(AN: Also, this is au for both Undertale and TFC, so please don't tell me what's canon or not. I write these stories because I enjoy seeing people's reactions, and it helps me work out stress and express myself.)
Third POV
Walking out of the cottage, a tall and gentle-looking goat monster steps into the warm morning light, a woven basket resting comfortably in her arms.
She wears a soft cream shirt and simple brown pants, the fabric loose and practical, perfect for the quiet rhythm of her days. The sunlight catches gently along her fur as she walks, the grass brushing softly against her feet as she makes her way toward the coop.
The moment she approaches, the small wooden door rattles faintly as three hens and one proud rooster gather eagerly near the entrance, their soft clucks and excited little hops filling the air.
"Oh my, such energy this morning," she hums, her voice warm with fond amusement.
She kneels slightly, setting the basket down as she begins to scatter feed with careful, practiced motions.
"I'm terribly sorry, dears, breakfast was a little late today," she says gently. "Here you go, Eggy… Henrietta… Eggatha—oh!"
She pauses, turning slightly as the rooster lets out an indignant little sound.
"Oh, how could I forget you, Eggbert?" she adds with a soft laugh, sprinkling a bit extra in his direction.
The hens cluck happily as they peck at the feed, their movements quick and content, while Eggbert puffs up proudly before joining them, scratching at the dirt with great importance.
For a moment, she lingers there, watching them with a small, satisfied smile, the simple joy of their routine settling comfortably around her.
Rising once more, she brushes her hands lightly together before moving toward the pen beside the coop.
She barely has time to open the gate before she's greeted.
A pair of goats and a small, woolly sheep immediately crowd around her, their soft bleats overlapping as they nudge against her sides, seeking attention.
"Oh! One at a time, please—goodness," she laughs softly, shifting the basket to one arm as she reaches down to pet them, her touch gentle and familiar.
Warm fur presses against her hands, and she hums quietly as she scratches behind their ears and along their necks, each animal leaning into her affection with clear contentment.
"Oh, Maybelle, Francine… must you two always fight for attention?" she says, her tone gently disapproving as the two goats bump lightly into each other.
At once, they still.
Both turn toward her with wide, innocent expressions, their ears drooping ever so slightly as if apologizing.
Then, just as quickly, they glance at one another again—narrowing their eyes in silent rivalry.
She sighs softly, though the fondness in her expression never fades.
"Now, now… there is plenty to go around," she murmurs, reaching out to pet them both at once, her hands moving in slow, reassuring strokes until their tension melts back into quiet contentment.
She steps further into the pen, setting down fresh feed and carefully refilling the troughs, the soft sound of grain shifting filling the air as the animals gather once more, their earlier squabble forgotten in favor of breakfast.
Nearby, the sheep remains lying peacefully in the grass.
She notices immediately.
Her expression softens further as she makes her way over, lowering herself gracefully to sit beside him.
"Bestal…" she calls gently.
The sheep lifts his head slightly, letting out a quiet huff as she runs her hand along his thick, woolly coat.
"My, your coat is getting quite thick, isn't it?" she says thoughtfully, her fingers brushing through the dense wool. "It seems it will soon be time to shear you again…"
Bestal lets out another soft huff, turning his head away in clear, stubborn protest.
She smiles.
"Oh, don't give me that look. You know it is not nearly as bad as you make it out to be," she says gently. "After all, we have done it many times before, haven't we?"
He flicks an ear but doesn't argue further, settling more comfortably into the grass as she continues to stroke his wool.
Behind them, Maybelle and Francine have resumed their antics—lightly butting heads again as they bleat back and forth over the trough, careful as always not to truly hurt one another.
Their playful bickering fills the air with lively sound.
She glances back at them, her expression soft, amused.
"Oh, you two…" she murmurs under her breath.
For a while, she remains there, seated in the grass among them, one hand resting gently against Bestal's side while the others mill around her.
The morning continues slowly.
Peacefully.
Just as it always does.
{Later that day}
Back in the cottage, the cozy living room rests in a soft, golden glow, the gentle crackle of a warm fire filling the space with a steady, comforting rhythm.
The scent of burning wood and dried herbs lingers faintly in the air, wrapping around the room like a quiet embrace.
A soft rug stretches across the wooden floor, worn slightly from years of use, and small knickknacks—carefully placed and clearly cherished—line the shelves and tables, each one hinting at memories held close.
She moves through the room with quiet familiarity, her steps slow and unhurried as she reaches for one of her favorite books resting neatly on a nearby shelf.
