The Mountain East (An Undertale Fanfiction)

Chapter 47

Warning: Graphic.

A pillar. White and strong, with vines wrapping round and round, circling for what seemed like forever. Not like a spiral ladder, in its infinite, bland and even, unchanging planks, and not only infinite in number, but also infinite in similarity, a process to be repeated forever, stretching from the cosmos above to the flowery pit below. No. There was no

The spikes and bottoms of centuries-old rock formations hung above, their physique and aesthetic frail, threatening to deliver an earth-crushing crash at a moment's notice. And yet, despite the obstacle of pressure and wind, and the fearful horizon that would bring nothing but debris and a valley's worth of its brethren, catching it and bringing it down in tow, they did not yield.

Like a snake, creeping upwards, its many scales deformed, overwrought over the slightest of bumps, turning into a sickly brown and crimson before they were shed, slowly, like a crustacean shedding their skeletons, or the slow peeling of a grape, wrapped around tenfold. No. It was like two snakes, intertwined, slowly climbing up the staff, the backbone of the earth. And though only one could be seen, the other shed not skin, but tears. And it rained down upon those above, weathering their creations, washing away the blood they painted so proudly on the wall – with thunder, they quail, and yet they continue, march on, discard their sins like they were nothing and start anew.

And nothing, no misery that defined the top of the world, the peak of the mountains, where gods would wail, complain of the tiniest imperfections, unknowing of ungratefulness, grateful for ignorance, would ever reach below, where they assumed hell, where fallen angels and broken gods were kept. Until, that is, fate held a meeting with destiny, and decided that the sails would no longer raise white flags. And those gods will fall, like a king, distraught by a black and approaching sail, the wrath of a beast covered in death. Just like the myths. Just like the prophecy foretold.

And how they made up stories! Of arks, of journeys so grand, of life and of death and of men overcoming the wrath of God, a creator with emotion – the deadliest combination. How absurd, how conceited, that men could view history and twist it, make it as if they prevailed! They say that history will never remember the good you have done. But in reality, it is only like these so other feats appear more impressive, more rare, often fake. And, like a squirrel climbing up a tree, only to be defied by an apple falling, over and over again, humanity failed to reach their peak. Their top of the tree. And, as the canopy of clouds block their vision, their perception was but a shot in the dark.

And these snakes – they defined more than just sky and stars. They were messengers. Decoding what it meant was a lifetime's meaning, and the result would be the meaning of a lifetime.

And below, where it would seem like they would never reach a peak, the spring of the season, where flowers bloomed and birds sang, where buttercups flew amongst the dandelions, petals goldenrod and joy green, red and gold – weaving across laughter, of supposed ignorance – you realize, how wrong one is.

The fall is a new beginning. A seed to an apple. It is not spring, nor summer. That is when flowers blossom. But they only truly fly when they fall.

Below the canopy of rain, the ark of history, the pilots of meaning, the shades of trees old men would sit and tell stories, the generations of families, torn, and not, there grew a single golden flower. The first golden flower. And though small, it would father the creation anew of a species entire. The smallest tales are poetic in the most beautiful of ways.

So.

What happens when two ends finally meet? A knot of rope, roped into a knot below?

When rays of light break through the barrier of dark, when the ark meets its should be passengers, when the pilot meets the sea?