgore make tea with vines, of all things; which it later used to try pressing the keys on Asgore's piano. And for all of Asgore's joy, all this time later, he keeps sending sorrowful glances to the pink picture frame. "Asriel" even asked about it at some point, to which Asgore said he couldn't remember whose picture was there, if Asriel's or Chara's.

 

The flower said probably Asriel, that's why Asgore's so worked up about it. Asgore said it must have been Chara then, because it didn't feel like it was a picture of Asriel. Yet despite having concluded which of his children the photo belonged to, to this day he still studies it when the flower isn't around as if he weren't satisfied with that answer, either.

 

Undyne's walked through him a few times. With the flower present and without it, in different moods. Sad, happy, pensive. No matter what, every time she walks through Asgore his eyes do the thing again. If the flower's around it shoots her a filthy stare. One time, while Asgore was busy being morose, the damn thing even threatened her with its vines.

 

Asgore's been visiting the Minister of Education a lot recently; looks like he's deep into an educational reform or something. And even with his new work, with his son back, he's still fixated on the pink picture frame.

 

...It would stand to reason, then, Undyne's seeing only what she wants to see. It would be nice if even in the face of his "son" returning, Asgore still loved her. But she's not that important, and she's not delusional, either. She's always known that'd never happen. So now that she's clinically insane her head can project that into her reality?

 

This... This dream, or this bout of madness... It isn't what happened to mom. It's been a month already and Undyne doesn't particularly want to die. Not just because it scares her, or because she refuses to make peace with the fact she wasted her life. She's done that on and off for the past thirty days and as of today it's a regret, yes, but not one she can fix in her current, ethereal state. She brought this upon herself, she doesn't get to cry about it now.

 

No, if anything it's because existing like this is so intriguing. It's torture, for sure. And it's quite painful. But after a while the phantom pains died away, and the ghostly reconstructions of storms and vines did as well. Now Undyne's just curious to see what her brain's capable of.

 

She doesn't seem to have any control over the events of this fever dream of an existence. Or at least that's what her head wants her to think, provided this is all as fake as it has to be.

 

The word for this is "solipsism," apparently. She's been looking over the shoulder of people at the Librarby in her spare time, as well as sitting on the stage at the Music Hall, listening to all the piano performances. And the orchestra and opera ones, even the more modern music. All of them, because why the hell not?

 

Even if she's hallucinating out of her mind, she's not dead. She never lived, but she doesn't have to let this go to waste, too. She might just be too terrified of dying by her own hand to go through with it, but who's it hurting if she's enjoying her own brain worms?

 

It's not like anyone's come to see her, noticed her missing, in all this time. That she's aware of, anyway.

 

...She never knew she'd ever heard of the word "solipsism" before. The philosophical idea of being the only real person in the universe, or one's perception of it, basically. The postulation that there's no way to test if anything around an individual is real, ergo everything is potentially fabricated by the one demonstrably real person's (the individual's) mind. But if she didn't know it, how come she read a whole book about it over some reptile monster's shoulder?

 

Then again... If none of this is happening and it's pure solipsism, Undyne's head is capable of coming up with the most beautiful symphonies known to monsterkind. And those she's certainly never heard before. Musical education at school revolved around the recorder and reading sheet music, little else. The one she got from Asgore focused heavily on piano and, while he did give her a CD of orchestra performances from time to time, there's no way she's listened to so much orchestral music in her life as she's been listening to these days. Weird. Maybe her true calling was being a composer all along.

 

Even for instruments she couldn't name if her life depended on it.

 

And besides all these things... She's also been snooping around her solipsist view of Asgore's house. Why wouldn't she indulge in that which her brain wants her to believe?

 

Asgore as a wig in the back of his closet. He found it while doing some spring cleaning and wondered what it was. It's funny he has no idea, because Undyne doesn't either.

 

The first thing he did upon seeing it, though, was braiding its hair. The same sort of braid he did for Undyne's graduation. He blinked at his creation afterwards, confused, as if he couldn't recall why his fingers wove the hair in that specific pattern, or where he'd learnt to begin with.

 

The wig's hair is approximately as long as hers was back then, before she cut it. Midway down her back.

 

It'd be cute if Asgore had bought a wig to practice braiding hair just for her, but he's the King, he has better things to do. Besides, he had two kids. Surely he learnt how to braid hair from them?

 

...So Undyne thought until Asgore pulled out the photo albums again. When "Asriel" was gone and Asgore was home alone, he returned to the damn picture frame and got the photo albums from the drawers. Much more gently than he did last time, when Undyne was standing through him, without brutalizing them.

 

She got to see a lot of pictures of his kids. Very consistent with what she'd imagined Asriel would look like, but the human, Chara... Undyne didn't imagine them like that. Red eyes, jaw-length auburn hair, sad stare...

 

...She's never stopped to imagine them, actually. Though she's always been much more curious about them than Asriel. After all, if humans are such a threat every last one of them must be eliminated for the safety of monsterkind, if someone as gentle and caring as Asgore was forced to the extreme of genocide by people like them, why did he adopt one of their whelps? Wasn't that putting Asriel, the entire Underground, at risk?

 

Chara doesn't look like a menace in any of the frozen snapshots of time contained in Asgore's photo albums. They look rather nice, like someone Undyne would've enjoyed talking to. Someone she's sad died, even if they were a human.

 

Which is insane. No human deserves mercy; that much is obvious. Not after all they've done and continue to do. Interesting take of her mind, to project such... innocence. Fragility, gentleness, into the enemy's whelp.

 

...

 

Undyne's also been going to the Lab in Hotland. The new Royal Scientist Asgore hired, Dr. Alphys, is pretty cute! Someone Undyne would've also liked to get to know. She's a huge human history nerd, and she does a lot of scientific stuff that finally makes sense: Undyne can't understand a word of it, and as someone who never got past basic math it's a relief her head isn't imagining itself to comprehend the complex formulas Dr. Alphys works with on a daily basis.

 

She also goes on the saddest of trips to the Garbage Dump, where she does nothing but watch the garbage falling down, contemplative. Familiarly contemplative, and Undyne can't do a thing to reach out to her and try to help, because she doesn't exist.

 

...Isn't it bizarre, how she's been learning new things she didn't know before? She doesn't get science, but she's starting to wrap her head around philosophical concepts she dropped out of school too early to learn about.

 

Sometimes... More and more these days... It's all starting to feel real again. After all, no matter how solipsist Undyne's head is being on her supposed deathbed... She's not this smart, right? She can't come up with schools of thought and concerts she's never heard before. She can't compose for instruments she's never seen, she's not intelligent enough for any of this.

 

She's reading mystery and romance novels that are gut-wrenchingly painful and impossible to put down, getting disappointed every time whoever she's reading from puts the book down. Which would be fine if Undyne had one single writer bone within her; which she doesn't, because last time she did creative writing she was twelve, before she dropped out to enter the the Guard's Academy in New Home.

 

And she failed her creative writing essay, too. She's never been good at it. What words can do, the fascination of what people smarter than her can weave common-use words into, has always been saved for other people's work. Not her own, never her own, because Undyne can't write.

 

Like for instance, this public event. Asgore and the damn flower are at the square in front of the Music Hall. The constructions are finished, the scaffolding is gone. This is where supposedly Undyne died once, except she's very much here.

 

Asgore's talking about a construction project, to build a few more schools in Hotland and Waterfall, even one in Snowdin, so monster children don't have to walk so far to school. That's a very good idea, actually. One Undyne would never have because, as a particularly bad student who only wanted to learn things after she dropped out of school and realized she'd never get that time back again, she hated school with a passion when she was enrolled in it.

 

But that's what Asgore and the Minister are working on. The flower's next to Asgore on the little wooden podium, smiling innocently like the bastard it is. Everyone can see it.

 

Undyne's head shouldn't be able to imagine any of this, right? Then again, solipsism goes as far as to propose the entire universe is a fabrication of an individual's mind. Which, in turn, is a very controversial school of thought because it's slightly juvenile. It can never be argued against, because any rebuttal defying it can be written off as "just another fabrication in a fabricated world."

 

...For the first few days after finding the term, Undyne felt solace and comfort in it. An explanation for her current situation, for the madness her mind is forcing her through. There's a word for it.

 

Except if, indeed, this is something Undyne's made up in her head, such a term and such a concept don't exist; and if she hasn't and all this is real it is, by definition, no longer solipsism.

 

And then, alright. She's in this solipsist state, unable to perceive the reality around her, assuming this is what got mom in the end. Either that or it's a dream she can't wake from, which it sure as hell feels like sometimes. But what if it's real? What if somehow that dang thing can reset time for real and it managed to... erase, Undyne from it?

 

It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous; it can't be. But from watching it... It often knows things it shouldn't. Like where things are in the kitchen cupboards before Asgore tells it. Or in conversations with other monsters, they often say things like "How did you know that, your Highness?," or "I don't believe I ever said that," and the like. And if they don't they just look at it weird for a moment before moving on.

 

Even Asgore's noticed at this point. Sometimes the flower will say or do something that makes Asgore give it a long, pensive stare, before changing the subject.

 

...On the other hand, the notion of a sentient flower coming back with the memories of a boy who died five hundred years ago who can now reset time is utterly ridiculous.

 

But then again... The skeletons in Snowdin, the new ones. The stocky one has a bunch of weird stuff both in his room and in the shed behind the house. Notes about time anomalies and such, and sometimes he visits the Royal Scientist and they talk about things a bit too complex for Undyne, but that have very distinguishable terms like "time loop," "time anomalies," and "time travel" in them.

 

If this is real, Undyne isn't the only one who's noticed there's something fucked about their world.

 

Which again, under solipsism would only be Undyne's brain explaining to itself the world it's built and giving some semblance of structure to it. Under that lens, it doesn't matter and she's just projecting an inkling of realism onto people she knows of, but has never met.

 

What are the chances a science nerd like the Scientist's gonna be so cute, anyway? If Undyne imagined that it makes more sense.

 

If Undyne chooses to believe this is all a dream constructed by her own head, there's no point in anything. But if she follows the, admittedly bizarre, parts which may hint to this being at least slightly real, then...

 

...If this is real... If she's really here, greyed out, incorporeal, being seen only by one flower who's apparently a reincarnated version of Asriel...

 

...It makes Undyne's situation permanent, doesn't it?

 

After all, if it's just in her head, if she's having an elaborate dream of sorts, one supposedly worse than death, if it's really what mom dealt with, there's a chance she snaps out of it? She's not dead yet. It's why she's still perceiving things.

 

But if it's real, besides making no sense and having no clear cut explanation, how does she undo it? Can she even, at this point, if the damn flower's the only thing that can help her and it won't?

 

If it's fake there's a sliver of hope. Of coming down from it eventually, waking up with her normal colour and starting to play piano effective immediate. If it's real, she's screwed. She wasted her life, didn't get a meaningful conclusion to it which will serve Asgore nor monsterkind, she was erased from everyone's memories, and now she's stuck indefinitely in this limbo state bound to become despairing at one point or another.

 

...Which lends credence to the theory this is exactly what mom was going through; Undyne's just yet to figure out how bad it can get. Nobody picks up books from the psychology section of the Librarby, though, so she's yet to read a word on the subject.

 

At first Undyne thought if she walked around enough and observed, she'd find something. Definitive proof in one way or another. Something which would irrefutably tell her it's real or, most likely, it's all in her head. Some form of undeniable reality only backing up one of the two alternatives.

