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He stands there, at the edge of Penacony, at the edge of the world; his world, even. Everything he has ever known, everything he will ever know.
Right now, the horizon is tinted in a lazy sort of rose pink fading to a midnight blue speckled with stars — fake, perhaps, but still beautiful. Still the only stars he has ever truly seen in a long, long time. And isn't it gorgeous?- The skyline is full of shadows of the sights of Penacony, of the Twelve Moments and everything he once stood over with a hand that could whisk the planet around with a casual sort of ease. And now that hand reaches out, trying to grasp the stars: clutching for what he could not have. What he could never have
Perhaps now, he has one final chance — one last go to change it all, to be what he always wanted to be. To be free. But falling was originally just another name for flying, and Sunday Oak cannot fathom what sort of things are there, beyond the shell of a sky. In the end, what is life beyond the gilded bars of that cage? Is this his final chance to know, to seek, to find another path?
Wonweek is behind him, right now. He leans against the railings — at the moment, they stand in Dream's Edge, having had to exert almost no effort to get here; they may not be Dreamweavers, in all technicalities, but that doesn't mean they're not more than used to puzzles such as those. If they wanted to keep him out, they probably should have tried a little harder.
—But of course, only recently would they have wanted to keep him out.
For once, his "other self" is silent, seemingly lost in thought. He does not ask or question. The quietness here is thick, palpable, but he cannot bring himself to break it, even though for once, he's resembling his true self rather than that Pepeshi getup Sunday had suggested (and Wonweek had accepted, albeit rather reluctantly.) Maybe it's because of what just happened, really — he can't blame him. It was, perhaps, a big ask for him, and-
And it's not like Wonweek wanted to do it. Aeons, it's not like Sunday was particuarly enthusiastic about the whole situation too. His back is still bleeding slightly, red and raw and burning with the sort of pain he should be long, long used to by now. Somehow, he's not. Gopher Wood's actions were, it seems, not as effective at pain management as they could have been. (Ah, what a shame.) It could really have countered the unfathomable pain he feels right now — mainly in his back, but also that crushing ache all over his body. A fall from Aeonhood, or close to it... he couldn't have expected, or hoped for, much better. (For some reason, he still hoped — still does now, still has that wish that he will be able to change, to be better.)
Perhaps the world will be kind to him. He hopes, after everything, that it will be, for if Sunday does not hope then what else does he have? Pure, begging desperation? The bleeding sins of those who came before him? Or perhaps the ink that chokes up his throat, spills out of his mouth when the only thing he feels is regret. No, he must hope, more than anything, now more then ever.
Penacony, a land created off memoria and hopes and dreams and fury — off pain and blood and exploitation, and- No, there's no need to think about that now. He can regret once he is truly free of the cage: for now, though, he has only just cut the chains off his wrists, thanks to Madam Bonajade and Robin. Robin, who forgave him, who loves him despite everything, who struck a deal with Jade herself, sacrificing Aeons know what, for-
-him.
So in the endless Memoria sea, in the midst of the thousands of memories of the people in Penacony, of his own, Sunday lets himself fall. If only one last time, and if only because he knows he must remember more than anything/
"Brother, come on!"
The voice rings out through his memory, clear as day, as if she were standing right beside him. Robin, of course, around- what, eight, nine years old? Judging by her rounded face and crisp, cleanly cut clothes... yes, that sounds about right. It stings — the thought, the recollection of something he lost such a long time ago (his own fault, it was his own fault-) as clear as the water in that decorative pond in Mr. Gopher Wood's garden. He liked that pond. Little-Robin reaches forward away from Sunday, and tugs something towards her — ah, but of course, it's- him. He can see, by the plain golden ring that, at the moment, serves as his halo, and the fact that his hair is cropped short, that his previous guess must be right: around eight years old, just after their adoption.
(He used to be nice, back then. The father he had always wished for, especially after what happened to his real one. Of course, good things do not last. It must have been- what, only a few months before the first time- but that's a memory for another time. For now, he watches Robin.)
