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Asgore can’t sleep.
The barren half of the bed where Toriel is usually curled at his side feels frigid without her; an awfully familiar, numbing cloud of gloom hanging in her place. He rolls onto his side, unable to look at it any longer.
Their room was supposed to be the safe point.
After… after what happened nearly two weeks ago (he’s not ready to say it. Not again. It aches too much.), the entire house has filled with that chill. Not even the fire under a kettle or in the den is enough to spark warmth.
It is too silent now. The hallway leading to the bedrooms is rarely walked, and only at a fast pace so as not to look at that cold, little door that used to house the children. One has to pass it, but they don’t have to look; don’t have to remind themselves of the tragedy that has pulled the oxygen and life from their home.
These days somehow creak and groan by in eternities; yet somehow too quick to properly grieve. Suddenly, there’s a kingdom to run, hope to build. All too quickly the bereavement period has passed. Their people need them again, more than ever.
But not in this room.
In those grey walls and underneath those ivory covers, Toriel can hold him while he weeps; running her claws along his scalp and smoothing circles into his nightshirt. He can coax out some of that misery that’s been building in her chest, and listen patiently as she finally wails after a double funeral. He’ll wipe her tears and she’ll brush his hair and they can pretend to be whole again.
The warmth remains as they hold each other. As he kisses her forehead before they drift off to sleep. As she leaves him a cup of coffee waiting on the sideboard long after she has gotten ready for the day. As they go through old pictures and sob together and rest under the light of candles because the dark is just too dark-
Asgore shudders, but makes no attempt to pull up the covers.
The chill has seeped deep into the walls of his rotted heaven, down to its very bones. He doubts that it will ever be truly warm again.
Today, he had to make a speech, finally, formally regarding what to do next after the mourning period. He still doesn’t know exactly what happened, what caused it to go so wrong.
He aches still from the inferno in his soul and the cloud in his mind. Threats of war had first been uttered the night their children died, and then dismissed in the weeks that followed. Toriel hated it. But the idea clung in Asgore’s mind like a thorn, slowly spreading its emerald vines until his claws were buried into the podium and the pain had blinded him.
Revenge for their children. Repentance for their prison.
A war to end all wars.
It took like wild fire to the crowd.
And now he lays only with his own temper and grief, while his wife sleeps in her study. His face still stings from where her claws met his cheek.
He adjusts himself once more, though does not turn to face her absence. Try as he might, the sleep refuses to press into his eyes, leaving them wide and sore as he studies the wallpaper for perhaps the thousandth time. Perhaps he does not deserve rest after the cruel words he threw at Toriel after the fight had started.
He banishes that thought with a wince. They will have a far more civil discussion over breakfast, he decides, once they have both properly cooled down. He will make this right by her. They will be whole again.
In the meantime, Asgore lumbars to his feet. His bones feel older than they are as he stretches, attempting to settle them back into their proper arrangement. The chill bites at his exposed neck and chest, but he wanders through the door all the same.
A cup of tea will settle the mind and the soul. It always does.
The hallway is swathed in the eerie shadow and stillness of the night, blue splattered along the white paint. He hurries through it, keeping his eyes pointed to the creaky old floorboards. Both doors he passes make his soul twang within his chest; an unmistakably barren feeling despite the fact that one is still filled. Just this once, he allows himself a brief, unpausing instant to soak in the feeling.
It seems that Tori has straightened the den since he retired to their room. Even in the dark he can see that it is almost unearthily tidy. Everything has been folded or dusted, pictures on the wall wiped clean of stubborn grime. The knitting basket that always rests next to her chair has been carried off, along with several blankets that usually rest across its back.
Perhaps it is the emptiness or the fact that it feels more like a tomb than ever, but Asgore can’t help but feel a bit of dread at the sight.
He shakes the feeling, moving mindlessly to the kitchen and through the motions of making his tea.
The kettle is retrieved, along with his favorite cup. The water rings unexpectedly sharply against the porcelain and for an instant he darts to turn off the pump before he wakes someone up… And then he remembers he is being foolish and lies down his hand. The only one in his house who slept that lightly was buried naught a week ago.