 

So that's what she's done. Walked around, listened, observed. Refrained from killing the damn flower, read, learnt. Ignored any "memories" of supposed "past lives" and focused solely on what she can tangibly and unarguably experience in the here and now.

 

It's been... It's been a painfully eye-opening experience, whether it's real or not. She's seen... She's seen so many people going about their lives, doing so much more than just surviving, and not going ahead and offing themselves. Having friends, partners, children they won't leave, hobbies, passion projects...

 

Doing everything she convinced herself would kill her if she did down here. Because it was easier to solidly define what happened to mom as a circumstance of the environment, something Undyne could escape from, than see it as something more complicated. Something she'd never be safe from even in the future.

 

And whether this is all happening in her head or not... It's hurt so much to realize how off-base she's been all along, allowing fear of suffering to prevent her from living the life she's been fighting so hard to have. Always reaching for it somewhere in the future, not now, not available, when all she had to do was head over to the piano in her own living room.

 

The one she can't play anymore.

 

...At a certain point, triggered by nothing she was able to recognize, another of those "memories," from the supposed other lives, blind-sided her. And while in all this time Undyne's done her best to ignore all that, to put it all behind her and focus on the here and now in her quest to figure out what the hell is happening, it's stuck to her a little.

 

It was an idea that came to Undyne many lifetimes ago. In a moment of madness, or clarity, or likely both. The notion that, since humanity was so desperate to prevent monsters from living, by forcing herself to survive instead of living as much as she reasonably could, was adhering exactly to what humanity wanted of monsters.

 

Permanent misery, inability to find joy, no life to be had. Whereas more sane people who haven't buried all their grief in work for the past decade, those who've balanced the fight for freedom with actually living, have been giving humanity a huge middle finger as best they can in these circumstances, seventh soul pending.

 

Maybe being happy, as happy as she can be, without ever losing track of the end goal nor straying from it, was what Undyne should've done all along. Maybe it was never trying to be happy down here that killed mom. Maybe there are problems that far surpass one's environment, like what happened to Chara. Changing environments didn't save them, after all. Maybe the safety Undyne's sought her whole life is a fabricated comfort she's needed to tell herself to survive, because accepting something of similar caliber could happen to her was well was too terrifying for her to come to terms with.

 

...That whole discussion is pretty pointless, though. Because she's here now, and in the here and now she should've cherished while she still had, she can't do a thing to interact with the world she should have loved.

 

And so her search for meaning in this mess, for a definitive answer, continued. Maybe because it was starting to become too painful, to see all she's missed out on out of her own stupidity. Maybe because time's flying by her and she needs something, anything, to hold onto.

 

It never fits cleanly, though. She convinces herself it's made up and she finds the flower shocking Asgore by knowing something it shouldn't. She manages to tell herself her head made that up and then she finds out the short skeleton's a scientist in his own right who's studying time anomalies, of all things. She believes she's projecting onto it but then the definition of solipsism, and the controversies about it being frowned upon because it can never be argued, slip in to her head and make it all a mess.

 

That's why she decided last week that today, come hell or high water, if she hadn't found the definitive answer she wanted, she'd make a choice and stick to it. Flip an imaginary coin if she must, but decide how to act and stop waiting around. She'll either choose to believe this is real or it isn't, but the wait and see approach is reaching its end today.

 

The thing is... Which to choose? She has to do something, for sure, and for that she has to know, or at least decide, what kind of world she's going to believe herself to live in. But it's hard when nothing makes sense and solipsism sounds so alluring but also so convenient and childish.

 

She has to make a choice all the same, no matter how hard it is. In the end, all this wandering, this trailing Asgore, reading books, listening to concerts... It's nice. It's a nice break from the non-stop work schedule Undyne's existed with for years. She never even realized just how much she's been overworking herself until she stopped.

 

But this pause isn't doing anything, either. She's not obtaining any of the information she set out to, so it's all time wasted on accomplishing nothing. Other than getting the flower more and more smug, that is.

 

What does it want, made up or otherwise? Why the hell does it hate Undyne so much? Something about her "being in the way," or someth...

 

"You've done this so many times it's pathetic. The way you cling to life is pathetic.”

 

“For him you're out of sight, out of mind. You don't matter to him, you know? You don't matter to anyone."

 

"You're just a faulty replacement. And now I get to play with you forever."

 

It's "And now even he doesn't care. Even he's forgotten you.” all so disorganized "Especially dad." One month "You should've never been born. It's what your mother thought, too" hasn't sufficed to put it in order.

 

"A story about a little girl who everyone wanted to die."

 

Not that she's tried.

 

Abiding by the logic everything around her's made up, the final throes of her brain as she succumbs to what afflicted mom, fulfilling some sort of destiny she's expected since she was ten, she's more let things happen and experienced them than consciously partaken in them. She's resigned herself to the role of a spectator, a monster devoid of agency in this nightmare, and watched everything unfold trying to grasp at that one piece of evidence she hasn't found and never will.

 

But that thing... In the past she's fervently ignored because it wasn't the tangible reality she sought, the flower accused her more than once of "stealing" Asgore from it, didn't it? If this is real, there's quite a lot to unpack. But if it's not?

 

The flower, "Asriel," being a projection of Undyne's mind makes sense so far as the flower isn't jealous of her. It's a manifestation of Asgore still wanting her around even if his son is back. Embarrassing as it is, it works. But why would she ever imagine the flower as being jealous of her? Of what?

 

...Did Asgore...? Did he really...?

 

"I missed you so much, my girl."

 

...No. No, he wouldn't. That wasn't real, it never happened. It couldn't have; Asgore already had his kids. Even in her most childish of moments when she was recently orphaned, Undyne has never wanted to replace anyone. Maybe she was jealous of them for having the sort of affection she craved, but she never wanted to have it at their expense, either. If Asgore was to ever see her as his own, it was in addition to his kids; not replacing them.

 

She's... She's never wanted this, right? This isn't... It's not some suppressed desire or anything twisted like that, right? At the very least she can still trust her own, pre-incorporeal memories and morals, right?

 

Otherwise she's screwed.

 

...Otherwise? She's an incorporeal person who may or may not be subject to a time loop who nobody remembers. Maybe she's died so many times she's been erased or maybe she's dying of whatever mom had; or hell, maybe she's on the Surface and sustained some sort of injury in the War and she's fallen down, bound to die soon. None of those scenarios qualify as Undyne not being screwed, regardless of which memories she can or can't trust.

 

It's never... It's never going to make sense, isn't it? In one direction or another, it'll never be the simple, undeniable answer she needs. Every time she thinks she's worked it out she's gonna hear or see something, remember something, learn something, that throws everything into question again, isn't she? Whether it's reality or not matters very little. Undyne's fucked no matter what.

 

If it's real then she wasted her life to end up here, whatever the hell that even means. And if it's not, who the hell cares? She's still stuck in this nightmare with faint, but rapidly dwindling hopes, of it being reversible and that maybe perhaps there's some future where she can regain some of the time she wasted doing everything bar living out of some fear of ending up precisely like this, only to be here, now.

 

It's funny enough to choke laughing and drown on bile all at once. There's no happy ending in any scenario, they're all looking equally miserable. What the hell is she supposed to do?

 

Like she thought earlier, whether it's reality or not...

 

...?

 

Whether it's reality or not matters very little. Undyne's fucked no matter what.

 

...Oh.

 

If it's real, well. This is where Undyne is, right? In this situation, right now. One she didn't ask for, one she's full of regret for because in the end she wasted her life all the same and never lived. Her fear of dying stole her life; which is ironic because her largest fear was dying without having lived. It's poetic, almost, and one thing Undyne's discovered from her time in the Librarby is that she still hates poetry with a passion.

 

But if it isn't... What does that change? Genuinely. Until Undyne comes down from this, if ever, what's she supposed to do? Give up, like mom did? Not even try to do anything? If this is what comes before she dies, then it doesn't matter if it's real or not: it's the last reality she'll ever get before oblivion. And if it's not, if it's something she can wake up from, that future possibility doesn't help her here and now, either.

 

And this is where she is. Here and now.

 

She got a chance at life. It's highly likely that she wasted it. That in her obsession of "living later" she only managed to live never. That her fear of doing what mom did lead her to the exact same ending mom found, just from a different route. Her affection for the term "solipsism" stems from it implying maybe maybe if it's not real, if this is something that can be undone, that she's imagining, perhaps there's some future where Undyne can live a real life. A "worthy" one. But...

 

...Isn't that just the same as what she was doing when she was still alive/conscious? Pushing back her life in hopes of finding some future where she felt safe and comfortable and suddenly everything would be good enough for her to try making a real life? Isn't that the behaviour she regrets now?

 

She was here and now before she woke up like this one day and never managed to reverse whatever this process it, wherever it comes from. And with her here and now she waited for a future she won't be a part of. She's here and now now, in this instant, and instead of choosing what to do she waits around for a month, hoping to find definitive proof of everything being constructed so she may cling on to the idea that there's a future somewhere she feels safe and she can live.

 

Pushing it back by working or by waiting are the exact same idea approached from different directions. In the end, more than afraid of dying, it's gonna turn out Undyne's afraid of living. Of having emotions so vivid and bright that when they're snuffed out she's left as gutted and miserable as mom was in the end.

 

Because after all, if her baseline is anger, vague hopelessness, and not an ounce of joy, if the time comes when what happened to mom finds Undyne as well, will she even notice? Will she want to die if she's always been hollow and unliving even in life?

 

...She wasted her life. She really, truly did. And even if this is indeed some weird coma she can wake up from at some point, it won't give her back the ten years she's already allowed to pass her by. She should've focused on living while she still could, in the conditions she had, when she still had the chance.

 

Because whether this is reality or not matters rather little. Undyne's screwed either way.

 

...She is, isn't she? This... This is some form of end. Of what, if it's permanent, isn't all that relevant. Something ended. A part of her life, or all of it. The end of her sanity, maybe, or of her way of living.

 

The thing is Undyne is here, now, and she's not gonna make the mistake again of waiting until some nondescript, mysterious, perhaps never-arriving future to do something with her life. Something meaningful, that makes her happy, without fearing for her life for daring to live.

 

She wasted her life. She won't waste whatever the hell this is. And by trying to define it, to find an unquestionable truth about it, that's precisely what she's doing. Solipsism or not, reversible or not, this is her life now.

 

What will she do with it?

 

...Alright, that was a nice, uplifting thought. Now back to reality: what can she do with it? Besides spearing that flower...

 

It smiles at the people gathered around the podium, giving Undyne a shit-eating grin from time to time. Asgore and the Minister are wrapping up, the crowd's starting to disperse, returning to their houses, or jobs, studies, or families, friends...

 

To their lives.

 

...Hm. If this is real, that flower's not Asriel. It's a menace to everything and everyone around it. It can play with time, and it has no qualms about killing. And if it's not reality, who the hell cares? It's a product of Undyne's mind that apparently solely exists to torment her.

 

She's pretty good at spearing herself in the foot without needing a flower to taunt her. It really doesn't matter if it's reality or not. It's Undyne's reality, and the only one she has. And in either case, the flower has to go. On the off-chance all this is actually happening, the flower's going to hurt Asgore sooner or later. Undyne can't allow that.

 

"He loves you like his daughter. Even if he cares about all his people, he cares about you most."

