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Sunday found that his time within the Stellaron Hunters became very hard to define.
But, is anything truly simple to define? Concepts like, justice, heroism, selflessness, right, wrong, good, evil - all of it has slipped away from his careful understanding from within the cage. Sunday prefers a world of good and evil, prefers comparing the darkness and daylight. He is a man who prefers the world in black and white, and yet has been thrust into a world of gray, colourblind eyes trying to avert their gaze.
It is just not that simple when he has a role to play.
When he had been defeated by the Express - which, he still has nightmares about, although he does not have nightmares about the defeat. No, it is the lead up he has terrors about, the integration of the Emanator of Harmony into his own flesh, and soul, and mind. Hearing hundreds of thousands of voices cry out in jubilation for his world, his perfect world. The egg forming around him, leaving him in darkness, darkness and too much light, as everything and anything spilled into his fragile mind. His fragile mind slowly becoming less and less fragile.
Regardless,
When he had been defeated by them, Sunday had experienced only sombre resignation. Were they right? Were they wrong? The answer the gray haired girl had given him still rang in his mind, but it didn’t completely satisfy him. The world was this way. And perhaps there was some meaning to it, some purpose, some light he could not glimpse.
Light he did not deserve to glimpse any longer.
During the battle, they’d tried again and again to persuade him - members of the crew, his sister, Robin, singing against him. But it was too late, far too late, he was becoming something more and more then what he was or would ever be normally. Glimpsing the light of eternity from the embryonic shell of an egg, waiting, waiting to crash through and become something…something…
But it was not to be.
They had defeated him, in fair combat, as he had desired. All he’d wanted was the happiness of all, the paradise in his dreams. If their way was truly able to make the people of the cosmos happier, the humans trapped in their struggles and need for survival, then who was he to protest? He would have become a God, but he had not. In fact, he had never really wanted to.
Though only humans had the right to dictate the way they all lived.
When falling, he had not struggled, not tried to fly. Without the Order’s influence in Penacony, he would crash, and splatter, and die, and wasn’t that right? The villain of the story is always defeated at the end, killed or imprisoned, and everyone else simply goes on with their lives. This had always been a possible outcome. Sunday was resigned to it.
My dreams have been crushed, just as that letter warned.
Ahh, he should have listened, but somehow, he’d known where the letter was from. He’d known, deep down. Sunday was a proud politician of the Family, one of their leaders, young as he was, and he knew countless factions in the universe. There was only one among them who promised to grant wishes, and claimed to see the future.
But, future possibilities, he also knew. And so, he had arrogantly thought, I do not need these letters, or pity, or paper. My dream will ascend regardless.
And perhaps it was just a prank. Perhaps it was just a sick joke. Sunday told himself that because it was so much easier than contemplating all the details of his life within those pages, things that no one else could ever, ever know.
Yet here he was, falling.
Truly, I’m a fool. To close my eyes forever, I should -
In that moment, he’d been cut off. Not by the sick crash against the ground, but by arms descending around him. Sunday had tensed, shocked, opening his eyes - and then Robin had whispered to him.
“Brother…the dream…it’s over…”
And ahh, it truly had been over. Everything had been over. But at least in this one last moment, he could shield his sister one last time, as she had so bravely rushed after him. That burst of light, of care and hope, had given him one last rush of life.
And then, it really was over.
Or so he thought.
Down in the cells, awaiting what was certainly an execution, Sunday had plenty of time to contemplate his life in the dark. Sunday had spent so much of his life seeing others, seeing the suffering of others, hearing their pleas and desperate words. He had spent so much time staring into the hearts of darkness and light, the relentless apathy of the world.
Here, in the darkness and the silence, there was nothing but his own thoughts. And something about that did frighten him. Unable to look outwards, he instead was forced to look into the darkness, and instead inwards.
I was defeated. The people set aside their differences, their distrust and their fear, in order to strike me down. I offered them paradise, but all of them…even Robin…
Robin had not turned against him, though, not truly. She had turned against his ideals, their shared dream and desires, but he was left wondering if she had truly left him, or if he had left her. Without the solitude they were forced to experience away from each other, would they ever have become the people they were?
She would continue flying higher, and higher, while Sunday…Sunday would be killed, executed, perhaps in secrecy. Nothing but a sham trial awaited him, as he sat within this cell, chained and shackled and drained of his power.