Little-Sunday's face finally clears in the mist gathering around him — looking a little worried, glancing around as if somebody's watching them, but his expression clears into a smile as he laughs. Actually, no- there's still that hint of tension in his shoulders, in the way he holds himself, in the side-to-side flickering of his eyes and such. But that doesn't stop him from answering Robin, it seems. (Sunday doesn't remember when this ever happened, but- that's fine. If he gets to see it now... Well, it's just another new thing for him to treasure.)
"...this is probably a bad idea," says little Sunday, voice quieter than Robin's. She blinks at him, and then shakes her head in what's probably disapproval.
Gods, he misses her. Aeons, he's stupid. "Don't say that!" she smiles, eyes bright and voice brighter, ringing out like the bells across back home, back before everything. "You're doing the thing again," she continues stubbornly, prodding him on the forehead with the forefinger of her free hand. "Stop feeling bad for yourself, silly! We're safe here. You don't have to worry about anything anymore." And he knows she's gone through almost entirely the same things that he has, and he knows she's probably just putting on a happy face the way they've been taught to, but-
But he can't help but believe it, anyway. He can't help but want to. "Ok," he says, a mirroring smile forming on his face, and he feels like for once, for the first time, he can breathe.
(The air is stifling, now. It has been for a long while — clotting thick in his throat as he tries to heave in another breath.)
He cannot tell if what runs down his face, soaking his hair, his clothes, is blood or sweat. It could be both. Honestly, it could be neither, but he is patient. He waits. (Sunday has always been patient. And how could he not be, after waiting so long? And still not getting what he wants.) He does, however, get what he deserves.
“Father—” he manages to say, in a strangled sort of voice that cracks pathetically. “Father, please—”
There is no response from the figure that stands above him other than a slight shift in his movement. Nothing more. Sunday's hands are chained above his head, and he kneels on the floor, arms outstretched towards the ceiling. He's not sure how far the chains stretch, but he knows it's just far enough to drag his knees off the ground ever so slightly. It burns. It burns so, so much. He does not make a noise, though. ( He is patient. )
“Oh, Father, please—” he chokes, voice fading to a whisper. “—Please, forgive my sins.” It's getting harder to— no, he can't breathe at all. Strangled, heaving breaths, dragging in every last bit of air he can. There is still no response. “I'm sorry. Father, Father, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—”
Gopher Wood hits him sharply on the back of the neck. He gasps and chokes, and shuts up. This time, it is not Sunday to speak. “Shush. This is for your good, yes? You agreed to this. Your little sacrifice, in return for a little of their freedom. It fits.” Right. Yes. Yes. Their freedom. The sacrifice is worth it. Whatever he can give, his blood and his body, will always be worth it.
To be the sacrificial lamb. (But if it is worth it, why does it burn so? ) It does not matter (it matters, it matters to him). The Order of the world is that the strong should protect the weak, and if he who is strong cannot protect those who need it— what use does he have? He braces himself for the pain that he knows is coming, and it does. Stinging only softly at first, and then the blunt ache as the dull silver blade cuts through his wings, clipping them. Then it starts to burn. Fire, searing his feathers, licking up the bone and the blood that spills out all too easily, and it burns it burns it burns it-
Sunday does not breathe the whole time. But after what seems like a century, it ends, bloodied knife clattering to the floor. He sags forward, held back by the chains, and tries not to cry. (Once upon a time, he screamed, begged for mercy. It didn't take awfully long for him to learn what was futile, that he could never persuade Father otherwise once he had his mind set.) He exhales slowly, now that the deed is done. Gopher Wood leans forward, ruffles Sunday's hair affectionately. “Good, good. You shall be the perfect son— I shall make sure of that. You learn so quickly, you know.”
Despite everything, Sunday shivers at the praise, and almost smiles. “My thanks, Father,” he manages, voice cracking halfway through. “You are— always benevolent.” And, well— he is. To forgive the weak's sins, for only Sunday's small sacrifice- Benevolence, generosity, that does not start to describe it. He curses himself inside. He should be more grateful for the opportunity he has- after all, where would be be without Father today?