 

She may have wasted her life. But she'll be damned if she takes the slightest risk with his.

 

In both possibilities the flower's a threat. As a soldier, Undyne's job is to reduce or eliminate those to the best of her ability. Unfortunately for the flower, while her spears are as ethereal for the rest of the world as she is, they aren't for it. They can hurt it, and hurt it they will until that vile, soulless smile is wiped clean of its face.

 

The one thing she can do with this existence is end the flower's. And no matter the lens she analyzes the situation from, there's no reason for her not to do it. Whatever the hell's going on, Undyne refuses to give up. For as long as that thing stalks the Underground, for as long as it dares look at Asgore with a fake mimicry of love and taunt him with the memory of his son, Undyne will be there to terminate its vile existence.

 

No matter what, until her body or mind give out, or until she wakes up, or until the day she dies. If that wretched thing thinks it can do whatever it wants, steal the identity of a dead boy, hurt Asgore, and pose a threat to the Underground, all on Undyne's watch, it's sorely mistaken.

 

She's a soldier, after all. This is her duty. For as much as she used it as pretext to hide from life, she always did passionately believe in defending the defenseless. And right now, unaware of that creature's many sins, she's the only one who can keep the Underground safe.

 

Undyne takes a deep breath. Her fingers twitch, ready to summon spears beneath that thing. It's on a little round table, next to Asgore. Asgore's back is to the thing as he points at some papers in the Minister's hand and the other man nods emphatically. The flower stares at her and smiles.

 

Undyne grins back and raises her hand. The spears--

 

Cut through nothing, barely nicking the flower's petals as Asgore takes it off the table in his hands. Damn it. The flower looks at her, eyes wide and haunted. It's scared. Good. Because for as long as Undyne breathes--

 

Beneath her, a myriad of thorned vines ascend up her body through her muscles and organs, tearing and severing as they go, dragging her ethereal vessel to the cobblestone street. They go up and up and up, reawakening the pain she entered this state in. The one of lives and deaths past, the one she almost convinced herself was all a dream.

 

What... a fucking joke... huh? The instant... the literal moment she decides... to do something and... live... however she can... she...

Notes:

Prompt: I always come back

Chapter 26: Theme and Variations

Notes:

And there we go, the end of the main part of the fic. Since my soul sure as hell isn't cyan, expect the epilogue at some point later today ^^

(If you saw the blatant formatting issues this chapter had prior to me realizing it. No you didn't ^^)

This can't be happening. This can't be happening damn everything!

 

The sun's warmth can't thaw the chill within Asriel. ...How many times has he loaded to this day already? It's hard to keep count when trying to evade certain death relentlessly. All his plans, all his hard work, for this?!

 

Maybe he should...

 

No. No, that would be the same as giving up. He knows these people as well as he knows himself at this point. The king is predictable, all monsters are.

 

All except her.

 

Erasing her from time was a grave mistake. Asriel didn't know enough about the process when he made the choice. He rushed into it, he didn't study that stupid goner kid as much as he should've. He started ignoring them as soon as he realized they were gone from their loved one's memories, and doubly so when they came back. It felt correct at the time. Hilarious, even, to ignore them. He was the only one they could interact with and he chose to let them rot alone like a ghost.

 

Asriel never considered if they could fight back because they're a kid. He never found out if they remember past timelines because he thought ignoring them was the most entertaining way to go. He didn't think this through and now he's--

 

He burrows. Only under ground is he marginally safe; provided she hasn't seen him delve. Anywhere where she might see, anywhere up above, Asriel's nothing more than a target to her. Without her memories getting loaded along with the world, remembering what he can assume is most, if not every, past timeline, he can't catch her off guard or fool her anymore. Her will to fight is so strong he can't break her. She's out for him and she won't stop until he's dead.

 

He started all this to save himself from death. He doesn't want to disappear into darkness forever and never see Chara again. That will not happen; he refuses to accept that!

 

But under the earth, as safe as it is, he can't monitor the king. No amount of loading is making the old geezer do what Asriel expected of him.

 

Asriel's feelings... They're not coming back.

 

The one thing that can make everything right again, that can help him hold on until Chara returns, isn't working. No matter what Asriel does, what he tries, how he introduces himself to the king, at what point he does... It's all the same. Numb inside. Empty. Soulless.

 

Hollow.

 

...During one version of the timeline, the one where the weed was docile and well-behaved for a month until something snapped in her and she became the huntress she's turned out to be, Asriel thought he had a chance. She was no longer a threat, after all. Yeah, dad had some lingering memories of her, they were annoying as all hell. But he was focused on Asriel and Asriel alone. And while Asriel's emotions were still MIA, that was enough. The entertainment of watching the damned thief walk around aimlessly, losing all the determination and drive dad loved about her, about compensated for Asriel's otherwise missing feelings.

 

Then she snapped. She snapped, she reacted, and Asriel realized just how bad a mistake he's made. But while he wasn't expecting an attack after so long, although he'd grown arrogant, dad accidentally saved him. He picked up Asriel in the nick of time as grey spears hummed to life through the table he'd been sat upon a second prior.

 

Naturally, Asriel killed her. She didn't matter, and the king could probably do with losing her one more time. The putrid remains of memories he had of her were making him be a bit too fond of the damn picture the two had together. So Asriel offed her and moved on. No loading, no anything. He killed her and, for the first time, he allowed the timeline to proceed without her.

 

...That was his final bit of murder, it was all finally over. Keeping her around had been a mistake, albeit an entertaining one. He'd remedied it, though, and he genuinely believed everything would be fine.

 

It wasn't, though. It isn't. It couldn't be less fine.

 

He should've saved then and there, in a world without her. At first... At first Asriel was bored. Although he's not a killer, there was a certain thrill to chasing her around, to seeing her and the king's reactions to her dying over and over. Settling down into a normal, domestic life with dad after all that...

 

Well, Asriel believed he'd get over it. That he just had to get used to it, and when he managed he'd be alright. But he didn't, and through it all the king kept regarding her stupid, stupid picture with longing.

 

So, out of obligation, of course, Asriel loaded. After half a year since what was meant to be his final murder, he decided to turn back time to that forsaken morning. This forsaken morning, and do it all over again. He didn't want to, but what else could he do?

 

She had to die a few more times. She had to. For Asriel's sake. Not because he wanted to, but because she deserved it, and dad needed a little push in the right direction, right? So Asriel... He did what he had to do; which isn't what he wanted. Just what he was forced to do. Yes.

 

He went straight to her house before she woke up and killed her in every load, though. No more chases, no more creativity, no more risking it. Because if she as much as senses Asriel's around, she doesn't hesitate to attack. Heck, a few of the times Asriel loaded he had to load again prematurely, before getting to kill her, because she was out of bed faster than he arrived to her house and she was already on the lookout for him.

 

That helped a little. In the entertainment department, at least. Fearing for his life wasn't the helpful part; it was killing her. It was the feeling of his vines penetrating and shredding every last empty passage of her organs as well as their solid walls. It was popping off her scales, removing her remaining eye, hearing her groan in pain, watching her so uselessly try to hold on.

 

Asriel... Doesn't enjoy killing, he's not a murderer. But killing her... It is personal, she deserves it. And since she does, maybe...

 

...Maybe it is a little fun.

 

Of course, once Asriel reached the point where her deaths no longer improved dad's useless longing for his stupid dog, there was... there was no reason to do that again. So the races to Waterfall, the thrill of watching her turn to dust, of seeing her dust there, in a house nobody cares to visit, that in one version of the timeline even got sold and little kids played all over it, scattered it, unaware...

 

...It was over. Finally over. The end. Never again.

 

But... Well, Asriel's here, isn't he? Hiding from her again after loading anew, stuck in this same day. It just... It didn't work! And that's not his fault, right? The king, with or without having his affection torn between Asriel and the usurper, just can't bring back what Asriel had. The feelings, the warmth...

 

Maybe it's that he's useless. Or maybe it's that trying to rebuild their family from the ashes without the queen and Chara's useless. But Asriel's emotions are still as unavailable as they were before all this. Before he got jealous of the weed, before he hated her.

 

Before he killed.

 

He's tried. He's tried confronting dad in new ways, from different perspectives. Introducing himself as his son reborn, or as an orphan called "Flowey" so they could start a new family of their own. One not missing the echoes of Chara's laughter, or the traitor queen's voice scolding them. Something just for dad and Asriel, something that'd allow him to be close to the king, to be his son again, and be just his, the two of them alone.

 

...It's like eating paper. Or watching paint dry. Or any number of boring, mind-numbing things. Nothing works.

 

…

 

…Asriel's feelings aren't coming back, are they?

 

He's loaded so many times it's impossible to know how many. He finds her, kills her, and wonders for a moment, just one, if it's worth the risk of letting her live longer just to feel something again. He decides against that, because the entire point of doing all this was to not die, but the thoughts don't leave.

 

He looks at other monsters and feels bored. He knows what they'll say and do in response to his input.

 

But he's never seen them grieve the death of a loved one. He's never seen them die. He's never felt their flesh--

 

And that's why he loaded again, isn't it? Because those thoughts... It wasn't murder with the usurper, right? It was what she deserved, begged for, a mercy killing for an existence as miserable as hers. But other people who haven't hurt Asriel, whose sole crimes are being predictable...

 

That's... That's not the kind of monster Asriel is, right? It's what he'll have to do if he can't get his plan to work...

 

...But it's already not working, right? So maybe... Maybe it's time to--

 

No. That's a last resort. What's Asriel doing thinking, anyway?! This... This isn't the time for that. He has bigger problems. The weed wasn't home when he arrived, he's lost track of her. Under ground she can't see him, but with her no longer having a body he can't feel her footsteps, either. At some point he'll have to surface, and then the real fun--

 

...The challenge, will begin.

 

If there's one thing Asriel knows about her, though, is that she'd sooner die than give up. He's spent enough time with her to be certain beyond a shadow of a doubt she's kind of like him in that regard. Her feelings, her kindness, her useless compassion, those were what Asriel could use against her. Later on it was her fear, her anxiety, her insecurities. He could pull on them like a puppet's strings and have her dance to his will.

 

She has no compassion towards him now, nor is she in the state of mind she was in when all she did was die over, and over, and over. As long as she lives, she always comes hunt him down. It's a little game of cat and mouse they have going, and the only fun thing to come out of this ordeal.

 

Entertaining. Entertaining, not fun.

 

He can hunt her back. That's certainly a rush, but she's not an enemy he can underestimate. Not when her stupid, useless feelings aren't playing against her. This fun little game of hide and seek they have going on at the top of every load's eventually gonna end in either Asriel or the usurper's death. Hers doesn't matter; if anything it works in Asriel's favour.

 

But if he dies... If she manages to get one up on him just once... If she takes him out in one hit and doesn't give him time to load, which she's definitely able to...

 

...There'll be no more loading, no resets. Asriel won't come back. It'll be darkness, loneliness, nothingness, forever.

 

He hasn't fought so hard to end up like that, though. Everything he's done, from befriending useless idiots to playing with them to killing her, he's done to survive. To make Chara proud, to be someone worthy of being their best friend instead of a stupid crybaby.

 

His only chance lays in killing the weed first and allowing the timeline to go on without her. But then the problem becomes the king not being good enough to reawaken Asriel's feelings, him getting bored, and eventually figuring out a new way to approach the king. As his son reborn, or as a new orphan. Or an orphan with a new backstory, or wait, that was a mistake, it's better to be Asriel again. Either way, Asriel always ends up loading again, here again, stuck.