As if he would try and escape. This was just an extra dose of humiliation. His former allies, his former ‘Family,’ they had tossed him in here, desperate to both forget about him, and to torment him. Sunday just didn’t care anymore. He felt some bitterness, but it was mitigated by his own self loathing and desire to just…stop…all of this.
How can I resent them for turning on me, when all I wish for is an endless void? At this rate, it is the only thing I can hope to gain. There’s nothing else.
Briefly, his mind would turn to the letter, and his heart would pound - he would flex at the chains, grip the interrogation chair he was trapped within. Because that letter had foretold his failure, his fall from grace, the end of his dream. But it had also foretold some sort of new beginning, some sort of offer.
Sunday knew the faction it was from, and the thought made him anxious. Because this figure had clearly thought he would be defeated, but also thought he would be free to come to their side, beckoning sweetly with temptation and praise. Sunday knew it was only ‘possibility,’ but he found himself glancing at the door every so often, unsettled.
If they planned for him to join them, or even just make an offer, surely they had to get him out of here? And so, when he was not full of bitterness and self loathing, imprisoned in shackles, locked in this prison, he would glance at the door, and feel….
What he felt wasn’t easily describable, even to him, who was usually so in tune with emotion. Hope? That couldn’t be right. Was he really hopeful for a group of terrorists and criminals to come and break him out of here? Even if they promised so much…no, what he felt was…better described as apprehension. Unease. And yet…anticipation.
So when the door did open, he wasn’t really surprised. Not at that fact. But when he lifted his head, and saw pink hair, a cane, and a pressed dress, a snake in human clothes, well…
“I didn’t expect it to be you.”
That was true enough. This was not a Stellaron Hunter. This was Lady Bonajade, Jade of Credit, a member of the IPC, of the Stonehearts…Sunday almost laughed at the irony. The IPC. How hard he’d tried to keep that damn Ambassador in place, and yet, it did not matter. As soon as he was out of the picture, the snakes and vultures descended on the dying corpse of this dream world, eager to extract the final resources from it.
She was not here on behalf of the IPC, though. No, according to her words, she was here for him - and for Robin. That had made his heart stop. Robin? Robin. Robin? No. Robin couldn’t have made a deal with this woman…this snake…
And yet, she was saying things. Saying things that only a choice few would know. Things Robin must have told her, when making this deal.
Sunday had had no intention of cooperation, but the woman didn’t care at all. She freed him, and bade him to rush out of here, escape. But, she had a self satisfied look, a look that said this would pay dividends. Sunday had no intention of letting that happen.
Not at all.
The encounter, and the knowledge that his sister had traded something precious - what it was, he did not know, but it must have been precious indeed to make Lady Bonajade risk the enmity of the Family - had inflamed him. He’d escaped from the facility, onto a ship, and stood at the window, staring out as the world below vanished.
I don’t have any options.
Sunday truly had nothing but the clothes on his back, and his own power. The IPC would still hound him, the Family would wish for his death, and any other faction would be mad to take him. The Express? For a moment, he briefly remembered the kindness and compassion that girl had shown him, reaching out a hand to him and offering him a true answer where the others did not.
But she was just one girl. The rest of the Express did not seem especially interested in bringing a known fugitive onto their train. And was he so desperate? To grovel before them for help? For Robin, perhaps, perhaps, but -
Suddenly, a song came from the gramophone. Sunday glanced down at it as it began to play; violin notes slipped into the air, haunting and foreboding. And yet, underneath that emptiness, there were soft notes of defiance, of hope…Sunday stared, momentarily jostled from his inner thoughts. It was…
“You like music, don’t you, little dove?”
Sunday glanced up at the doorway, with a start. A woman was standing there, slowly slipping into the room. She ran her fingers along the wall idly as she stepped towards him. He knew, instantly, who she was. Even without wanted posters, even without bounty notices from the IPC to the Family, he would have known. His heart stopped in his chest.
“Music is a beautiful thing. So…harmonious…and isn’t that what your little Family preaches? And yet, here you are, breaking free of the strings of Harmony to fly, fly free…and yet, it isn’t so easy, is it?”
Kafka, one of the most dangerous criminals in the galaxy, stepped closer towards him. His heart was pounding, as perhaps, his brief touch with godhood had allowed him to see and glimpse, somehow, the significance of this moment.
The introduction of gray, into his black and white life.
“You know why I’m here…and I know what you will say.” She continued calmly, reaching out her hand to his. Sunday stared down at it, conflicted. “Everything has gone just as Elio said. You know that, don’t you?”
