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The barracks. Dark, lonely. The guards and soldiers are nowhere to be seen, drinking away their worries, celebrating the prosperity of a Nation. Today the palaces unite in a joyous celebration. One which warranted nation wide blessings. Taxes wouldn’t be collected, a general amnesty was granted for the prisoners, the army was called back to the Capital to join the Royal Family in their festivity.
Why then? Why is it that the barracks smell of wine? One would think, the person hiding in the barrack’s dinner hall would be drinking the night away with their comrades. But the shadow’s hunched form swayed from side to side. Their face barely hidden by his arm as the other raised a glass in the air.
“I wish… an eternity of prosperity… and happiness… to Their Highnesses.” His wobbling, drunken voice managed to declare for no one to hear. Then, he poured the wine to the ground, drops staining his boots, similar to the blood of countless battles at the borders of the great kingdom he swore his utter and complete loyalty to. The one that as a Captain, he had to protect regardless of his feelings. “For the losers who died a thousand times watching the moon orbit the earth, and the flowers follow the sun.” a deep chuckle came out. He was never one for poetry, but he kept this one fragment close, as it is her favorite. “How ridiculous…” he muttered, questioning how ironic it is that someone who prefers poetry about longing and loneliness could be rejoicing while he is the one left drowning his sorrows in alcohol. This is precisely why he never gave much time or care to it. As fate would have it, he does know someone else who excels at not only reciting and understanding poetry, but at writing it, and the court would often praise his literary prowess. “Befitting for a future monarch…” his deep laugh filled the empty space. He may have tutored him well, maybe too well, as it was him who told the Crown Prince once that a good soldier is a master of the sword, but also the pen. Asriel found from a young age his affinity for the delicate art of poetry while Sans’ choice of literature served his keen intellect for all things scientific. He wonders, if he could have been a high-ranking Royal Scientist just as his Father was once, before the accident that almost sent his whole family to be exiled if not for his own efforts in bringing merit by working and showing how capable a guard he was until he rose in the ranks and became Captain. The glass fell to the ground without breaking as his skull limped forward, hanging, defeated and completely drunk when suddenly, a pair of similar hands shook his shoulders.
“This is most unbecoming of the Captain!” Before Sans could grab the carafe placed on the table, his brother, one of the newer palace guards, snatched it. “How long will this go for? How long will you be sulking in the corners?” His brother tried to reason, to make him come to his senses, but Sans only chuckled, letting his skull fall back as he admired the ceiling, his world spinning around and the light from the lamps danced within his field of vision.
Papyrus groaned as he rushed to clean up the wine and the cup. Such an auspicious day and the Captain of the Royal Guard offered a drink to the earth, a known mourning gesture. Rebellion, someone could cry, screaming that the great, valiant if laidback and aloof Captain was wishing for the royal couple to die. Perhaps… if only… but he didn’t entertain it. He resented the kid he tutored since he himself was a child. Perhaps he did wish harm upon him as long as it would stop the current ceremony. But now it was done, and his dead would only mean misfortune for her. Sans cared too much for allowing her to become a young widow, never to remarry.
“You are dismissed, Guard Papyrus.” He never, ever talked like that to his brother. Not even when in duty. One of his many quirks, along with his disregard for authority, his love for acting in the shadows, alone. Now, that is what he most desired and biggest source of his pain. Loneliness, all-consuming, bitter as a bowl of poison, one which flows through the body, sending each nerve into a pain-filled hell in the last moments of a prisoner.
His brother looked at him horrified. He truly didn’t know what to say this time, despite being rather talkative usually. He just left with a “Yes, Captain” and left the carafe in its previous spot. Sans took it, drinking from it as it could drown him, stop his breathing, then he smashed it on the ground.
“Then let’s see who can endure it the most, kid. You are used to sleeping with your servants watching and I’m used to the cold, long nights in the field.” Maybe it wasn’t the end, but the beginning of a war, and his medals proved he was quite skilled. Even if she just married into the Royal Family as the Princess Consort, she’ll find out one day that the nights married with a Prince, and one day the King, are long and cold. No matter how long it took, he would be there. After all, wasn’t it the Captain’s duty to ensure the wellbeing of his Mistress?