Asgore takes the teabag out of his teacup and sets it, in a sad little lump, on the saucer that (of course) he is using.

"Well, that seems fair. I could have left. Any time I wanted to. But I didn't. I stayed. To eek out murder by inches, instead of at once. The six died by my decree. My hands. Through my denial of Mercy. It seems fair. Of course I should be the last one out."