He turns his attention to his numerous collection of teas instead, for they are far easier to swallow than his thoughts. Instinctively, he moves to pick up his usual mix— dried sunflower petals mixed with his home-grown oolong leaves —before a sudden hesitation seizes him. Perhaps chamomile is a better choice for his situation.
Yes... It is to ease the mind and soul, why not exhausted eyes as well? He places the small jar onto the counter and returns to the kettle. A spark ignites at the tip of one of his claws before sailing silently to the burner, it’s golden light suddenly melting away the immediate darkness. It doesn’t fully banish the chill (it never does), but the miniscule wave of warmth is enough to soak in for just a moment; just until the steam carries the scent of boiling and small bubbles appear in the water.
He replaces the lid on the kettle with a tiny sigh. He opens the cupboard to retrieve the sugarcubes and honey—
How peculiar. Normally, Asgore would chalk up the lack of sugar with the apathy and forgetfulness that have taken him in the wake of that day. Perhaps in combination with the way Toriel has completely thrown herself into knitting or sewing or planning or doing anything but thinking about what has happened. Things get neglected in a grieving home. Sugar doesn’t get purchased when the pitiful looks and words of condolence become too much to bear.
That would be, if the little clay jar that held it hadn’t up and vanished.
Not even the back of the cupboard reveals it. He pulls away, perhaps he’d left it out on the counter again…?
More items suddenly strike him as missing. There should be five pans over the stove, not four. The salt and pepper shakers are missing. A decorative plate that belonged to his mother in law has left a shadow in its place on the wall. Where did the canned soup that Gerson had left on the counter earlier that day go? Water sacks and the honey and Tori’s special mix of Earl Gray, all missing from their usual spots around the kitchen—
The kettle whistles behind him, prompting him to quickly shuffle back to remove it.
Gingerly, he collects the chamomile into a beat up tea ball with a practiced ease. Down into the boiled water it goes with a tiny ‘plink’.
Toriel must’ve rearranged the kitchen again. If he knows her half as well as he thinks he does, then she is definitely upset enough to run through the entire room twice or more. But, even this extreme is almost unthinkable.
Many things have been unthinkable as of late.
Asgore fights off a grimace. He thumbs over the flowers etched into the kettle, as if it will somehow make the tea steep faster. It does not, of course, but the warmth radiating off the tiny petals is welcome on his fingertips. An almost contented sigh leaves him. More than ever, he is ready to finally get some sleep-
One of the floorboards in the hallway creaks, accompanied only by the squeal of hinges of one of the doors.
With a flick of the wrist the stove extinguishes. He hadn’t even heard Toriel get up, let alone wander far enough to disturb the floorboards at the beginning of the hallway. Perhaps she is sleepwalking again. Perhaps she is unconsciously going to check on their children, and he will find her nestled in a chair pulled next to Chara’s bed come morning. Perhaps she is simply looking for a glass of wine and a good book.
Whatever the reason he scrambles to fetch another cup. Fight or no fight, he will be there for Toriel. He is almost certain she needs a nice, hot cup of tea just as much as he does right now.
It is not as steeped as either like, and for the life of him he can’t find the sugar and honey to sweeten it, but two cups are filled. Blue and white china for himself and pale green porcelain for Toriel. A strange thing it is, his inability to even find her favorite; a little pale blue glass, speckled with daisies and vines.
He ducks out of the door, padding softly to the mouth of the hallway, words of comfort already beginning to run through his mind and—
The door to their room swings open in a gentle, borderline silent ark as Toriel sneaks out. He nearly drops the cups at the sight of her; they are only saved by his entire body going involuntarily rigid. Not even a gasp manages to get through his frozen throat.
She… She looks like a ghost. Her white nightgown and silky fur glow eerily in the blue night, somehow brighter than the ivory walls surrounding her. The only deviation is the mud staining her arms and abdomen, clinging in heavy, vined patches to fur and fabric alike; leaving the sickening impression of a walking corpse. She moves just as silently as a specktor, claws sliding gracefully along the doorknob without a single click. An elegant hand glides up, pressing tenderly against the aged wood. Something falls through her lips in a language forgotten or forsaken by most, something so soft and sad that he cannot properly hear it even when he is barely ten feet from her.
