The Mountain East (An Undertale Fanfiction)

Chapter 43

The faint trickle of sound leaking from top to bottom as water splashes gently atop the rocks ensued. Corroded, broken wooden planks littered the floor, providing less of a flooring than the actual liquid body of the pool it floated on, its materialism dissipating by the second. A single piece of worn, thoroughly dampened paper sat pathetically amidst the stench of the dump, looking as if it threatened to sink at any moment. Despite paper and sturdiness not exactly being corresponding characteristics, it did not seem to want to obey its peers. It remained, the only surviving snippet still hanging on.

The text, or whatever knowledge it held, did not fare better. Only a small tinge of red and black could be seen struggling around the crystal clear, yet at the same time repulsing water.

A small creak rang throughout when the wooden planks groaned under the pressure of a foot. The mismatched serenity was interrupted for a while, as nature simply could not work with such sentient customers. The small crack as the plank sprang back to its original position signaled nature's departure.

Chara looked down, and left. Down again. Slowly, she picked up the piece of paper. The corners seemed to dissolve as she applied even the slightest of forces, the etched ink drooping slightly in the paper's disformed state. Despite however long it remained here, it refused to be transparent.

She slowly placed it against her palm with the pseudo-glue the water offered. For a moment, she concentrated. Despite there being loads of nothing, she did not seem concerned. She merely sighed and took the fallen angel under her aegis. The fragile bits were a hassle to work with. The dimensions of the paper did not fit her palm in its slender form. But still, she persevered. Chunks of it were ripped off entirely, or broke off after such a sudden removal from their watery vacuum.

But it was beyond saving. Only a red mark somewhat symbolizing an 'f' remained. The other side's ink was almost completely smudged over, so much so that it was less legible than the single, faint, lopsided F.

Chara sighed. She shook her hand left to right; the pieces of paper finally being torn. They disappeared in the water, yet another meal for the guzzling monster that was forgetfulness. It struck only when its adversary, the paper book, was vulnerable.

But he would have to skip dinner tonight.

As Chara bent over to her left and retrieved the worn book propped haphazardly, almost as if it was thrown and just so happened to land upon an old chair, who was in turn missing half a leg. However, the tower of miscellaneous objects did not topple, thanks to the uneven ground.

Silver upon beige. And upon the silver was inscribed, "A short collection of poems and short stories. By Kara Ebbot."

She held it gingerly. Like a mousetrap, or a 15th century French, expertly made, antique, passed on by generation, zinc tinted wine glass that... he... like to use. Too much for her liking.

She did not open it. She wasn't ready. Yet.

Slowly, she strode off into the distance, the water sloshing in her retreat and the planks once again groaned in her wake, this time for freedom. As the last ripple and hint of her existence disappeared, nature once again fluttered upon her perch. She sang a cacophony of chaos. It was asymmetrically beautiful, tranquil in the same way dandelions struggling to fight against the winds were tranquil. There was something dazzling about this true form of nature.

Too bad that no man will ever get to see it. Though could one really blame nature? Man had taken so much from her. It was only reasonable for her to keep a small packet of knowledge and beauty to herself. Where she was under no restriction, not subservient to business, or efficiency, or profit.