 

All for the old geezer to be useless. Here's Asriel, squeezing his brain as tight as he can to find a solution to his problem, and no matter what he does, with or without the usurper in his heart, the king fails at everything. He's gotten a reform of the education system stuck deep in his head and won't let it go. The time he doesn't spend working on that he devotes to Asriel and Asriel alone, just like he dreamed. But even that's not enough. The king is more useless than Asriel thought.

 

Sometimes Asriel thinks it'd be easier to let time flow without him.

 

...Then again, useless as he is, he's the only person who could help Asriel last as long as he needs without being forced into murder, or losing his mind and giving up. Just enough until Chara returns.

 

Which they will. Chara will certainly--

 

Grey light pierces through the packed earth's cracks before Asriel, an inch away from him. Damn it, she's here.

 

The spear phases through the throne room's dirt silently, unable to touch it. But if it comes in contact with Asriel it'll stab him without doubt. He's already had to load at least a dozen times because of a serious injury. If she ever gets him in one blow--

 

Asriel recalls his vines and roots into the smallest surface area. He needs to get out of here right now. If there's one spear there's dozens; there's no reason for her to summon just one. She's probably trying to cover the entire throne room's surface by conjuring as many as she can in one go.

 

The spear vanishes. Another materializes soundlessly behind Asriel, grazing his stem. Crud. He has to get moving. He--

 

Yet another appears right before him. Damn it, damn it! Asriel stops himself an inch short from it, moving around it, but more spears come no matter where he goes. From the side, from the back, in front of him. Asriel weaves in and out of the maze of spears his largest mistake creates for him and him alone. He needs to get out of here and get a visual of her before she hits him.

 

This is a new strategy. His search for her after he found her missing from her house this morning brought Asriel here, to the throne room. There's no chance the weed saw him making his way back here because she doesn't play any games. If she sees him, she goes for the kill. That means she came here and the first thing she did, without even knowing if he's here, was turn the entire place into a colander.

 

Alright then. If that's how it is, good. It's much more satisfying to kill prey who--

 

...

 

It is. It'd be a lie to say it isn't. It's not murder if it's her, though. Asriel's still safe.

 

Asriel reaches the wall behind the throne and ascends up it. She doesn't seem to have thought of piercing the wall yet. That or Asriel's getting insanely lucky, because not a single spear comes for him. He snakes up to the top, where the wall folds into the holed ceiling, and pops out just enough to see.

 

Grey spears still as columns fill the room. Every few seconds they vanish and reappear in a different order coming from as deep under ground as she can conjure them. Clever. Very smart, how fun. Now just where is their wielder? Among the flowers just like him, where--?

 

Dozens of grey lines hurl towards Asriel from the north-west section of the room, becoming larger as they converge on his head. There. Asriel retreats into the wall, slithering down to the bottom again as fast as he can. The wall won't save him from her weapons; it took him a couple of resets to understand that. Nothing can shield him; not when she and her magic can phase through everything.

 

She was standing perfectly still in the left corner of the throne room. If she remains there, she's dead. If she moves, well.

 

Let the games begin.

 

He sends a barrage of roots and vines to the opposite side of the room. Assuming she hasn't moved--

 

Damn it. All of them. Every last one of his vines, are severed.

 

She's getting more aggressive with the spears. If Asriel had to guess, she's made a barrier of sorts around herself again; like she did in the forest that one time, so many loads ago. If he were stupid enough to approach her, he'd find his face shaved off by them.

 

She's good, but so is Asriel. Alright, if he can't reach her from below he'll do it from above. Wouldn't be the first time; she can't conjure an indefinite number of spears.

 

He moves to the west wall, the one behind her, and goes towards her stronghold. Slowly, carefully. Just in case her protective prison also encapsulates the--

 

Correct! Asriel was right. A near-solid wall of tightly woven horizontal spears cuts through the darkness of the concrete. She's trapped him in the ground and she refuses to let him out. That's what she's trying to do, anyway. To confine him to one plane of the room so she can kill him; the nerve. No matter. He can slither out of the throne room, bypassing her weapons, and kill her from above.

 

She's good, but he's better than her. And hunting her for sport is the only sport Asriel's ever been interested in.

 

Asriel twists and winds around her spears. She's laced the wall with them. Every wall, presumably, since she can't see him. There aren't many, she's spread thin, but one wrong move and she'll win this round. Not that Asriel's a sore loser, but he won't lose to a petty thief.

 

Ducking and dodging, narrowly avoiding, bypassing all her spears, he reaches the eastern wall. A line of spears pointed inwards uselessly attempt to keep him corralled. Ridiculous idiot. In the second it takes her to recall one batch of spears and cast forth the next, he ducks beneath the phantom weapons and outside, to the streets of New Home.

 

Without interferences it takes him no time to surround the king's house and infiltrate his harmless walls up to the ceiling. Through it, Asriel races back to the throne room. It, too, is rigged with spears concentrating thicker over her location. Dang it. What if he doesn't appear, though? Will she get tired and go look for him elsewhere? If he waits long enough can he get her to quit?

 

...As interesting is to consider, he isn't the kind of person who likes sitting pretty and watching. She's screwed him over; he gets to kill her here and now. It's not murder; it's only fair.

 

He moves cautiously until the grey light of an incorporeal spear breaks the ceiling's darkness. Coiled tight, Asriel waits for the moment she recalls her spears before summoning more in another, randomized location. That one moment's all he has to-- Now. As the light vanishes, Asriel impulses himself downwards, out of the ceiling, falling down into the throne room. Facing the corner she's at, he--

 

The spot where she should be, the one guarded by impenetrable spears, is vacant. She fooled him. The head of a spear passes right above his eyes from the east. Disgusting little weed. Where is she?! Asriel turns--

 

Directly beneath him, a flurry of grey spears cut through the air. God damn her.

 

Asriel extends his roots and vines back to the ceiling, catapulting himself into it and to the left in the nick of time. One of his petals is ripped clean off as he dodges the barrage of spears. Bitch. From where he is, as she summons her next set of spears, he launches all his vines and roots towards the middle of the throne room.

 

She's bound to have moved around, so Asriel extends his numerous limbs in a circle. Her weapons saw through many of his vines, yet through the piercing pain Asriel persists. She's gonna pay for this. Closing his eyes he expands his vines and roots as far as they'll reach in case she even thinks of--

 

One of his vines closes around something soft. Soft with gills; a throat. One he grasps firmly, sliding into it through the moist openings. All his remaining vines follow in that direction, grasping at anything they can find and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until--

 

There. Dust. Much better now.

 

Panting, Asriel recalls his roots and vines. The weed's dust still falls from them, caught on the thorns, and Asriel pokes his head outside, blinking through a beam of sunlight from an opening north of him. Where his greatest nuisance once stood lays nothing but dust covering the flowers sunlight is illuminating. Dust as invisible and intangible as she is, that the king will walk over and not even notice. Hah.

 

There. Another... Another load where Asriel's safe. The chase is over, it's alright. He doesn't...

 

...He doesn't need to kill anymore, huh? Provided... Provided everything goes well with the king, of course. What cover story will Asriel give him this time? His son returned from the grave, or the pitiful orphan Flowey seeking a new home?

 

-

 

...This place is never going to feel like home again, is it? What Asriel is trying to recreate, the mother and father he remembers, they're no longer...

 

"Your father and I love you, my children. More than anyone or anyth--"

 

...Asriel's never going to feel anything again, is he?

 

It's been... how many months, since he offed the useless soldier girl? Almost a year by now. And this room, the room he once shared with Chara, doesn't feel like anything.

 

The last time Asriel felt was when he was squeezing the life out of the thief. That was something to remember. That...

 

...

 

...This load... isn't working. Yes, Asriel should go back. Try it all over again, from the start. Erase the stupid, useless king's memory and introduce himself as Asriel instead of Flowey this time. That... That might fix things.

 

Of course, to do that he'll have to kill the usurper first. Just to be safe, since she's still alive at his last save point. He'll have to hunt her down, outsmart her, feel the life seeping from her as she--

 

...Out of necessity. Of course.

 

Necessity alone.

 

-

 

The king is useless.

 

Even more than Asriel thought! He's beyond delighted to see his son again, but it feels like nothing. Who cares what he feels at the sight of Asriel?

 

This is about him and his survival, damn it. The king's a broken tool and little else.

 

It took Asriel two hours to off the usurper this time. He actually had to lure her into one of the pools of Waterfall this time; it was glorious. She almost, almost got him! She's getting better and better at predicting him and his moves; it's...

 

...It's the most fun part of every iteration of this timeline. The only fun part. The king, for all his warmth, all his similarities to Asriel...

 

...Was Asriel really that much of a dummy when he was alive? Was he so... sentimental? Did he care so much about people?

 

And if so, why?

 

People are useless unless there's a purpose for them. And right now the king's failing to fulfil his. The person he is, the one Asriel was so convinced could help him regain his feelings, is foreign to Asriel in this state. Surely there was a time where he too was as much of a dumb crybaby as the king is; Chara called him so for a reason. But the person he was before he died, with that soul, those feelings, that vivid, bright existence exalted by his family...

 

"Chara, Asriel. Your father and I need to take a picture of you two right now. You're so cute!!

 

"Asriel, Chara, listen to your mother and please have mercy... You have been trying to outdo each other at draughts for hours now, it is time for dinner."

 

"Aw, c'mon, crybaby. I-I didn't mean to hit you in the face, you know? Please quiet down before mom-- Hi mom!! Yeah, everything's... Yeah I hit him in the face. With the ball. It was an accident though. ...Sorry?"

 

...Asriel's existed as a flower for so long that person, those feelings...

 

"Best friends forever. Me and you. We're gonna save everyone, Azzy. Togeth--"

 

...He can hardly remember them anymore. They're buried so deep only one person could stir them up again.

 

"Tell me who made you cry and I'm cracking their spine like an accordion. Nobody makes my brother--"

 

Asriel... Died with Chara. And until Chara's back, maybe he can't fully return, either.

 

Maybe all this is futile.

 

-

 

Loading and killing her. Again and again. In every way he can conceive of. Everything else feels like wet paper, but Asriel can't kill. He's not a murderer; it's just killing her specifically is fun. It's also very personal. She thinks she's so smart, but once the Captain of the Royal Guard, now she's not good enough to stop him. She deserves it for being so hecking smug, though. The least she can do is offer Asriel the entertainment he needs, right?

 

Besides, killing her isn't even murder. It's just pest control.

 

-

 

Sitting through another Education meeting with the King and the Minister in the Council room. Whatever. Whatever. Whatever. It's all variations on the same lines, the same arguments. The same strings of dialogue, sometimes in different order. It's torture. This isn't living. If Asriel has to live like this one more time he's going to cave in and--

 

No. He won't die. He won't, dying is for losers. Chara died with purpose. If Asriel gives in...

 

...

 

What kind of sounds would the minister make if Asriel penetrated his ugly rat skull with a few vines right now through his small, beady eyes? What would the useless king say if he saw--?

 

...It's... It's a thought. Just a thought, a hypothetical scenario. A fun one, but not one to revel in. Asriel... Isn't a killer. There's a line somewhere.

 

What if he could cross...?