The cover is slightly worn, its edges softened with time and repeated use.
Settling into her rocking chair beside the fire, she lets out a soft breath as she sits, the gentle creak of wood accompanying the motion.
She places the book carefully in her lap before reaching for her glasses, slipping them onto her face with practiced ease.
The frames, delicately crafted, rest comfortably against her fur—custom-made, a thoughtful gift from someone she once held dear.
For a while, she simply rocks.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The quiet rhythm matches the soft crackle of the fire, blending together into something steady and familiar.
She opens the book.
A small smile forms almost immediately as her eyes scan the page, her expression softening at the familiar recipes written within.
"Ah… snail pie…" she murmurs under her breath, her voice warm with quiet fondness.
Her finger traces lightly along the lines, pausing where the text describes different ways to prepare them—how to enhance their texture, how to balance the flavors just right.
"Such a delicate process…" she hums softly, clearly pleased.
For a moment, she is content.
At ease.
But as the chair continues its gentle rocking, her gaze drifts.
Slowly.
Almost unconsciously.
Until it lands upon the mantle.
There, resting carefully among the other small keepsakes, is a framed photograph.
Her hand stills.
The faint smile on her face softens, then fades into something quieter—something heavier.
She closes the book halfway, letting it rest loosely in her lap as her eyes fix gently on the image.
In the photograph, she stands beside a larger goat monster with soft blonde hair, his broad frame relaxed, a bright and rather silly Hawaiian shirt draped over him.
His expression is warm, full of life, as he lifts a small goat child onto his shoulders, the child laughing and holding onto him with tiny hands.
Beside them, she holds another child—a human child with brown hair and deep red eyes—who squirms stubbornly in her arms, their expression determined even as they're held close.
The moment is frozen in time.
Happy.
Whole.
Her fingers curl slightly against the edge of the book.
"If only you all were here…" she whispers softly, her voice barely louder than the fire.
Her eyes linger on each face, memorizing them all over again as though afraid they might fade.
"My dear children…" she continues, her tone gentle, filled with a love that has never once lessened.
Her gaze shifts last.
To him.
"Asgore…"
The name leaves her lips like something precious.
"I miss you all so much."
The words hang quietly in the air, carried only by the soft crackle of the fire and the steady, familiar creak of the rocking chair.
She does not cry.
Not anymore.
Instead, she simply sits there, rocking gently in the warmth of her home, her hand resting over the book in her lap, her eyes never leaving the photograph.
Holding onto the memory.
Holding onto them.
As she always does.
After a while, she draws in a quiet breath and gently pulls her gaze away from the photograph, the softness in her expression lingering even as she returns to the present.
The book in her lap shifts slightly as she adjusts her hold on it, her fingers brushing over the worn cover with familiar affection.
She rereads the page once more, slower this time, her eyes tracing each line as though committing it to memory all over again. The small smile returns—faint, but genuine—as she closes the book with care.
Setting it aside on the small table next to her chair, she removes her glasses and places them neatly beside it, aligning them just so out of quiet habit.
For a moment, she pauses, her hand lingering there before she rises to her feet.
The gentle creak of the rocking chair fades as she steps away, the warmth of the fire following her only so far before giving way to the cooler air of the kitchen.
The space is just as tidy and well-loved as the rest of the cottage.
Herbs hang in small bundles from the beams above, their dried leaves releasing a faint, earthy fragrance that mingles with the scent of fresh ingredients laid out across the counter.
She moves with practiced ease.
Flour dusts lightly across the wooden surface as she begins to roll the dough, her hands steady and precise, pressing and folding with a rhythm that speaks of years of repetition.
The soft thud of the rolling pin echoes gently in the quiet room, accompanied by the faint bubbling sound of a pot set to simmer nearby.
Inside, the snails cook slowly, the broth releasing a rich, savory aroma that fills the kitchen, warm and inviting.
As she works, a soft tune begins to hum from her lips.
Low at first.
Then clearer.
A melody long forgotten by most, yet carried effortlessly in her memory, each note flowing into the next with gentle familiarity.
It fills the space just as naturally as the scent of herbs and the warmth of the stove, turning the simple act of cooking into something almost tender.
Her shoulders relax as she continues, the quiet rhythm of her movements syncing with the song, the world beyond her cottage fading into the background.
Here, in this moment—
There is only the soft hum of her voice, the warmth of her home, and the steady comfort of a routine she has come to cherish.