The Mountain East (An Undertale Fanfiction)

Chapter 50

The night glowed of an incandescent darkness, though one held the upper hand, as always. To call it contrast would be stretching the limit ever so slightly. The spotless night sky had little star or light or any satellite to offer, reducing it to plain silence in chromaticity, the breadth of space providing only the scenes just a piece of paper can rival. In its expanse, there was no romance, no waltz of nature, no delicate prance – it was just what it was. A fake black sky.

A sky that housed thousands of souls, every day.

And one would be forgiven for mistaking it with reality. Both are confusing, and lead you down a winding, eastern road. Sure, there are crossroads, and with them, signs. The relics of the past, of direction, of old trees planted. But these signs were vague. They held no straightforward guide to reaching a destination. Only the checkpoints were ever mentioned. And as you wander about, from point to point, wondering who the hell even designed this way of life, of searching for meaning, you begin to make signs of your own.

To aid those you can't save. To relinquish them from a fate they so don't deserve.

So, many people looked at the fraudulent night sky. And they asked questions, hailed it, kneeled in front of it, devoted their lives to worshiping it. They asked, who am I, again? Who is anyone?

Where do I go?

And the only answer they ever got was for a question that no one asked.

'Where do I go next.'

Next.

Always continuing. Forever, with determination perched atop their shoulder, singing its praises and theirs – saying that meaning is earnt by the journey, not the destination. The one is made up by the past, the present, and the future. Not the end.

Not... the end.

An iron handle turned. Clockwise. For forty-five degrees. Wind rushed in, in being relative to position, of course.

Trying to make as little noise as possible in order to preserve his brother's sleep, Sans tip-toed slightly into Papyrus' room. He found himself at the end of his bed, like a bird alight the branches, so soft and tender.

He would reach out and feel the side of his brothers' skull, had he not been restrained by the peaceful sleep he witnessed in front of him. He smiled.

50 years. Not even one.

Perhaps change was imminent. Perhaps he, no, they had finally moved on. Perhaps they had finally forgot. Perhaps they were at a crossroads, and they chose right, and they were right. For right was the future, where they held their rightful places. The past no longer held them in their shackles.

... right?

He sighed, no he breathed slightly of – not relief, but some other, obscure, possibly content emotion. It didn't matter. Happiness did not need the grace of words to help it function. It thrived on the chaotic silence all the same.

He would miss it, though. Those long nights of just him and his brother, and even though the cause of them being there was complicated and a secret he vowed to never tell anyone else, it was through the aftermath that their relations prospered and solidified. Not saying that they weren't before, of course. But 'before' is relative. And in his case, 'before' is a period well past him. It better well be.

The long nights of conversations about simple things. Petty arguments about spaghetti and ketchup and puns and laughs. Two birds of a feather, both literally and figuratively. They sat, alight the branches, and they sang songs, melodic tunes, and though they were both sodden and tired, blown together by the chance of nature and the winds that knocked the wind out of them – they enjoyed every moment of being together. Truly. Without fear of judgement, of questions, where no answers were demanded – only a pair of ears.