 

...Killing her truly is the salt of this existence, huh? Once she's gone Asriel just thinks about doing it to pretty much everyone. Maybe he should load. Because if he has to listen to the ratty Minister speak of classroom capacity one more time, Asriel's going to snap and kill not himself, but that rat bastard.

 

-

 

Disgusting idiot. Asriel hates her. He hates her he hates her he hates her! He hates her more than he's ever hated anyone or anything. Even the queen, and her unforgivable replacements for Chara.

 

At least she's sitting there in the Ruins, wasting away, so miserable because of the oh so tragic deaths of those stupid children she should have never cared about anyway; too broken to care for herself. She isn't essentially taking control of the timeline and--

 

No.

 

No, no, that's not it. The usurper hasn't taken control of the time loop. Asriel's in control; he's the only one in control. He's god, after all. She's just a meaningless, forgotten peasant. A weed to remove, that's all.

 

She's just... She's like a dog. Really, that's it. Dogs may find a way to break out of their enclosure after playing around with the latch enough times. They don't understand what they did, the mechanism behind their newfound freedom, but through trial and error they can luck their way out once or twice.

 

She's just lucked out a few more, that's all. She's... She's getting scarily good at predicting Asriel's every move. He can't find her. It's been six days since his last load. This is by far the longest she's had him chasing after someone as useless and worthless as her.

 

Maybe loading again was a mistake. But if he didn't he was gonna become a murderer on the spot. Being annoying like the Minister isn't punishable by death.

 

Though maybe it should be. Maybe the laws are flawed, right?

 

The last few loads Asriel's gotten a bit arrogant and luck has been slightly more on the weed's side than usual. That's all, it's not like it means anything. It's fine, really. The latest loads in general, she's been far more... Not like him, of course. Does Asriel himself get repetitive with every load as well? Is he as predictable as the mere mortals who fail to entertain him with their pointless lives?

 

...Of course not. They're not like him, of course not. She's gotten lucky a few dozen times and kept him on his toes, that's all. She's almost killed him, forced him to load even if he didn't want to, to save himself; but that's just a lucky streak.

 

Asriel is in control. He has everything under control. Now, when he finds her...

 

...Why did he load again? Did he want to try something new with the king, or was it all about...?

 

-

 

She tries to kill him. He kills her. The king is overemotional and annoying and invested in education. He fails over and over to reawaken Asriel's feelings. Asriel loads. Over and over, like variations on a theme. There's only so many times a flower can listen to the same melody without getting sick and tired of it, though. Variations are finite, and what he's left with is more bland than his hollow heart.

 

The sun from the throne room isn't for him to enjoy anymore. If he rejoices too much in it, the usurper comes to kill him. Asriel can't talk to the king before dealing with her. Asriel has to be careful. Asriel's found himself fearing her, for crying out loud. He may be the god of time, but much like she stole his spot next to the king, she's here to rob him of even more. Does she never get tired? Doesn't she have anything better to do?

 

Asriel can't do this forever. He could just end her and let the timeline go on without her, it'd be the sanest thing to do at this point. She's becoming more deadly and determined by the load. But if Asriel doesn't have to off her, without the adrenaline of the chase, of the kill, and with the king being useless, what else does Asriel have left?

 

He has to continue because one day he'll find his feelings again. Because he can't just let her win. Because if he doesn't get his emotions back, he's going to disappoint Chara by being a crybaby and dying.

 

He sinks into the earth before she can find him, wandering off in a random direction. He'd stay in the king's house, hearing his footsteps because, even if the sound makes Asriel feel nothing, he can at least close his eyes and imagine he's still alive, hiding under the covers with Chara, pretending to be asleep so dad would come in and wake them up with tickles.

 

That doesn't make Asriel feel anything, either. But echoes, impressions of emotions, are all he gets nowadays if he isn't killing her.

 

If he sticks around, though, as soon as she arrives her spears will precede her. She has the king's house cordoned off.

 

She's mostly given up on tracking Asriel down in recent times, but she makes it so wherever the king goes, Asriel can't get near. The second he tries to approach his father, the bitch just has to go ahead and try to kill him. The nerve; who does she think she is?! He has to kill her first, and then it amounts to nothing because life becomes boring immediately. Then Asriel's obligated to load, and she's back that much better and smarter, rinse and repeat.

 

He'll kill her, dad will be useless. Over and over, becoming more dangerous with each round. The only way to spice things up at this point would be to kill other monsters, lure her away from dad, do something different. But Asriel can't... He can't do that, right?

 

Killing is bad, it's not something he ever wanted to do. It... It can be fun, yes. He's found many ways to make murder an art, but that was for someone who deserved it! A dad thief who replaced him, who dad loved way too much. Asriel did it because he had to. Because erasing her from the king's memories and reconstructing as much of their family as he still could was the only way Asriel could think of regaining his emotions.

 

But it's not working. Despite all his effort, all his hard work, all the time he's invested across multiple timelines to this plan, it hasn't worked.

 

He's tried. Heavens know Asriel's tried. He's given this idea of his so many spins and whirls there isn't a single scenario he's yet to experience. It all loops and loops, eternally. The only thing Asriel could change at this point would be murder.

 

It's on his mind all the time. Every hour of every day. Dismembering, eviscerating, maiming. Strangling, beating, tossing. Vivisecting, beheading, severing. Doing it to her on loop got boring after a while, yeah. But when Asriel got around to trying new methods, or when she started fighting back, before she became a legitimate threat...

 

...He could think he doesn't miss it. That he was repulsed by that. But it'd be lying.

 

He misses it his every waking hour.

 

The idea of murder was repugnant to him at first, much like being cruel towards others and ruining lives. Whether being forced to kill the usurper over and over has desensitized him to it, or opened a whole new world of possibility, is hard to tell. All he knows is that hunting her down, tearing her tendons apart, stealing the breath from her lungs, snapping her bones, slicing her flesh, made Asriel feel like nothing else.

 

And without that, or with the risk of dying for good, nothing makes sense.

 

This version of the timeline, without her, with the king all for himself... Asriel thought it'd fix everything. But obviously it's not. It isn't fixing a single thing, it's making it worse for himself! His feelings aren't coming back and, without entertainment, seeing the same damn situations play over again and again, he's starting to feel like he did when he thought maybe death would be better.

 

He should've never eliminated her, shouldn't he? This is the worst mistake he's made, hah. Now that she knows of him and she's growing as accustomed to him as he's become to the tiny world around him, until he gets her she's the one dictating when he loads. And then when he does end her, for one moment it's breathtakingly fun, and then it's back to feeling nothing.

 

Until it gets so despairing he wants to try another idea, another spin, and does it all again. But... Is it another scenario he wants to try?

 

Or does he just want to kill because at this point killing's the only thing that makes sense?

 

At first Asriel truly did have other plans. Other ways to approach the king, to try to make a home out of the ruins of their family. But over time... Over time it became about killing.

 

Killing in a justified manner, one that doesn't count as murder. It does, though. It's always been murder. And that's bad, it's really bad. Asriel's not bad, he's just desperate. But now he's here, between a rock and a hard place. If he keeps this up he's handing more and more control over to her, and one day she'll best him.

 

If he continues on with the timeline, without hurting a single soul in it, he'll end up dying of boredom in the most literal sense. Then every killing will be unjustified, because it lead to no end. No finality, no nothing.

 

And even killing her over an over... If his own life weren't on the line, it wouldn't be fun, either. Asriel's gotten bored of ending her more than once. The thrill of her fighting back was entertaining the first times, when she was still gathering her bearings. But now that she knows him almost as well as he knows her, that all the kindness and compassion she had for him in past timelines he killed out of her painfully and violently, it's less exciting and more risky. Scary.

 

A god like himself, scared. No wonder Chara thought he was a crybaby.

 

It seems... This is really the end of the road, right? Asriel's tried. He tried to be good, and it didn't work. So he became mischievous until that got boring. And then he became bad just to eliminate her, with that sole purpose, so he could have dad and be good again. But now that everything's in order for him to be good...

 

...He doesn't really want to.

 

Asriel's lost control of this situation. The moment she was erased, removed from time, and consequently outside of the realm of his control, he idiotically gave her the tools she needs to become like him. An observer of others, of the world around her, someone who can learn, whose memories time can't erase if she herself if erased from time. She may not be smart, but she sure as heck isn't dumb. Worst of all, she's deadly. She keeps pushing Asriel into a corner, forcing him to load to her whims to stop himself from dying more and more often these days.

 

Even this isn't fun anymore. Even godhood is tedious if he can't have full ownership over it. And not killing her is still worse, somehow.

 

So this is it. The time where Asriel has to go on to kill everyone, see everything this world has to offer, is here, right? If the king isn't working, mom is disgusting, and he's found out just how fun ending a life can be... Yeah, sure, it'll get boring in time. But right now everything's already either boring, or worrisomely dangerous.

 

At least if he caves in, although it'll also eventually run dry, he's winning some time. The longer he spends warding off death the longer he has to figure out what his next scheme to keep himself going will be.

 

And right, killing is bad, yeah sure, whatever. It's not... It's not like it really matters, right? Not when he can rewind time and pretend it never happened. The consequences won't last. Even if he were to kill someone to the extreme of deleting them from existence again, a little reset can fix it. After enough of those, whatever negative side-effects they're getting from having died a few times will fade away, too. Perks of being an inferior being; it's easier to forget how bad some things hurt.

 

Asriel won't ever get that mercy. He came back to find his sibling is missing, mom is a traitor, and the king's become worthless. He won't get to forget that, and because of his lack of a soul he doesn't even get the delight of emotions to carry him through this.

 

Who's the real victim here?

 

...There's something about hollowing out bodies, testing how long they'll survive before crumbling to dust, bathing in it, that makes the tips of Asriel's leaves tingle in delight. It's fun. It really, truly is. Pretending it isn't was a lie. The final ties Asriel had to the hope of turning back time and going back to how he was before he died. A weakling's hopes and dreams, for sure. But after having tried everything he can give up already, right?

 

He has no obligation to live as a monster if he isn't one. He has no obligation to abide by Asriel's moral code if he will never have Asriel's soul nor Asriel's emotions again.

 

Asriel is dead. He died with Chara, and he'll never come back until they do. Siblings in life and siblings in death. Either both of them exist or neither does. Best friends forever, a team. So if what remains, if this disgusting flower, isn't Asriel...

 

....Flowey can be whoever he wants to be.

 

Disgusting? The flower's body isn't apt for a monster, sure; but it's perfect for a god. Flowey will never be a monster again. Asriel's dead and gone.

 

A quitter Flowey isn't. He's overcome every single moral hurdle in his way to accepting his true nature. First being scandalized by hurting others, then finding ten thousand loopholes to justify his murder. Who was he justifying it to? He's the god of this world, for crying out loud.

 

He doesn't need mom, or the king, or anyone. They're all beneath him. All idiots who repeat the same things in different order in different timelines. They're stupid, useless output machines who are too stupid to even realize that's all they are and all they'll ever be.

 

Hurting others is bad, killing isn't okay, all that spiel... Who cares? Maybe if they didn't want to be hurt they should be less frail.

 

Maybe if they didn't want to die, they should kill first. Why should Flowey hold back to accommodate for their pathetic weakness?

 

He's liked murder from the start. His second ever purposeful kill went from pushing the weed off the top of that cliff to tearing into her vividly, with his own vines, feeling it, relishing the sensation of her tissues succumbing to him. And what did he do? At the time he too was a weakling, so he reset instead of loading as if doing so would erase what he'd done.

