It's been some time. Asgore didn't know how much, though, the days getting duller and emptier since that sunset and that displaced human body nearby the dust, spreading unknown seeds across the garden. It had been soon found out those were of the same kind of flowers the human body asked to see with their last breath, a kind completely foreign to the Underground.

However, as the first flower bloomed, Asgore realized the human corpse and his wife had disappeared sometime without notice, the coffin left open. «So it's just you and me, son,» he thought, taking care of the plants as if his eyes were not weeping or his hands trembling. Eventually, the garden became his only source of happiness: seeing the flowers spreading all over the field was a sight to behold, as if that corner of the Underground was a slice of the Sun.
No wonder why Chara was so fond of them.
No wonder why Asriel brought them there.
No wonder why those humans stepped over the flowers: they just wanted to destroy his hopes, theIR DREAMS―

He froze as the thought bounced between his horns, his gauntlets gripping hard the scarlet trident, ready to be hurled. He uncast the weapon away and forced his horrified eyes to stare at the bright rays, hoping for them to blow up all that hate. It'd never worked, and this time it was no exception: the darkness was eating up the sky, the air getting meaningfully colder, the flowers locking themselves up, ready to restart breathing after the daily fasting. Even his muscles were pleading him some rest. Yes, it was time to call it a day. He left the throne room, his deadpan face stuck on the way home.

As he was climbing the stairs, his eyes met the calendar, still hung on the wall. How long ago was he left to his own devices? How long ago did he kill those six children for freedom's sake, for monsterkind's sake? Have they been some years, few decades or even centuries?
He was sure of a few things, and one was that the numbers couldn't match the many months spent in utter solitude. He missed everyone and everything terribly, and it wasn't rare he asked himself why it did have to happen to him, what he had done to deserve such pain, if maybe there were actually solutions lying somewhere ready to be found.
He just knew he couldn't manage this loneliness any longer. And yet he did manage to stand for all this time, chuckling as the thought of falling down was merging from his numb mind. Ahahah. It wasn't funny.

He approached his bedroom, the hallway haunting silent, lifeless. At least the golden flowers gave colour to the environment, right? Not like the water sausages of the Ruins.
Finally he reached the mattress, the covers freezing, bare and pointless. He lay completely on the king-sized bed, the lack of the Queen making his rest colder and shorter. He stared at the ceiling, almost hoping some stars were going to display his future, but there were none. He stretched the arm on his left. He whimpered her name, as if she was going to appear forgiving him and comforting him and embracing him ― He chuckled as the image got dissolved by the prying light entering the eyelids. That long-wanted soft warm fur was nowhere to be seen. He sure was a fool to even believe she could go against her own principles. She had integrity, unlike him.
Maybe it was for the best: he would've never wanted her involvement in such a bloody mission but, golly, he couldn't hide all his hurt. After all... whom had he to hide it from?
Oh, he missed her. He missed her so much, her integrity, her justice, her stillness. Everyone in the Underground had known by then that, despite his big frame, she was the support of the king, the brains behind the throne, being his great advisor and closest confidant regarding the management of the kingdom; no matter the issue she was always there, ready to listen and understand and give a piece of her mind. She wasn't the person who sugarcoated the problem: if a punishment was needed, she made sure of making herself clear enough.
And yet, despite everything, she was still his passionate wife, his family. So lovely to not have problems kissing him or giving him names in public, let alone in the privacy of their bedroom, her smiles the brightest, her caresses the softest, her kisses the sweetest.
She was so passionate about what she found even the slightest interest in that her knowledge knew no borders, allowing her to teach her own children the wonders of the world, going in-depth the subjects and yet still leaving some breath for jokes and puns. Holy Angel, the puns... Right, hers weren't the best, a few of them were even preposterous, but he couldn't refrain himself from smiling and laughing at them. It wasn't for pity. It wasn't for making fun of her, either. Golly, it wasn't for her desperate desire to hear enjoyment at her words. It was just thanks to her perfect voice, completely suitable for any word, they were gold-plated by her mouth.
The same mouth that refused to smile at him last, the same voice that refused to reason with him last, matching with that utterly disgusted glance she'd sent him before leaving forever. No wonder she felt betrayed: he too was beside himself and, because of that, the die was cast . Too bad it was just one: even with the best luck, the outcome would illude them all with vain hopes of freedom. And he already reached that cursed number, six, long ago, only the Angel knows when. He bitterly snickered, remembering that speech so full of grief, sorrow and fury, so much ephemeral, unreliable fury, pure fury that died as the consequences of his task presented themselves. But how else could have he been able to soothe everyone's aching SOULs?! It wasn't anyone's deaths: they were the future of humans and monsters, they were the kingdom's monarchs, they were their children.