And Mr. Gopher Wood leaves quietly, leaving Sunday in a puddle of blood, feathers and bone to clean up before leaving.
He's never been alone. Not really, although perhaps that's not always a good thing.
The eyes on him now he recognises — senses, perhaps, that they mean no threat to him, and so Sunday is calm. It's not the adoring gaze of Dionysus, gazing upon him like he's the most precious thing he's ever seen; though that doesnt surprise him, after what he did. (He still doesn't get why he was so horrified. Was it not reasonable? His fate, his repentance — what he deserves, if nothing else.)
He needs that redemption. He must have a second chance, and he will do whatever he must for it.
There's a moment where he pauses, before Wonweek uses the tip of the blade — somehow the only part still sharp enough — and pushes it directly into the base of his wings, straight into his back, aiming for the roots. This time, Sunday does scream. It's hoarse, perhaps, and halted as he claps a hand over his mouth. Tears sting at his eyes, and instinctively he curls over. Naturally, that doesn't help — the sword in his back just shifts.
Perhaps horror was not the best way to describe the way Dionysus looked at him. More like- something broken. (Was that the first time he saw him close to tears, perhaps? And although he can't quite get why — he did it to himself, he knows what he should get, to clip his wings one final time and then fall — there's something sweet about the thought, something familiar. He misses it. Will he still be there, after everything?)
Not the time, Sunday- Not the time. This is another memory, of course, judging by the gauzy film across his vision, the slight details that blur when he looks away, the uncanny feeling around him- but right now, that doesn't matter. Right now, he knows these eyes are not Dionysus's— there's something different about them. They seem more seeking, more searching, than his adoring gaze. But still there's something... fond about them. Something that makes Sunday know, and-
"Hey, birdie."
He knows that voice. When is this set?- He looks around for whoever the hound is talking to, whatever version of him, but- all there is, is Gallagher standing behind him (it takes him a couple of times whirling around to search for the Sunday) before he realises Gallagher is talking to him. The Bloodhound leans on the railing next to him despite the foggy surroundings, despite everything he's done. (He'd like to think he is referring to Gallagher. He really doesn't think it is.)
Sunday responds, voice flat, but not cold. Standoffish, perhaps — reluctant. "Hound. What are you doing here?" His voice cracks, embarassingly enough. Gallagher is meant to be long gone, by now. Nothing more but a memory swept away by the wind, only his footprints in the fabric of Penacony. And yet he's still here, and yet he still cares. He hates it, but still he- Shut it, Sunday. He tilts his head up instead, focusing on the Bloodhound's face, fixing on his eyes. Bright vermillion. Just a deep red in most lights, but here, in the dawnstruck gaze of Dream's Edge — vermillion. That's the word for it, he thinks. But no, no, that's not the point. So he holds an arm behind his back in that familiar way, straightens his posture, looks him dead in the face in the confident manner of the long-gone Sunday Oak, when right now, at this moment- Aeons know who he really is.
"Damn, birdie- d'you always gotta be so cold to me?" Gallagher takes a slight step closer. He's only four, five inches taller than him, but right now- he seems more imposing than usual. (Is this what it was like being one of the people the Hound would arrest?- Still not the point, Sunday.)
Sunday's eyebrows furrow. "You're meant to be gone. Why are you still here?" he asks, and this time the coolness in his voice is evident, hoping the frosty bite hurts. It doesn't seem to. "Answer me."
"Well, you got no importance here, right? I don't think you can make me do anything." The self-confident smirk on his face makes Sunday want to scream. He does not, still.
"Hound."
Gallagher shakes his head. "Gods, fine, birdie. No need to ruffle your feathers about it." Sunday bites back a grimace. "You know me. I can still exist, if somebody needs me, right?"