 

He wanted it erased, justified, given a purpose. But come on. He's a god. He's the god. What reason would God need to do anything beyond just wanting to?

 

Flowey's wasted so much time trying to be Asriel. Fighting against his nature, repressing it, framing it as a need more than a want... It was all for nothing. In the end he's here, now.

 

And killing is exhilarating. As of now, before it gets boring? He could do it forever.

 

Man, what a journey this has been. From being the single kindest, dumbest entity in the Underground, to learning how powerful he is when consequences are nothing to him and he can do everything he wishes.

 

Murder truly is an art; humans got that much right. And as an art, as something defined by "anything creative which elicits strong emotion in the creator and the viewers," it can be practiced and refined. At this point, having used the same model to paint wounds and lacerations onto so many times, Flowey might be nearing the rank of master.

 

His greatest masterpiece so far is her. The ways he's ruined and brutalized her body are heinous. It's fantastic. Mad, creative, passionate! A whirl of emotions stirred within an otherwise soulless being. What else would art be?

 

Then again, much like rehearsing the same piece to oblivion starts making it sound dull, causes the performer to begin hearing flaws where there are none, picking at small details, and eventually ruining it entirely, Flowey's overdone it. Alright, so the king loves her. Good for him.

 

The king... The king is no longer a concern of Flowey's. Beyond having wasted an inane amount of time on him, that is. The king was Asriel's father, and Asriel is dead.

 

Flowey's too good, too perfect, to need or want a family.

 

"My son... My sweet boy. Good night, Asr--"

 

The emotions he seeks... They sure would be nice to have. But having tried everything, spanning decades if time were linear for him, and still yielding no results...

 

Heck... No, not "heck." Screw it. It's time for him to accept the world... really did move on without Asriel.

 

Society isn't as warm as it was; they all want to kill more people like Chara. Mom isn't the angel Flowey thought she was. The king is nothing but a pathetic loser who cares too much about morality and is determined to ruin everything he touches.

 

Chara's gone. If he's being realistic instead of a scaredy-cat too afraid to face reality, Asriel never even stood a chance without them. All along Flowey's been holding on to empty hope because he was too much of a coward to accept his emotions, Asriel, will never return. Without Chara it's all pointless.

 

Asriel and Chara are one soul in two bodies. One doesn't make sense without the other.

 

That time when life was soft and warm, when hugs meant the world and Asriel could cry and laugh genuinely, without the premeditation Flowey requires, are gone. There's nothing else he can think of to try getting it back. He's tried. Heaven knows he's tried. Over, and over, and over. At any price. Killing, torturing, everything. He's had patience, he's attempted literally everything he could come up with to turn back time to when he was still alive and his heart was beating and he had a soul to feel with.

 

The irony of being the god of time is that his reign is only from the moment he woke up in the flower, Flowey, to the present. Try as Flowey might, he can't push back the clocks to a much longer ago, to the night Chara and Asriel carried out their plan and everything was ruined forever.

 

Not even to a few months ago, when the stupid scientist decided to inject a little flower with determination and gave it the "gift" of sentience.

 

...

 

If that life, Asriel's, is over, Flowey has to make a new one, right? It's what Chara would do, it's what he should.

 

He's already doing a good job of disentangling his life as Asriel from his life as Flowey. Though in all honesty, albeit it's just now that he's taking on a new name and all, Flowey did so a long time ago. That loser Asriel would've never been able to stomach killing someone just to feel something and not sink to despair and boredom.

 

All Flowey's done now is embrace that consciously.

 

The truth is killing brings Flowey joy. Asriel couldn't accept that, but Flowey can. Easily, even. He can't feel regret; he can't feel anything bar entertainment. Flowey loves seeing living beings writhe. He loves the power. He adores evading consequences.

 

He likes being God.

 

And honestly, the scenarios he's left with now that, in pursuit of Asriel's return, he's erased the king's dog and she's become such a pain, are boring as all hell. He could just off her this time, outsmart her once more, and let the timeline go on without her. But if he does that, he's saying goodbye to the option of resetting, because resetting would bring her back.

 

Flowey would love to kill everyone in every way he can think of. For that he needs to have both loading and resetting available. So maybe, now that she doesn't matter anymore and the king loving her is even less relevant, maybe it's time to let go of this nightmare and reset already.

 

Yeah, restoring her to life would be like letting her win. Incidentally, as long as she's erased, as long as she poses a threat to Flowey if he ever needs to load, she's also in full control of the timeline. How... How stupid. Giving Asriel -or, more accurately, trying to mimic Asriel's morals- the power to wield time was so useless. Asriel was a loser, a crybaby, and for it he handed over his powers without a second thought.

 

But if that doesn't matter anymore and Flowey resets, if she's no longer able to come after him and he restores everything to the time before she was unstuck from the timeline because she's forgotten, it won't matter anymore. Flowey'll be able to reset, load, and do as he pleases without ever having to worry about the king's useless pet ever again.

 

Letting her win is the only way to undo the largest mistake Asriel ever made. Only then will Flowey be able to use his powers to their max capacity, doing everything he wants, however and whenever he wants. Unbothered by pests or thorns in his side, untethered to the whims of an inferior being with the audacity to try ending a life like his.

 

Making a save point when she's dead is always an option, sure... But then what if he wants to kill her again in the future, for old time's sake? What if he wants to see her reaction to watching the king die? What if he wants to torture her by killing all the monsters she so desperately craves to save and leaving her the sole survivor?

 

In a world as limited as the Underground is, why would Flowey limit his possibilities like that?

 

Asriel... really thought he could get his feelings back. That stupid, useless, hopeful imbecile truly did think it would work. He was too weak to accept his new existence, new powers, new nature. He got angry when he realized the king had replaced him with another idiot, as if such inferior creatures mattered. When he discovered he had a little bargaining chip, a chance, in erasing the one he saw as a thief, he was hopeful again, like a moron. And inevitably, when that failed, because a creature such as Flowey could never be like the one Asriel reminisced, he got all sad.

 

That's where Asriel died and Flowey was fully born. Out of the acceptance of his new status and all of Asriel's failures. The only things to outlive Asriel are the lingering consequences of his desperate search for the paternal love he can no longer feel. The one single consequence, of having Undyne still walking around.

 

Resetting and restoring her life may benefit her, yes. But it's also the only way to finish removing Asriel from Flowey. She's the final knot left to undo.

 

So this is it, then, there's nothing left to do. Asriel's dead, and as soon as Flowey resets and undoes all of Asriel's mistakes he'll reach his full potential. The Underground's gonna become his hunting grounds and nobody can stop him, or even be aware of him if he doesn't want them to. How exciting.

 

...It'll get boring, too. And for an empty being such as him that'll mean the end. But it's still leagues better than this inescapable cycle he trapped himself in when he stupidly decided to erase someone without fully understanding what it would entail.

 

Besides, it'll buy him some time to come up with his next brilliant plan. Flowey's a god now, where Asriel was a useless mortal chained to "ethics and morals," unwilling to accept his true nature and become his best self.

 

It's a good thing Asriel died. Someone as stupid as him wouldn't stand a chance in this world. From now on, under Flowey's phantom reign, it's kill or be killed.

 

Alright. Seeing dad's-- the king's little pet walking around again's gonna sting a little. But as long as that bitch isn't hell-bent on turning Flowey into a pincushion for spears, as long as she doesn't even know he exists and he's diametrically opposed to her oh so dear sense of justice, as long as she doesn't remember anything, it'll be a worthy price to pay.

 

A fair one, even, in exchange for becoming a god unchained. The god of death? No, that sounds too mild. He's better than that, more powerful. Absolute God, then?

 

The problem is the word "death." Considering what he's capable of doing to people like that stupid kid and the King's little pet, "death" doesn't come close to cutting it.

 

Irrelevant right now; he'll have time to think of a proper title, too. For now, the charade is over. Take a bow, it's the end.

 

The curtains fall with the dead silence of a timeline ending as Flowey resets.

Notes:

Prompt: Dormammu, I've come to bargain

Chapter 27: Epilogue: A New Beginning

Notes:

Welp, alright! This... This is where it's all lead to. The end!!

I'm kinda sad to be done with this fic, ngl! It was a blast to write, and it's been a blast to edit, too, even if it's shown me headaches i didn't know were humanly possible /hj. Still... this fic means a whole lot to me. I really, really enjoyed writing it and sharing it with y'all.

To the people who've interacted, no matter how much or how little, or purely silently through leaving kudos... thank you. Thank for for taking the time to share your appreciation of this fic with me. I cannot stress how much it's meant, every last one of you.

And now, for the last time, I hope this update's worth your time, and that you can enjoy. See you in the end notes.

"I presume you understand the meaning of 'day off', correct?

 

With an irritated sigh, Undyne rolls her eye; the exasperation is stronger than her. She leans forwards on the kitchen table, arms crossed. She must be exerting too much pressure again, because it groans under her weight.

 

"We've already been over this. I don't need any time off, alright?"

 

...Need. "Need" is a pretty big word. She doesn't need a break, for sure. But would it be so bad if...?

 

"For my sw--"

 

Asgore gives her a long stare before taking an equally long sip of tea. A pensive frown crowns his expression. What's he thinking about? He's going to be a massive worrier again, isn't he? He's going to tell her she doesn't have to work so hard, and she overdoes it a lot, and the same things he always says. Repetitive and predictable.

 

...It's still nice to hear, though. Being cared for... is precious.

 

…?

 

Still, he doesn't know what would happen if she took the break he asks of her. If she caved in and stayed indoors to practice piano a bit, or if she went out for a walk, took a book out of the Librarby, spoke to someone...

 

...She can't. It'd be a catastrophe if she did. She knows the ending to this story. Undyne can't, not while she's down here.

 

But if not here and now... when? The future she seeks, where everything's safe and nothing can find her... What if it never comes?

 

Bad thought. Horrible thought; of course it will. It'll come, Asgore and her are gonna see it through together. But still...

 

Would it be so bad to, for just one day, focus on creating instead of--?

 

Asgore sets his mug down, brow still tense. His green eyes dig into hers.

 

"Then I ask of you."

 

...Worrywart. But still, he's worried about her. He cares, and it's very hard to be annoyed at someone who cares so much. It's not like anyone else cares about Undyne.

 

Undyne shouldn't. Trying to make a life down here's an oxymoron. She wears the conclusion of a life who tried to live around her neck every day. It's been chained to Undyne for the past ten years. A reminder of mom, and a reminder of what trying to live in death's waiting room can do, a touch much gentler than a noose's.

 

...But, playing devil's advocate for her own demons, who's guaranteeing the seventh human will fall within Undyne's lifespan? Is she really going to plan her whole life based on a wish of hers? A hypothetical scenario, one future among many possibilities?

 

Isn't existing, and not living, precisely what mom did before...?

 

...

 

She's falling victim to the death trap of hedonism, isn't she? The allure of sitting still and playing piano, feeling a needle between her fingers anew, reading a book... It's death's siren call, right?

 

Then again, isn't refusing to live a way of dying with a heart still beating?

 

"Undyne?"

 

Alright, time to go. Her head's getting really weird and Asgore doesn't need to see that. He cares about her, he'd worry even more, and then he'd explode. There's only so much worry one body can handle, and at being concerned he's the champion.

 

It's sweet, though. She worries for him, too. And those bags under his eyes, the tiredness in his voice...

