He roils and ripples and banishes the extra set of hands, attempting to get a handle on his mind. Do that, and his sludge will calm the fuck down.

It's not easy. It isn't working. Time seems to slow to a crawl and all he can feel is horror at the concept of these two lost children trapped in his former prison. (He may blame himself later, but right now there's no room for self-recrimination. It's far too personal for him to be logical, distant, adult.)

Agonizingly slowly, he manages one word. [Frisk?]