... They were just children. Mirthy, innocent and kind children, always ready to lift even the heaviest of the spirits, no matter their own mood. They just loved everyone so much, and their friendship was one of the rarest. No wonder when Chara's illness took them Asriel's faithful SOUL fused together with theirs. Just for obliging to their wish. Just for showing them the flowers. And he had to die! Because he wanted to place his sibling below the sunlight and honor them and let them rest in peace―
A peace soon shattered in dust on grass. When they found their son laying on the garden, barely keeping himself together with a weak smile, Asgore's SOUL instantly plummeted below the same Underground, where monsterkind's long wished dream reached its end. Chara was gone. Asriel is gone. And then even Toriel left by herself disgusted― But how else was he supposed to react?! After everything the humans did to the monsters and to Chara, after taking from them all the pleasure of seeing the sky, the stars, the peace of living in freedom, he couldn't let this slip, not anymore. The growing hopelessness was impossible to soothe if not with a promise of freedom, no matter how impossible it could have sounded. And, besides... weren't the humans just looking for it?

He tensed, realizing tears were flowing on the cheeks. He sat on the corner of the whole bed, of the entire room, where all the hope that was left was gathered. He wept, covering his eyes with the same paws that once had embraced his children. The same paws that were going to brandish the scarlet trident and claim the last SOUL that was keeping them all away from freedom.

The eyes of those innocent youths were tormenting him... «I know you! I saw you in the plaza, I remember those horns―» Kids... Oblivious kids...
There is no war with no victims.

He stood up, trying to focus on the dark path for the kitchen, walking through the living room, the armchair a stop for the shadows projected by the windows. The chimney was off, a grey swarm danced in the wind. His foot placed mindlessly on the dark floor, it wasn't like he could've stepped on some toys left behind by the kids...

Shadows were casting unknown frames. An intruder.
He snapped, the flames in his paws ready to extinguish the foe, eyes finding themselves gazing at the nothingness. Nobody was behind him anymore, or at all. Good, whatever.

He entered the kitchen, the buzzing light bulb blinding him for an instant, then overwhelmed by a bitter smell. Oh right, the pies.
He remembered all his attempts, as well as the far-everyday-life children's hearty laughs, amused by his sorry face at the ruined pastry, and they sort of made him smile.
Despite all his attention and dedication in following Toriel's tutorial of the art of pastry-making, he hadn't yet found out what's the secret behind those dough.
He tried using the same ingredients: that buttercups' pie was toxic and kicked him out for a few days, but otherwise it would've been pretty good, right? Well, preparing a butterscotch-cinnamon pie was too soon, but another delicacy like a snail pie? He had tried following the recipe perfectly, even going back to Waterfall in order to find that farm Toriel had always frequented. The results were a mixture impossible to describe, analyse. His stomach had rejected it all as he'd taken the first bit. No, no sign of buttercups... And it was supposed to be a snail pie, eheh, ironic, isn't it?
But... the fire, of course! She had always used that in order to warm up the oven. All its insides got burned.
What about the shape? That wasn't the exact same! He had even tried using the same templates she'd preferred, the perfectly-round tray. Still nothing. It didn't matter the efforts and tries and will, the pastry was too raw or burnt, bitter or of a sickening saccharine taste.
Maybe... another ingredient he was unaware about?
But the smell coming from the bin reminded his stomach that this wasn't a good idea.
He shoved off the apprehension, too exhausted to try to prepare more unwanted organic trash. Just drop it.

He grabbed the kettle and filled it with cold water. The sudden movements spilt some drops, merely watering his exposed fur, but not sparing him from the dirt and the petals. He placed the pot on the fire, preparing himself for the deafening yet familiar scream of the boiling water.
He approached the counter, several teacups of different shapes exposed. He smiled at seeing them, a memento mori of who left long ago. He used watching the singular clay forms, remembering how the star cup had always been ready to be filled with boiling water, his brim shining at each sip, or how the yellow flowered one avoided tea and preferred instead a darker, denser and sweeter liquid, or else the white and round one that had opted for coffee.

The yell didn't make itself wait, fast at increasing in volume. He hurried and took the pot away from the heat. He served himself taking a home-made bag of golden flowers. He checked for a cup to use. His eyes fell on the blank deformed teacup, the surface labelling the childish writing happy-bday-king-dad . He stared at that last cup.
It was a family tradition of his to exchange teacups as a special family present, so he was the one to prepare the most suitable teacup, pouring his SOUL in crafting it. That one still had their beaming smiles meant just for him.

He filled an ordinary cup instead. He sipped the glowing steaming liquid. It burned down all the throat, but it was a reminder of the consequences he had to face.