Everything. Everything has gone as he’s said. If I’d only listened to that letter. If I’d only…
Sunday had had the knowledge of the future in his hands, and had rejected it. He had tossed it aside, thinking he could defy it in arrogance without truly understanding what it had meant. But these figures, blessed by Finality, knew. They knew, and could choose the right path.
The right path…
Wrong, right…do I even know such things anymore? Did I ever?
Kafka was waiting for his answer. Sunday’s heart pounded again and again. Where else did he have to go? Where else could he find shelter?
Where else could he achieve what he so desperately needed? Where else could he go, as an outcast and exile? Where else…could he begin to achieve his dreams? And where else…could he shatter the chains placed on his sister, for his sake?
Finality…Finality…it was such a terrifying Path, and yet…followers of Finality had peace, didn’t they? They knew…they knew so much, and Sunday, for the first time, felt he didn’t know anything at all.
And yet, he knew this.
“Yes.” Sunday finally spoke to her, breaking the silence between them - though the violin still played on, and on. Slowly, he took her hand, “yes. I do know…so take me to him. This figure who can grant wishes, and see the possibilities of the universe.”
“Of course, dove.” Kafka squeezed his hand, stepping back and leading him, leading him to the next steps of his life, “you were always meant to end up here, after all. With us…because you are meant for much greater things than dying, wingless, in a cage, Sunday .”
--
Kafka was probably the easiest to get along with for Sunday.
Which was certainly unexpected. Out of all of them, she had the highest bounty. Logically, she should be the one Sunday disdained the most. But Kafka was very ‘business focused’ which Sunday could appreciate.
Even if their business was, technically crime.
Sunday told himself that this was the only way forward. Elio had already proven to him how much he knew about the future of the world. He had disregarded those words on a page once, and he wasn’t likely to do it again. So working with someone just as focused on sticking to the script as him was much easier.
Silver Wolf he couldn’t quite get a read on - perhaps it was the difference in their priorities. The girl seemed to view the world itself as a game, but she seemed to care deeply for the other hunters. And, she was a gifted hacker, the sort Sunday would have been proud to employ when he worked for the Family.
Well, such things were behind them now. Silver Wolf…he got along with her fine. She did her job, and did it well, despite her quirks. Often, she would lightly mock Sunday, calling him priest or angel - but he realised quickly that these were just ways of affectionate teasing, and so didn’t pay them much mind.
It wasn’t like he had much pride left at this point.
Firefly was difficult - though, not as difficult as he’d feared. She had not known that her script in Penacony would result in him joining them, but she had been told shortly after her return to the group. Sunday did not know what her initial reaction had been, but her current reaction was a mix of pity and curiosity, it seemed like.
She didn’t hold what he’d done and said against him - Sunday felt keenly aware that Firefly knew more of him than anyone else here, as he’d poured his heart to her, along with the Express. Now, he tried to close that distance, behaving coldly and reserved. It almost came off as bitter, but more it was just…detached.
Firefly was not a very detached person, unless she was in her Sam persona. Fighting alongside the mechanical knight was easier, and Sunday found himself thinking how, had she taken this form directly against him, she might have truly killed him.
Perhaps that was part of Elio’s machinations. To avoid such a situation.
To his surprise, though, Blade…Blade was the hardest for him to define, the hardest for him to get along with, and yet, again paradoxical, the one he ended up spending the most time with.
The roads of chaos lead to strange ends, indeed.
At first, going on a mission with Blade had been simple. Blade seemed reserved and to the point, detached. That was good. It reminded Sunday of himself. A man who was willing to just get their missions over with. Minimal talk and discussion. Wonderful.
Except he soon found that it wasn’t as simple as all that.
They’d been on a few missions together, simple things. Usually, they would involve Sunday slipping in somewhere to interrogate someone with his power of Harmony, and Blade would mainly play bodyguard. They didn’t talk much, but they did talk.
“Elio says you nearly became an Aeon. Is that true?”
On their first mission, as they traveled on the shuttle, Blade asked him that. Sunday had glanced up at him in surprise, before looking away with a scoff.
“It was not my intention, but yes.” Sunday admitted, “why are you asking if it is true? Do you harbor any doubts against Elio?”
“Not your intention…” Blade shifted idly, staring out the shuttle window, “I do not harbour doubts. I merely…wanted to hear your perspective, away from words on a script. What do you mean by…not your intention?”
