The Mountain East (An Undertale Fanfiction)

Chapter 51

The curtains fell in a single swoop. Unanimously, the house dimmed in light, diminished in sound. Music was the faint chirps of birds locked away in a room, once the heart of jurisdiction, adorned with nature's best and law's most chaotic minerals, those that symbolized power. And not just power. Happiness, as well. Of the gems of memory, of watching children and adults alike frolic in the garden.

God, the garden.

Buttercups. Butterscotch. Daisies as silky as a rose, roses as soft as a daisy. Never outspoken, the equilibrium almost too perfect to be true. And above, the canopy. Where they would sit under the shade of an artificial star, reading each other stories long into the night.

The humidity could almost be tasted. The steam resting atop the tip of her tongue. The floral scent wafted like a buffet, with its so many kinds, waiting to be devoured. The petals would fall, and fly again, wind acting as their convoy and chauffeur – lifting them up and down, a graceful, yet erratic ride.

There, in the centre of it all, surrounded by the perennial overgrowth that dotted the walls and the ornamental mismatch of flowers and grass and leaves and petals that reigned the floor – were two thrones.

Fit for a king and a queen.

... for a king and a queen.

...

A vow to unite, united.

She shut the door.

She will take the elevator Alphys had installed, and cook dinner. She will hold strong. This frontier cannot be surrendered. She will continue on with life. Everything... everything will be fine.

Go up now.

Press the button. What is so hard?

...

The doors slide open. And although she was already in a place of great solace, where there will only be a soul outside the portcullis of curtains, discontented by their disallowance to accost the fragrance of nature and soil, where they too would be distanced by the moat of warning – then and only then, did she slide down, her dress against the metal walls, her paws against her face.

The chirps. The songs. The flowers. The... memories.

Of what home used to be.

Of what home could be.

...

It played like a music box, the melodies of remembrance. The crack of vinyl, so reminiscent of a fireplace, still standing, yet so different. Where she would ensconce herself in an armchair, book in hand, and read them both stories, her glasses reflecting her husband's image, who was standing behind her, smiling, his regal crown replaced by a crown of pride. And when they were asleep, the two of them would sit next to the fire, to talk. Not about the kingdom. Not about his kingship. Not about their children.

Just ordinary talk. So ordinary, in fact, that now his image had been evaporated from her sight, his image still seemed to waver, a mirage of the past, and though she wouldn't admit it, hopefully of the future.

Her dress met the floor.

She remembered doing the very same, so many years before. A door, which she would slide to, against her back, the warmth of body and almost stinging cold contrasting horribly. And yet, she stayed, for it was her place. Her home. She could feel the snow raging outside. The occasional footsteps.

She could hear them now.

No. No, she didn't. It was but a trick of mind, a soul's delirious attempt to recall, to remember, to forge those memories out of the scraps of the previous ones.