 

...He could do with a day off, too. But he won't get one. Not unless he has a good reason to.

 

Doesn't Undyne have a duty to him, too? Not just as his Captain, but as his friend?

 

"I'll take half the day off, this evening, if you do, too. Because you also look horrible. Deal?"

 

It's the best compromise Undyne can think of. Stopping isn't an option for her, but nothing short of keeping his word would make Asgore take a rest. He needs it, so it's... It's a worthy risk for Undyne to take as well, right? If it's for his well-being, it's fine.

 

He'd do anything for her, too. This is only fair.

 

Behind and beneath--

 

"I do not need a day off," Asgore mutters.

 

Hard-headed man. Undyne shrugs, standing. She smooths out the wrinkles in her sweater as she does. If she insists she'll only make things harder. "Damn shame then. See you for din--"

 

He stands up so fast his legs smack into the table, rattling the plates and cutlery on it. "Wait, wait." He makes to speak twice, finally bowing his head in defeat. "I... suppose one day would be fine. So far as you uphold your end of the bargain as well, young lady."

 

"Young lady?" Since when does he call her that? He seems to be as taken aback by his odd choice of words as she is, judging by his arched eyebrow.

 

Something about his clueless expression, the shock at his own sentence, makes her laugh. A genuine laughter coming from deeper within her than she can reach, that's been repressed for so long. When was the last time she laughed without a hint of sarcasm or irony, like this?

 

"We've got a deal then, old timer. We both suck up being workaholics for half a day and take a break like responsible adults."

 

She's going to regret this so bad. She woke up wrong today, all she's saying and doing's a huge mistake.

 

Her own thoughts are foreign yet familiar all at once; more proof that she's starting to lose it, because that makes no sense. It's just...

 

Damn it, every day for the past ten years she's devoted her everything to becoming Captain. Now that she's achieved it she planned on doubling down on her work ethic starting today. Because she knows. She knows damn well how things end otherwise. If there's no life to make down here, why bother? Perhaps she should indeed let her body rest a little, but it should be out of a sense of responsibility, to be her best self. Not to play piano, or take out mom's old sewing kit, or going to the garbage dump for a walk. Doing that...

 

...Why would she go to the dump?

 

...Doing that would be living, wouldn't it? Living down here's a death sentence. Living is, also, the #1 thing humanity didn't want monsters to do when they were imprisoned so long ago. Isn't postponing her life to the Surface letting humans win, in a sense? They wanted monsterkind to be miserable and wither away down here. Having survived is already a middle finger to humanity's cruelty. But taking it a step further, and living with all their strengths, is turning that middle finger into a slap in the face.

 

When she ascends to the Surface, does she want to do it as merely a survivor? Or does she want to have the confidence that, even when she couldn't do more in absence of that seventh soul, she defied humanity and their desire to oppress every last aspect of her life?

 

"For my sweeth--"

 

...She'll die regardless. She can't avoid that; it's the path everyone's life ends up in at some point. And perhaps... perhaps what happened to mom was a bit more complicated than that? Perhaps what killed her was more insidious and twisted than simply having tried to turn her existence into a life. After all, countless other monsters also live, and they don't...

 

...They don't leave their kids. Or their spouses, or their friends, or anyone. They die when it's time for them to, and their funerals are full of stories, and tears, and laughter, and tears of laughter. Their houses are stocked with memories, proof they lived, they made the most of their imprisonment in spite of humanity's desires to end them, they mattered.

 

Wasn't the point of becoming Captain to obtain just that? Why... Why should Undyne wait? Wouldn't that, repressing everything that could turn her existence into a life, be exactly what humans want...?

 

...There's something wrong with her head today. She woke up wrong, very wrong, and it's getting worse. She's thinking and saying nonsense, and it's going to cost her dearly.

 

Behind--

 

...Hm. Still... This brand of wrong feels... almost right? Like. As weird as this is. It's also the most opposite set of emotions she's ever had to the noose burning and freezing her from within. It's almost like she's breathing new air, lighter than ever.

 

Which is insane. Undyne's going insane. And instead of scaring her, her fingers are itching not for the spears of freedom, but for the keys on her piano. Oh shit, she hasn't tuned that in so long. Does she remember how to tune it? Why the hell's she so fixated on--?

 

"How will I know you are actually resting, and this is not an elaborate scheme to fool me into taking a day off?"

 

The skepticism in Asgore's voice, his narrowed eyes, tense Undyne's cheeks into a smile. Chronic worrier.

 

"Come over for lunch so you can oversee my progress if you can't trust my word."

 

It was meant to be a joke, but Asgore's expression lights up so much she couldn't tell him that anymore. Great, now she has a guest over for lunch. Does she even have anything in the fridge? When did she last do laundry? Does she have any clean dishes?

 

So much for half of a free day. She ended up forcing herself to do chores instead.

 

A nervous chuckle escapes her. "What-What are you smiling about like that?"

 

Though Asgore's expression becomes more neutral in an attempt to regain composure, a hint of a smile still hides in the wrinkles around his eyes and behind his beard. "It has simply been so long since you and I spent a day like this. I got excited, that is all."

 

...It has, hasn't it? It must've been years. Since before she began aiming for this promotion.

 

Way too long, it's about time to remedy that. For some reason beyond her, Asgore likes her company. Might as well honour that. She can't bring him the seventh soul effective immediate, so in the meantime she should express some gratitude for all he's done for her in the only way she can here, and now: spending time with him.

 

She's already achieved her goal. Undyne's already the youngest Captain in history. Obsessing over it, losing her nerves, not allowing her body to rest... That's just fear taking hold of her.

 

And maybe it's whatever the hell's wrong with her talking, and she comes down from this as soon as she's normal again, but living in perpetual fear seems much closer to what mom was experiencing than trying to live a little. There may be no life without freedom, but no amount of overexerting herself is going to summon the seventh human to the Underground any faster. She has to spend her off-time doing something she enjoys. If she pushes herself to the absolute limit she's going to end up killing herself, no noose required. If she doesn't do something she likes, even just a little, she's essentially punishing herself, right?

 

Hasn't humanity already punished her enough?

 

Behind--

 

...Alright. So whatever this bout of insanity is, it either kills her, or it doesn't. If it kills her, if it's what came after mom, Undyne's already screwed. Might as well try to enjoy what little time she has left. And if it isn't, if she's actually having the first moment of clarity she's had all decade, does she want to continue wasting her life?

 

It's not like she's going to stop, quit, succumb to hedonism. All she's going to do is stop turning every single aspect of her existence into something related to humans. Be it hating them or thinking about killing them, it's about time she does something for herself in tandem to ending every single pest up there on the Surface.

 

Since when does she know the word "hedonism?" Did she read that somewhere in school? What does it mean?

 

...Alright, today's a test run. Just that. If it doesn't work, if it makes the thoughts of the noose worse, stronger, more frequent, she'll revert to her previous MO. But if taking half a day off in two or more years isn't detrimental to her overall performance, maybe it means she's capable of balancing duty with life? That, even if she can't live without freedom, per se, maybe she can do the next best thing?

 

There has to be a happy middle between doing what mom did, trying to live to the fullest, and what Undyne's doing now, which is not living at all. Both of those thing feel like extremes.

 

...No. No no, she can't. She has to drop this line of thought immediately, whatever it is. She can't do that; it's the opposite of what she's always done to keep herself safe. The longing for piano, for reading, for taking a small break's always been there. But Undyne's good at ignoring it. It's extra strong today, for sure, and maybe it's even a nice variation from being stalked by the noose. But if the yearning for living, for suicide, is strong, Undyne's even stronger. She'll just have to tell Asgore--

 

Shoot. Shoot, she's the condition for him resting. And he needs to rest, it's--

 

...If resting, taking care, living, is so bad, why the hell does she want Asgore to do it? She doesn't want him to die, for crying out loud.

 

Her head's going to explode. Alright, screw it. Her hands are tied today; she'll even have to drop the climb to make sure her house is presentable before Asgore arrives. Fucking fantastic. But after today she can go back to how she's always done things. Today she'll tough it out for Asgore.

 

That alone is worth every sacrifice. There's nobody looking out for him. If she has the ability to convince him to take it a bit easier, it's her duty to, as well. Her insane thought process is worth it in this case.

 

...It genuinely doesn't feel insane, though. If anything, it's like seeing the Sun for the first time again. Pure clarity after ten years of being clouded by grief.

 

"Alright, you sap." She reaches down to grab her bag, slinging it over her shoulder and flipping her hair behind her. "I'll see you later then. That way I can keep tabs on you, too."

 

Nodding, Asgore rounds the table to accompany her to the door. He asks what she'll be doing with her day, so she tells him. A bit of swimming, some weapons training, jogging down to the Garbage Dump--

 

"The dump?" He sounds as confused as she is to have said that. "Why?"

 

She puts her hand on the squeaky door handle, shrugging. She has no better answer. "It's... as good a place to go for a jog than any other?"

 

...

 

Undyne turns around. He's smiling. What the hell's he laughing at?

 

"What's so funny?"

 

Asgore's eyes are doing something different, for a change. Instead of all the sadness in the world trapped behind him, he's looking at her with all the warmth of the Sun beams from the throne room contained in his irises.

 

"You will not find cute girls at the Garbage Dump, dear. Maybe try somewhere else?"

 

Of all the things!! Of all the things he could criticize about her jogging choices!! That's what he goes for?!

 

Low blow. Very low, but alright. Undyne smirks at him. "Not with that attitude. You never know, old timer."

 

...Not like she's interested in meeting anyone right now, anyway. If anything, going to the dump's, like... an anti-cute girl ward? Unless there are cute girls at the dump, which wouldn't be so unwelcome, all things consid--

 

What the hell is Undyne thinking this morning? Genuinely, what is this thought process? Maybe she does need a break, because she's starting to lose it.

 

Undyne presses the door handle down. Asgore gingerly, gently, as if he were afraid she's fragile, rests a hand on her shoulder her shoulder.

 

His palm's warmth spreads under her scales, through her skin and into her spine. Her breath hitches in her throat for a moment as her body and mind relax to a degree she didn't know they were capable of. This... This is just like what happens when she sees him after a long time, but stronger.

 

"Undyne..." His voice is quiet. "Thank you for agreeing to take care. I worry about you a lot. You know this, right?"

 

...Looks like she isn't the only one who had something funny for dinner last night. He's being weird as hell too. But it's... kind of nice?

 

"It's hard not to when you tell me to take care literally all the time."

 

He hums in the back of his throat, giving her shoulder a little squeeze. "I worry because I care. I really appreciate the time we spend together."

 

Sentimental weirdo. His words are doing something to her heart. It feels all goopy and warm in there. It's absolutely horrible, but also delightful. As little experience as she has with sappy crap, not telling him her sentiment's exactly feels like a sin.

 

He needs to hear he's appreciated as a person, and not just the embodiment of salvation, from time to time, too. If nobody else will take on that responsibility, Undyne will do it gladly. Life's too short not to tell people they're important.

 

...If she got another day with mom, she'd tell her over and over. Even if it didn't change anything in the end. Time and affection are the most valuable things one can give to others.

 

"Yeah, me too. You sap." She pushes the door open, inviting the streets' chill to wash over the entrance hall. "See you later, old timer. Until then you better take a break."

 

She walks out into the city. As soon as she's away from Asgore's touch, the spot his massive hand had covered feels colder than the morning chill.