Sunday had scowled - it really wasn’t any of his business, and Blade himself had certainly not told him anything about himself at all. But, then he reflected. Nearly becoming an Aeon. Most people would be…concerned, fascinated, by such an occurrence…
“I did not intend to become some god of a new world, but rather to usurp the power of the old…” Sunday trailed off, “I was arrogant and foolish. It doesn’t bear discussion.”
“Hmm.” Blade had hummed, and then, he hadn’t spoken again. The rest of their mission had gone rather simply and by the letter. Simple. Easy. But Sunday had wondered about his curiosity, and the brusque way he had rebuffed Blade.
But it isn’t important anymore. I’m certainly not an Aeon. I’m not even an Emanator. I am…
Well, what he was, was certainly hard to define. Sunday had swallowed, remembering what Blade had said. Away from words on a script. He wanted Sunday’s own perspective. What did that really matter, though?
I don’t understand why it would matter to him.
The next few missions had proceeded similarly. Minimal chat, but Blade would actually chat. He would ask him, ‘What was it like being part of the Harmony?’ ‘Firefly said you used to serve as a Bronze Melodia, is that true?’ ‘You were in charge of Penacony for a time, were you not?’ ‘I never see you eating with the rest of us, do you not require sustenance any longer?’
It was…aggravating, but he couldn’t really be mad at the other. Sunday was more distant from the other Hunters, and he supposed it was natural to be curious. So, quickly and efficiently, he would answer these questions. Blade would be seemingly satisfied with his answers, and not usually press him for more. He was curious about Blade, too. But he didn’t ask. Not often.
But I can sense his suffering. A gaping hole, deep within him. And yet, he concerns himself talking with me.
Sunday wanted to ease his pain, that instinct still firmly carved into him, but he didn’t know how. And was he even worthy to try at this point?
I don’t know.
“What was it like being part of the Harmony?”
“Isolating.”
“Firefly said you used to serve as a Bronze Melodia, is that true?”
“Yes. Since I was quite young, in fact.”
“You were in charge of Penacony for a time, were you not?”
“Officially, all of the Family shares responsibility and power, and none are truly supreme…in practice, that is not entirely true. I would not say I was entirely in charge, no.”
“I never see you eating with the rest of us, do you no longer require sustenance?”
“I don’t feel joy from such things anymore.”
Sunday always answered the questions in a brusque, and to the point fashion. It was so much easier that way. And Blade, to his relief, didn’t press him or ask further questions on specific topics, or if he ever did, it was rare. It was…it was easier.
It was all easier, until he finally found out just why Elio valued Blade so much.
They were on a mission, typical of any other for the two of them. Sunday was to interrogate a higher IPC officer about the location of a Stellaron kept for observation. Blade was to watch his back. Sunday’s eyes were blank as psychedelia warped around him, gripping the man in a dizzying blow of Harmony.
“Please, just answer honestly.” Sunday spoke carefully, “you feel this, don’t you? That is the judgement of Xipe above you. If you tell falsehoods, if you attempt to deceive me, the punishment will twist your soul and set you into eternal damnation, do you understand?”
“I - n-no.”
“A good answer. You understand enough, then, to know that you do not understand enough.” Sunday hummed, “do the IPC have a Stellaron under observation currently?”
“Y-Yes…several…please…”
“Do you have access to any of the locations where these Stellarons are kept?”
“I…some are kept on planets, some in storage…” The man swallowed, “I don’t know…all the details…”
“Planets.” Sunday frowned, “are any causing an active disaster, at this moment?”
That wasn’t in his script, but Sunday found it concerning enough to ask. Blade looked over at him, but said nothing. He didn’t protest Sunday’s little aberration, even though it was unusual for him.
“O-One…one is, but the higher ups wanted to study it, they - “
“Where is it?” Sunday demanded, voice a bit harsher, the pressure bearing down on the employee, “answer honestly. What THEY will do to you if you lie, will certainly be worse then the entire wrath of the IPC, I can safely assure you…”
“Gghk…” Sunday’s gaze seemed to sear through the man, and tear the answer from his lips with his mere look, “ AH-54921…that’s…the classification of the planet…”
“Good.” Sunday relaxed the curse, “it seems you can be honest. Well done.”
“Sunday.” Blade stepped towards him, “...we have to move. Quickly.”
“Hmm…”
Sunday stared down at the man, loathing filling him. Filth like the IPC…setting Stellarons on hapless planets merely to test the effects of the disaster…he clenched his fists, feeling sick. Such suffering in the world, and for what? Greed? The Preservation?
“Sunday.”