But that is not what causes the silt coursing through his veins to halt its flow, growing more and more frigid the more details he takes in.
No, what ceases his thoughts and freezes his soul is what she holds in her arms.
He almost doesn’t process them for an instant, so taken is he by the strangeness of the scene. Slowly, surely, tangled hair comes into shape through the darkness, connected to a raudy face resting in the crook of his wife's shoulder. The sweater they were buried in has been tarnished by muddy pawprints and a vile black liquid that seems to be dribbling out of the corner of their mouth. It is their hand that sticks out to him the most; rigid and pale enough to see the veins through the skin. The blood has rotted to a deep, gritty black.
Toriel is carrying their corpse as gingerly and carefully as she did when they were alive and simply caught up past their bedtime. Balanced easily upon her hip and supported by one arm. It was such a sweet gesture once, one of his dearest memories he held of the pair. Now the pose feels morbid, cruel even.
That instant, him and his wife and the ghastly impression of their child in the hall, lasts an eternity. Every tiny fleck of mud and glowing hair seared into his mind’s eye. And then she turns her gaze to him, any ounce of tenderness in her body seeping out the instant their eyes meet.
They aren’t bright like he’d expected, as they’d been earlier tonight. There is no angry fire within them, no inferno threatening to swallow anything that dared get in her way. They are just cold. Not sad, not angry, just tired and empty.
“Tori— What are you—” His voice sounds dumb and hollow in his throat, falling out through the shock without any resistance, “Why did you—”
“I… You were not supposed to be awake.” The words seem to slip out of her before she can stop them, feeble and with a tiny waiver to them. Like she is somehow as shocked to be caught as he is to see her cradling their once buried child.
His throat is filled with sand and he cannot possibly find a response. He wants to berate her for digging them up and disturbing their rest, tear them from her arms and return them to the garden. He wants to hold her, to ask her what on earth has gotten into her and how he can possibly help; cradle the both of them on the ground until every tear has been cried and every sip of tea drunken. He wants to convince himself she is sleep walking again, to gently take Chara from her arms and lead her back to bed— their shared bed —and let it all be forgotten by morning. He wants to scream. He wants to weep. He wants to laugh at the absurd horror rushing through him.
He does none of these things. Instead he keeps staring with wide eyes and confused terror on his features.
Toriel takes a small step backwards, her eyes suddenly darting between him and the den. She settles on him, a hint of the usual intensity in her eyes again. That look she holds only when she is staring down a would-be impossible task. The look he fell in love with.
“Get out of my way Asgore.”
He flinches, unused to the hatred in her voice. It’s been countless years since he’s heard it, and never pointed towards him. Still, he stays frozen where he stands, trying not to kick himself for not noticing the pack on her back or the basket balanced on her arm sooner.
“Tori, can we please talk—”
“Do NOT ‘Tori’ me.” Her eyes are a flame for just one terrible instant. And then they have burned themselves out again. She sighs, a hint of steam puffing out with the breath. “Asgore, I cannot… do this. Move out of my way and be done with it.”
He remains rigid for a moment longer, before oh so carefully motioning the two cups forward. He cannot hide his hands are shaking, but he smiles at her. A sad, painful smile, but one he hopes she can see as what it is and not bared teeth. “Why not a cup of tea first, for old times sake?”
“My hands are full.”
“Humor me dear?”
She seethes at ‘dear’, but relents in lowering the basket. Cautiously, she stalks forward, snatching away the glass with a surprising elegance. For just a few fleeting moments, she is close enough that he can see her hackles have raised, that Chara’s eyes are fixed open, that they’ve bled onto her shoulder. And then she has retreated like a cornered animal, eyes fixed sharply on him.
He’s not sure what makes him more sick, his wife’s malice towards him or the corpse of their child staring into his eyes.
A long, tense sip is shared between the two of them. The tea is bitter to the tongue and impossible to swallow.