And now he feels sick. Nauseous. "I don't know what you're accusing me of, hound," he answers pointedly, taking a sharp step towards Gallagher and resisting jabbing his finger at him (that would be rude. Sunday Oak is not rude. Sunday Oak is the epitome of polite and reserved and collected, and he does not jab.) Instead, he simply continues staring at him. That hound- he's still got that confident curl to his lips. Stubble on his chin. (When was the last time he shaved? How unsightly.) Even his clothes — too loose, open where they shouldn't be, and Aeons, if it doesn't irritate him
Finally, Gallagher shakes his head, that little smile finally fading into something more— fond. He'd say 'soft', if it wasn't him. (If it wasn't either of them.) But it is, and so he tries to ignore it. "You're always so serious, Sunday." For some reason he can't quite decipher, the use of his name stings. Gallagher continues anyway, perhaps not realising. Perhaps he's just running out of time, again. "I haven't got any time to spare, you know," and there's his suspicion confirmed. "You know what comes next for me."
"Of course."
As Sunday responds this time, the coldness in his voice melts away. There's that glacier, and then underneath there's something like- hollowness. Resignation. He continues speaking, of course, because there's still more to say. And like Gallagher's said: not enough time. Never enough time, except all the time they wasted hating each other and never knowing each other and going along with the shitstorm that was Penacony.
(He loves Penacony, he does. But gods, if Sunday wasn't stupid. If he still isn't now.
"Fine, then. I'll indulge in your little fantasy," he says, like it isn't voluntary. Like he still isn't fighting and begging and saying, please clean me of my sins, please give me another chance. Like this isn't as much his fantasy as it is anyone else's. Like he wasn't the one the most swallowed up in the Sweet Dream out of all of them, even. He's seen those in Dreamflux Reef, of course — saw them there that day with Gallagher and the Trailblazers and Robin (Robin, Robin, Robin). They had lost their mind, and he saw that. Saw them hysterical and begging and sobbing and laughing and scared, so so scared of the Family, and knew if they could quite tell he was there, they'd hate him.
Like he deserves, of course. But the thought still hurts when he considers it.
The hound takes that as his sign to keep talking, and Sunday does not refute him. "I'm being serious, really. I can still exist until you stop needing me. Which will happen in..." he checks a watch he's never seen on him before. It's a bronze brassy colour, and seems to be patterned with a cog slightly smaller than the watch itself. Dark blue, light blue, orange in the middle, and he swears he's seen it somewhere before, but- he can't quite think where. (In truth, it's in a photo Gopher Wood kept in the hall, one of the only possessions he ever had, even without his corporeal form. A young man with white hair that has a blue tint to it — and the clearest blue eyes that Sunday swears he's ever seen in his life; in the frame with him is someone who looks like his father (or his true form, at least), but without the scars.
Younger.
It was one of the things that originally made Sunday think his father was kind, made him feel human and real and not that untouchable idol he had always seen him has. Of course, though — that ended up being an awful idea. (One too many times spent gasping for breath on the floor, wings burning with an excruciating pain that perhaps gets worse every time it happens. If it doesn't, then— it feels like it, perhaps. He's not sure.)
"No time, Sunday," Gallagher reminds him, and although again the use of his name makes something stick in his throat, the Halovian turns to look back up at him again. This isn't the time, it seems, for memories within memories; however that works. "I need you to know this. Look at me-" and Sunday is, so he's not sure why he's saying that, except perhaps for the mournful look in the Bloodhound's eyes that makes him shut up and listen intently. "You are not," he says, "a bad person. You are mistaken. Everything that you have gone through- holy shit, Sunday, who can even blame you? After all that you're still standing, and that might be the most impressive achievement of all. Don't you think?"
(Of all things, he wasn't expecting that.)
Sunday does not cry. Not this time.
(When he was around 13 years old, Sunday kneeled down and begged the Dreammaster to tune away his emotions. Begged him to remove all semblance of Sadness from his mind, so he would not be distracted, so he would not be in pain. And Gopher Wood did — he took Sunday's face in his hands and imposed the Harmony upon him, and for 9 years of his life wherever Sadness would have been, in its place was Anger or Fear or some sort of hollow, bubbling emotion inside of him: something empty, something lonely.
The day Gopher Wood died, all of that changed.