“I’m coming, Blade.” Sunday whirled around, leaving the man on the floor, “fine…we got what we needed, did we not?”
“You went off script, but yes.” Blade sounded apathetic, “you remind me of Firefly…such defiance will only worsen the cruelty of reality.”
Sunday, for some reason, felt quite offended. He didn’t think ill of Firefly, so the comparison did not irk him, but Sunday, he…
The script…I usually trust in it so deeply. Those words. And yet…
“I’m well aware of that.” He retorted sharply, as they stepped through the halls of the facility - suddenly, the security alarm went off. Blade cursed, and grabbed his arm, beginning to pull Sunday through the facility.
We won’t get caught. It…doesn’t say in the script. Not in mine, anyway.
“If there’s a Stellaron causing an active disaster, we should target that one first.” Sunday continued, even as they rushed, “I saw it as simple logic.”
“You’re still soft, Sunday.” Blade, again, reprimanded him, “Elio tells us how to handle such things. You put your faith in him. Trying to aberrate is…pointless.”
He wondered if Blade spoke from experience, or simply just his own opinion. Sunday narrowed his eyes, but kept his mouth shut as they rushed through the facility, Blade easily cutting down anyone they came across with that broken sword. Sunday was not as well suited for combat, but he could certainly handle himself.
Blade could handle everything too, or so he thought.
One room they rushed into ended up full of guards - robots, defense systems. Sunday hesitated. This hadn’t been in his script at all. Blade held up his sword before Sunday, as if to shield him. He didn’t seem surprised.
“No matter what you see, don’t run from here without me, Sunday.” Blade told him, “do you understand?”
No? I don’t?
Then it dawned on him; Blade must have something in his script that he did not. Sunday’s breath hitched, and he clutched at his chest, calling on his powers of Harmony to strengthen Blade.
“No.” Blade told him, as the robotic soldiers approached, “such powers aren’t what are required here, Sunday. Look away if you wish.”
Look away?
Sunday found it so bizarre, that despite the warning, he couldn’t look away at all. His eyes were wide as he watched Blade - watched him fight with true power and strength. True bloodlust and anger.
He had always seen Blade as a reserved type. Calm and quiet, and distant. This was different. Blade began rushing into battle without a care to his own wounds. Gunfire and spears hit him, and he did not care or flinch whatsoever. His eyes began to glow with a haunting red sheen.
And then the laughter started.
The laughter made Sunday’s blood run cold, and he took a step back. When he glimpsed Blade’s face again, it was a twisted snarl of joy and euphoria - madness and fury and the thrill of battle. Sunday had never seen that look on his face before, and his mind struggled to associate it with Blade, the man he had been speaking with so much and yet so little as of late.
Each slash of the sword was like a butcher, slicing and chopping things up into pieces, maniacal laughter ringing out as he did so. The IPC did not stand a chance. None of them did. Sunday was watching this in awe and shock, frozen in place - when someone rushed at him.
Ah, careless -
He pulled out his pitiful rapier to defend himself with - something he had only started using with the Hunters, and was still not adept with - but then, there was a blur of movement before him, and someone had pushed him down.
Blood was dripping onto him.
Sunday was disoriented, on the ground, unsure of what had happened. He’d been upright, and then he’d been shoved to the floor, very roughly. And now blood was dripping over him…actually, pouring over him might be more accurate. A robotic arm had pierced through…pierced through…
It had taken Sunday a few moments to realize what he was actually seeing.
Blade was above him. Blade was the one who had pushed him down. And Blade was now bleeding profusely, from an injury to his chest, the metal of the robotic arm piercing through it cleanly. Sunday froze beneath him.
What?
“Blade?” Sunday managed, his voice sounding small, and frightened, and not at all like the strong, certain voice he always had. The cruelty of the universe always shocked him, but this, this couldn’t be possible. Elio would never allow this. Would he?
Would he?
Sunday heard a sickening, sucking sound as the robotic arm was yanked from Blade’s chest, and even more blood spilled onto Sunday. He could taste it on his lips. His eyes went wide in horror, trying to comprehend the sight above him. How could someone survive this? No one could survive this, no one would -
“Ah…” Blade managed, “...death…and yet…”
His voice was a haunting, rattling noise that didn’t sound at all like his voice. And then he collapsed, right on top of Sunday.
Death. He said death. He’s…he’s…
Sunday forgot everything else. Rage flooded him - rage, anger, hatred, fury. His eyes shifted from gold to pure psychedelia, as the strings of a puppeteer danced from his fingertips. The world was always this way. Suffering, and suffering, without purpose, without justice.