 

The door locks loudly behind her. Her head's still spinning as she takes off into New Home, but it's reeling in a good way, if that makes sense? The warmth from Asgore's unprecedented sappiness is still nestled in her heart. She carries it within her as she heads over to the Riverperson's boat.

 

This morning's sure being an odd one. Nothing she's saying, doing or thinking makes any sense. Just last night she was excited to spend the day training again, at her own pace, without having to juggle it in between watches, guards and reports. The idea of rushing back home to clean it for an impromptu lunch date in between a breakfast and dinner date was unthinkable. She even had to sacrifice the end of her intended training routine, damn. It's wrong. The only worthwhile thing is busting out of here and showing humanity their reign over the Surface is over. Being ready for that moment's the only important thing to do; everything else just gets in the way.

 

...But time's so fleeting. One day the world is safe and warm, and the following one's at her mother's funeral and nothing's ever the same. It only takes one second for the world to come crashing down. Isn't it worse, then, to allow time to pass without having truly lived?

 

While life down here may not be the kind of life Undyne wants, it's all she has for the time being. Her hopes and dreams of freedom, of bringing liberation to everyone, music, Asgore... Those are real. The life she craves on the Surface is more a dream, a goal, than a tangible reality.

 

It might be glaringly obvious, but perhaps she shouldn't be spending every last second of her life in pursuit of something that isn't real right now. Maybe it was that desperate yearning, more than living, which drove mom to her grave? Just spitballing here, surrendering to the insanity because it's all Undyne can focus on.

 

Of course life in the Underground's going to pale in comparison to the prospect of freedom. But maybe... maybe monsters who live, or try to at least, are onto something.

 

The most radical thing all of them can do while they wait for freedom to arrive is to live despite humanity's punishment. Humans may want nothing more than to see monsters writhe to death, but they refuse. They create, they form bonds, they love, they live.

 

Maybe that's all they can do in the absence of the seventh soul. Maybe until that's a reality, as long as she isn't slacking, there's nothing wrong with taking a small step back? It's not like working herself to the grave, leaving Asgore alone for long periods of time, and not playing piano will summon the seventh human faster.

 

Behind and--

 

Undyne's goal to become Captain is already a reality. Her next goal is to aid Asgore in freeing their people. Until then, though, living in perpetual repression out of fear... Alright, maybe not fear; it's not like Undyne's afraid or anything. But still. Such... extreme caution. Is it worth it?

 

When mom... When she fell down, it was after a long, long period of no longer engaging with anyone or anything she loved. Of just working and working and working, then collapsing. It stands to reason, then, that by stopping herself from living even a little, maybe Undyne's closer to where mom was than she's ever considered?

 

After all, she can't have the life she dreams of now; but she can have a life regardless. Her life; the only one she has here and now, even if it isn't ideal. It's hers to seize or let pass by. She's done the latter for the past ten years, sacrificing everything in pursuit of the goal of being the person Asgore needs, the one who will lead monsterkind to freedom and be useful in the most important way.

 

Now that she's finally been promoted, that she's already there... Wouldn't it be nice to regain just a sliver of the freedom she had before she became chained to a training schedule?

 

She'll never lose sight of the finish line. She'll never give up or slack off. It would be unforgivable to do so, an insult to the people and King she swore to protect. But in the little recesses of time she has for herself, in between training sessions, in between shifts, during the eternal wait for the final soul, today it feels much more productive to try living than to convince herself her life is only worth living if it's under optimal conditions.

 

That wait, for all she knows, might last until the end of her days. She may never see a human in her time. The future isn't promised. She wouldn't be the first monster to have never seen a human fall down. The sixth one came but a few years before her birth. It wouldn't be impossible that she reaches the end of her natural lived days down here.

 

And, while that isn't ideal, it is what it is. When the time comes, here or on the Surface, will she have more regrets if she used her time wisely, or if she wasted it all in hopes of a brighter future?

 

Isn't hoping instead of accepting reality what she's always thought mom felt when she...?

 

...This... This is wrong, or maybe it's right. It doesn't make sense, it makes all the sense in the world. There's something wrong with Undyne; maybe there's something right, though?

 

Where did all this come from? Has it been inside her all along? What triggered it? Does it make sense?

 

Her life is hers to live, and it's wherever she is. Death's going to find her no matter where she goes, and as long as she's alive there's no evading that. Here, in the present, now, is where she is. All she can do is choose to take it or watch it slip past.

 

...Alright, time to get a move on. Hopefully after today passes her head settles down again.

 

In the meantime, though... Might as well take it step by step and enjoy the view. For a prison, her fellow inmates' undying will to live has surely made it a breathtaking sight. And they're still alive. They didn't die.

 

Maybe... Maybe Undyne isn't going insane. Maybe life's worth a try.

 

...?

 

What a delightfully weird day she's having. It doesn't feel so bad, after all.

 

*

 

Humming quietly, the pitter-patter of the water spouting from his watering can is all that breaks the throne room's silence.

 

It is a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming. On days like these, Asgore would want nothing more than to head over to Asriel and Chara's room and ask them if they would like to play a game of catch. The fact that he cannot is a thorn inside his heart.

 

"Dad!! Chara took the ball from me!! It was my turn!!"

 

"Skill issue."

 

He walks through the flowers, getting his ankles as tangled in their stems and leaves as his heart does in the memories he normally pushes down. He should not be here today at this hour. He should be at work, diminishing the amount of papers piling up on his desk. But...

 

"Yeah, me too. You sap. See you later, old timer. Until then you better take a break."

 

...Sweet girl. Beneath the rough exterior lays the little girl Asgore grew so fond of so long ago. The one he came to realize in this very room is as much a child of his as the ghosts he lives with are. If taking one day away from the worries of the kingdom will contribute to her taking care, seeing how dreadful she is at it, Asgore has no regrets.

 

He will take every opportunity available to help his girl.

 

...No, no. Such thoughts are prohibited if he is to keep her safe. He already decided so, he...

 

...He taught her how to be a soldier and put her in the front row of combat. Could he put her more at risk? He should have taught her anything else, yet he already messed that up. Perhaps letting her know she is important and cared for, her life is meaningful and cherished outside of battle, is important in its own right as well?

 

Asgore, for better or worse, is the only person she has. He will not allow her to believe she is alone. He will take care if it aids her in doing so as well because he cares for her. She should know that, should she not?

 

Alas, that leaves him with a morning of free time. One to spend alone with spirits. Once he is done here, what will he do?

 

Asgore's mind has been... odd, for lack of a better word, since he woke up. There is a certain lightness in his chest where the weight of the future of humans and monsters usually sinks him. Also a certain heaviness, weariness, a neigh-certainty he has lived through this day before; but the lightness outshines it. Why, or where this... not hope, exactly, but also not despair, came from, Asgore does not know.

 

Today the world simply feels slightly lighter, better, than it was last night. If it were due entirely to the fact he has gotten Undyne to half-concede to taking a break, it would not be unexpected. But the timeline does not add up; he already woke up feeling this bizarre way.

 

Why? What, or who, did he dream of to feel this way? Everything feels so... familiar. Yet also strange, alien. Asgore has always been convinced keeping distance from Undyne was the only correct way to proceed with her, but as soon as he laid his eyes on her this morning he could only think about how long it was been since anyone has shown her any warmth.

 

And, while surely she must know he cares for her... Does she? Is it not equally, or even more dangerous, to not be certain she knows she is treasured and loved?

 

“Asgore, Chara has--”

 

Today... Today Asgore will work on the garden. By when he finishes it should be around time to start heading off to Waterfall regardless. He will have to call the Guard and Dr. Alphys just to be safe, as well as his secretary and ask her to cancel his meeting with the Minister of Ed--

 

...Asgore had no meetings today. He confirmed it with his secretary when he informed her of his improvised day off. Does Asgore have anything to discuss with him? Perhaps he should. How long has it been since the Education laws and curriculum were revised?

 

Education is important. It can teach hatred, yet also help unlearn it. Asgore will call his secretary and ask her to set up an appointment with the Minister for as soon as possible.

 

Just not today, because he promised Undyne he would take it easy.

 

Asgore steps into a beam of sunlight, closing his eyes in its brightness, revelling in its warmth. It truly is a beautiful day. He is lucky to spend it with her.

 

*

 

The king stepping out into the sunlight in the throne room plucks a memory out of Flowey. One of Chara and himself, his old self, sitting on the floor, before the throne, not surrounded by flowers back then, but turning some into a crown for the king and his stupid, ugly wife.

 

What... What a waste of time.

 

Flowey burrows back into the ground. Those days... Those days are gone for good. Today's the beginning of a new era, a new time for the Underground those suckers don't even know about.

 

Endless possibilities stretch ahead of him. Endless combinations of events, of funerals in families, of gory murder. All he needs to do is will them away when he gets bored of a specific scenario and do it all over again. There's a certain enjoyment to seeing his victims struggle with déjà vu helplessly, watching them tear and fray at the ends, that's only just begun.

 

...It's unbelievable, the time he wasted with the king, trying to hold onto memories that will never be a reality again. How stupid of him. It's a good thing Asriel died. He was weak.

 

Flowey's way better.

 

There's only one thrill left for him to chase now, and he'll follow it to the confines of this painfully limited universe. If he messes up, if he plays his cards wrong, it can turn against him catastrophically. In this world, his world, it is kill or be killed.

 

Eternity's what Flowey's facing up against. How much of it he will spend in boredom he doesn't know. What he's positive about is that killed he won't be.

 

He has to hold on in case Chara comes back. And, even if they don't, even if he's doomed to be alone, he's too determined to give up. Instead of worrying about the future, he best focus on what he can do in the present. For the time being, until he's finished breaking everyone's lives, bodies, minds and souls in every way he can think of, until he has seen all their reactions and experienced every last ounce of what this world has to offer, he's full of the trepidation and thrill trying to live as Asriel was depriving him of.

 

For starters, he should erase that useless goner kid again. At the top of every reset, actually. Unless it starts getting boring or something, that idiot needs to go. They're not a threat to Flowey in any way, but there's something about ruining their mind forever, seeing them try to talk to their siblings and parents once they've been erased from the world, that's beyond entertaining.

 

There's no need to abide by laws or morality when one is God. The kid has to go because Flowey says so, and that's more than enough. Heavens, does it feel good to embrace it at last.

 

After erasing the damn nuisance, who will Flowey start with? He could choose a monster at random, or choose one in particular. Like the king, or even the queen. Ooh, the king's new Royal Scientist, the one responsible for this, is also looking like a great candidate!

 

Maybe Flowey should do a little chart of every possible way he can kill every person, and what combinations of deaths he's yet to try. Like killing that dumb kid's sister, or their sibling, or both of them to see how their parents react! He can leave kids orphans, parents child free, partners widows...

 

And he can force them to watch, too! Make them see how the people they love with all those stupid, weak emotions are torn apart, die slowly from poisoning, explode on the spot...

 

...Ah. What a wonderful idea.

Notes:

And there we go. The end, it's over. Or maybe it's just begun. Who knows?

I have another Undertale fic started and uploaded, but it won't be updated in a long, long time. I have other fics, other projects in another fandom, that have long been abandoned, in part, to finish this fic before new year's. Even if that, uhh. Definitely didn't pan out as planned. I'll be focusing on those for now into the foreseeable future. So i guess this is goodbye for now.

Thanks for reading. Everyone have a wonderful day and take care, alright? Bye!! ^^