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Yeah, I Still Like Undertale

He/It/They - Y’all can call me Square or Irene, whichever you prefer!This is my Undertale fanart account! Requests and Asks are very much appreciated!

622 posts

For The Writing Ask, "on One Memorable Occasion, Toriel Received A Letter From The Underground's Newspaper,

for the writing ask, "on one memorable occasion, toriel received a letter from the underground's newspaper, asking her to write something for them- it didn't have to be long, or particularly humorous or informative or reassuring or anything, but they thought it would be fascinating for everyone involved-! was what they said."

The pen is heavy in her hand as it hangs above the clear, white paper.

It feels as though she has held the position the entire two hours she has been at her desk, pouring over her journal in an attempt to get even a measly scratch down. It is not that she has no ideas— when one has lived a life as long as hers, the stories are anything but finite —simply that none seem to fit. Such broad a prompt she’s found that actually nailing it down is almost impossible!

… But she will try. She must.

The war comes to mind; and is relevant too, considering their recent freedom. Many a tale could be woven from her time on the battlefield, of the monsters she’d met over a pint of ale and a sad story. Of the late nights her ex-husband spent with her, consulting Gerson on strategy after strategy to make it out the other side. Of the months she’d spent honing her healing magic to be strong enough for any wounded soldier who slunk to her infirmary, of the ones she saved and the ones she lost-

Perhaps not.

She could write about her firstborn children; those days in the garden they’d shared. Melancholy memories of eating pie and reading in the living room and singing songs of old. The time Asriel caught his first snail. Chara’s first flower, planted all by themself with no help from their father. Anything with her beloved twins….

But that story too ends in tragedy and drags out an old ache in her chest she tries sorely not to revisit.

Perhaps her time upkeeping the ruins?

That idea is done away with the instant it slips into her mind.

She hasn’t even told her closest friend of all those drunken nights and the grief that sat so heavy in her chest that it burned. It would be WILDLY inappropriate (and somewhat embarrassing) to send in a personal guide on how to turn one’s self imposed prison into a home.

Toriel let’s put a snortish sort of sigh and sets down the pen. A claw finds its way to press against her tired eyes as she allows herself to slump against the table. Unfortunately, the pressure does not yield any clarity. If anything, it leaves her more frustrated with herself.

Still, she holds it a moment longer. Just in case.

She is just about to go back to her writing and pondering and hovering, when the bookshelf catches her eye. The spines are worn down to the bone (hah, she’ll write that one down when she’s in better spirits), so faded and cracked that their names are barely legible.

She doesn’t need them, she knows each tome by heart. So she cannot help but let her eyes rest longingly on a particularly worn out, rust colored book on the farthest right. Perhaps she can allow herself a break. Perhaps a glass of wine and her favorite joke book will-

She turns so quickly back to the table that her chair wobbles.

The pen meets the paper with a glorious scratch, finally putting her elegant cursive along the page. She can’t even be bothered by the ink staining her fingers or how it smudges sometimes under her hand.

The world is a sad, terrible, amazing place. She knows that better than most. And history itself has just changed irreparably, for better or for worse. Monsters that had never even dreamed of the sky can suddenly indulge in them with a single glance up. Humans who didn’t even know of her people’s existence are seeing them on the daily. People are overjoyed. People are terrified. People are still angry. One night cannot take away thousands of years of an ache strong enough to be felt through the generations. The past hurts and the future is uncertain.

So she writes down twenty-one of her favourite jokes.

With a world so complicated and scary and wonderful, perhaps they all just need one simple, momentary thing to laugh at.

~~~~~~

OH ALSO: I’ve been posting all of these to AO3, so if youre interested in more (and better formatting :,)) heres the link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/36835759/chapters/92477206#main

archiveofourown.org

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