It was like some sort of— river, perhaps, or maybe some boiling geyser finally erupting and tearing through the rock. The sort of sadness that dragged him to his knees and made him gasp for air, to try and break the surface of the water and breathe. And then there were the tears that came: they did not stop. Not when the Trailblazers were fighting him, not before, not after.)
This time, though, he does not cry. He inhales, and exhales, and lets himself breathe.
"I'll keep that in mind," he says finally, and Gallagher laughs. It's hoarse, but he seems to be playing along with it anyway.
"Sure you will, birdie." He reaches out, cups Sunday's face. "Just give it a go."
Before anything can happen, Sunday blinks. He's gone before he opens his eyes, the same way the crows were dead before they hit the floor, the same way everything can happen before he has the chance to change it but if he still won't plead and scream and blame himself anyway-
There's another memory coming. He's not sure if he wants it — he still feels sick to the stomach from the last one, and Gallagher, Gallagher, Gallagher. Resisting the urge to throw up, Sunday continues on. Whatever he has to see this time- it must be important, he thinks. He hopes.
He's in- some sort of garden from the depths of his memory. Foggy, blurry, but he recognises it still — there's something nostalgic about it. A small rose garden to the side, charming flowers climbing up trellises leaning against the house he can't-quite-see, and the soiund of someone singing.
And ah, yes— he recognises it now, of course. And his mother was such a beautiful woman, although her face is hazy in his vision (most likely an effect of the fact he can't remember her face. Does she look like him, he wonders? Or perhaps like Robin?; he hopes the latter, for all their sakes). There's something painfully wistful about her pale hair, and white braid, and the smile that still he can see although he doesn't know her eyes.
(And what were her eyes?-)
The humming echoes across the garden, still, and Sunday's eyes rest on the three figures in the memory. His mother, of course, in a sundress, and he and Robin fast asleep on her lap, dozing lightly in the afternoon sun. Midsummer, it seems, judging by the warmth it leaves on his skin even through the recollection of the scene
She strokes their hair gently, from what he can see. Maybe he feels a slight tingling sensation from a ghost of her hand across his head- But of course, he knows it's just wishful thinking. The past cannot be changed- No, no matter how much he prays for it to be. His regrets, his mistakes — they cannnot be erased. Ah, but if only. If only he had been a little bit smarter, a little easier in his way of thinking, a little *stronger* through Gopher Wood's words and ideas and what he knows is manipulation, perhaps, somewhere inside- but does not want to put a name to.
(Perhaps he got what he deserved. Perhaps all he can do with these fond memories, now, is hope they will not fade from his mind: to treasure it until the day he fades. Or, the day he crashes and falls. That he volunteers for willingly, no matter the price. And in some ways, perhaps- thanks to it.)
No, as Gallagher has said; there's no time left, not for Sunday, not for a criminal and a wanted man and the perpetrator of the crimes the world did not wish to admit to, as always.
Of course, there was someone to take the fall. If that has to be him, then, well--Then so be it. Sunday shakes his head, closes his eyes, and retreats from the memory. Perhaps such good things are simply not meant to last, he wonders. Prays, too, as he always has, as he always will. And if this is the end, then let him face it willingly.
The memory is over.
He does not wait for another one.
This is the day his dream bubble bursts — the day the second part of his life ends, and maybe today it can be safe to say- The day that the third section begins. And he is willing, perhaps, to melt in search for the sun, to look for that paradise that at this moment does not exist-
So if he needs, he will craft it with his own two hands.
And maybe, the hands of others claw and beg and fight for him. Perhaps they reach for him, and perhaps?- there's a chance, they're begging to send him away, for better or for worse. Robin-Gallagher-Dionysus-The Trailblazers- Aventurine-Dr. Ratio-Acheron-Black Swan-Sparkle- Everybody, perhaps, has left Penacony now. (And now, it's his turn too.)
Sunday Oak picks himself up and continues out of Dream's Edge. One last goodbye to the world, to the home he's always known and never wished for, for everything he's had and that has always chained him down-, and then maybe-
Just maybe, he can-