“...Tori—” A pointed glare greets him and he cringes, “Erm. My apologies. Toriel, I.. I love you.”
“I know.” She almost sounds defeated at that, a tiny, wistful bit of sadness creeping into her expression.
“I believe we can work this out, I really do,” Desperation clings to his voice and his claws rattle against his cup. He feels as though he may fall unconscious at the lightest of probing, at one wrong look from cold, dead eyes, “I beg of you, just give me a chance. Come morning we can—”
“It is always ‘come morning’.” She cuts in, setting her cup down against the sideboard with a harsh ‘clink’, “I am tired of future mornings Asgore! I know you. I know that you think there will still be a happy ending on the other side of this. I know that you will still find a way to spin our pain into some beautiful, hopeful thing. It is just how you are, how you were born. But I… I…”
She falters, grip tightening on the child at her side. He goes to her, moving to place a paw against her cheek—
She bats it away with a sigh, collecting herself into that bitter cold she’s wrapped herself in. “We are at war now. There is no great, green pasture at the end of this. Just pain, death, and grief. And I will not be around to see it.”
Toriel bends to retrieve the basket, but halts when he does not move. She opens her mouth to say something, but he’s faster.
“Why… Why are you taking them?”
She looks over to the corpse as if she has just noticed their presence. A sad look overtakes her as she mulls over the question. He doubts she knows herself.
“They should be buried in the sun. And… I don’t want to be alone.”
“I don’t either.”
“You are too late for that.”
She is not callus this time. Just sad. Just tired. So is he.
“There is nothing I can do to make you stay?”
“Nothing.”
It feels like his soul is being ripped out. The thought of wandering grey halls and frozen rooms alone is near unbearable. Over a hundred years he has stayed by her side, he can’t imagine life without her. The sole survivor of the Dreemurrs, haunting their old, decaying home as time yawns ahead and war sits patiently on his doorstep.
“You.. You are always welcome back here. If you change your mind” He is choking. The sob building in his throat is pushed harshly into his chest, just to make conversation a little bit easier.
“I will not change my mind.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you offer?”
“Because I love you Toriel, and I do not wish for you to have nowhere to turn should—”
“Asgore—”
“No. You said your peace, I get to say mine.” He feels his voice grow sterner, though not yet harsh. It feels as though his words are spilling out of him while he watches on helplessly, breathing growing hard and the edges of his vision blackening. Only when she sighs and sets her jaw does he continue.
“Even if you… you no longer care for me, I care deeply for you. And should something happen, I do not want you to be left out on your own. Furthermore, I do not think either of us should be on our own right now. We have seen so much—”
“Asgore…”
“We have been through so much—”
“Asgore.”
“I.. I cannot lose you too, Toriel please—”
“Asgore!”
He can barely hear her over the roaring in his ears, but he flinches all the same. She waits for him to draw in breath after breath to calm himself, one paw gripping the wall for support and the other clasping and unclasping uselessly at the side of his head. It is only when he is able to finally look at her again that he sees she is unable to meet his eyes.
“I.. I cannot love you back. I am sorry, but not anymore.” It is barely a whisper on her lips, but it stings all the same. “Just… Just please stop stalling. Let’s be done with it. Once and for all.”
It feels like an eternity before he finally moves to the side, unable to even offer her one last goodbye.
For perhaps the last time, she gives him a grateful look. And then she is rushing past him, slamming the front door closed in her wake. Her soft footfalls only last a few seconds longer,
Deep in his soul, he knows he will never see her again.
Asgore stands for a long while in that hallway, trying to breathe and drinking bitter, freezing tea. Somehow, he does not choke despite the pain in his chest and the shake is racking his entire body.
He knows not what time it is when he finally drifts down towards his room, only that the night is still harsh and frigid on his back. And that by the time the light has begun to return to the house, he has not slept a single wink.
He does not get out of bed to empty and wash the glasses. He does not look through the room to see what else she has taken. He does not even alert the subjects of the next tragedy that has befallen his family.
Come morning, all he can do is weep.