Asgore was lying in his bed, his body tired from a long, restless sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about you, the little man he was supposed to kill, but he couldn't. The memories of the battle pierced through him–your frightened eyes, your desperate attempts to escape, your determination burning with a bright flame. You were too naive, too pure to die.He remembered how his hand was shaking as he led his attack. How his heart was pounding wildly when you fell to your knees, as if begging for mercy. How two voices were fighting inside him–the voice of duty, telling him to fulfill his sacred duty as a king, and the voice of compassion, begging him not to do it.

In the end, pity won out. He couldn't kill you, couldn't take your life. It was a decision that contradicted all his beliefs, all his principles of life. But he knew he had done the right thing.Upon waking up, Asgore immediately went to you. You were curled up in bed, your little face calm and serene. For the first time in many years, Asgore felt that his load had become a little lighter.He slowly walked over to the bed and put his hand on your blanket. You shuddered slightly in your sleep, but you didn't wake up. Asgore felt the warmth of your body being transferred through the fabric, as the gentle scent of your sleep filled his lungs.