I will become Justice.
Sunday didn’t know where the strength came from, where the power deep within him stirred, but it swept over him, and it swept over the room, and it swept over everything there. The soldiers, human, mechanical, robotic alike, all instantly found themselves strung up, squeezed, ropes piercing and cutting through their bodies.
On this day, I bring Justice. I will not allow such savagery, such cruelty…!
And then all of the ropes snapped, and a rush of blood, oil, and metal burst through the room in a sickening explosion that washed over both of them.
Sunday didn’t know how long he lay there, under Blade’s body. It might have been seconds, or years. Blood was still in his mouth, blood that was not his own. Whatever power he had grasped left him, and Sunday was left dazed.
Very dazed.
Methodically, he pushed himself up, pushing Blade’s limp body upwards. Looking at him made him feel sick. Even when he pushed the body to the ground, it didn’t look any better. His entire chest had been torn and ripped through. Sunday’s heart was hammering, as he stared down at himself. So much…so much blood.
What do I do?
His script had mentioned nothing about this. Had Blade’s? Had he known, all along, that he would die? When he’d thrown Sunday to the ground to protect him, did he know it would cause his own death? Sunday dug his nails into his palms, breathing heavily.
I can’t leave him here. I…I need to bring him back to the others. I…
Sunday had dealt with grief enough. So carefully, he reached forward, preparing to clean at least some of the body to give it some respect. Blade…Blade deserved that much…
Still, he felt in shock. Blade had not…he had not been a friend, but he had been…kind? Kind. Kind to Sunday regardless. Asking after him…and speaking with him…yet never pressing him too hard that it was overwhelming. Sunday swallowed, feeling a burning in his eyes.
How Father would decry me now, to see me weeping for a criminal. Of course.
Sunday had touched Blade’s chest, preparing to remove his upper clothes - when suddenly, the strangest sound he’d ever heard burst out from Blade.
A cough.
Corpses weren’t supposed to cough. Sunday stared, incredulous. And then, a flower burst from Blade’s chest. Several flowers, actually. Hauntingly beautiful and enchanting, they burst from the wounds as if they were soil, and the blood was nectar. They shone, and spiraled upwards on golden stems - and then, before his eyes, they vanished. And the wounds vanished with them.
Sunday did not know what to think. And then, Blade’s eyes fluttered open, seeing Sunday looking at him in shock.
“Not time, yet…” Blade slurred - slurred! As if he hadn’t just died in front of Sunday. Seemingly delirious, he reached forward, touching Sunday’s cheek, “you…shouldn’t have found out this way, Sunday. I’m sorry.”
--
Sunday didn’t know what to think.
When they’d returned to the base, Sunday had almost wanted to have words with Elio. But, what would be the point? He’d agreed to follow Elio’s orders. His scripts. He’d taken the offer. Sunday had thought it would be simple.
It was often not.
Blade had explained. His script called for him to die before Sunday, for it would trigger Sunday’s latent Aeonic abilities in a burst of emotion. Had he known prior to this that Blade would simply rise up like a wilted flower given water, his emotions would not have been strong enough to achieve such power. And thus, the secrecy.
I’ve been played for a fool.
He could not go to Elio, because to do that would be to doubt all he did, entirely. But he did go to Blade. He did rush to his room, in frustration and passion - rare passion, that he had not felt for a long time, in truth.
“Such recklessness…you should not have agreed to such a plan.” Sunday snapped at him, while Blade leaned against his wall, trying not to meet Sunday’s gaze, “you should have demanded Elio try something else - “
“Death is a mere quick slumber for me. It does not alarm me. I do not suffer.” Blade murmured, not exactly an impassioned defense. It only made Sunday more furious with the entire situation, “it is not the first time. It won’t be the last.”
“It will be the last around me, you can make certain of that.” Sunday continued his tirade, “such blood and pain, how can you say you did not suffer? And do you think I wish to see that?”
“I know you don’t. You can’t stand suffering.”
Sunday opened his mouth to retort, then shut it, annoyed. Because Blade was right. He must have been paying more attention then Sunday thought when speaking with him, to realize that. He couldn’t stand it, even now.
“I didn’t like it much myself. You having to see it.” Blade continued, “but if Elio says it is the best path, it is the best path.”
“For him.” Sunday narrowed his eyes, “perhaps a cat that can see all possibilities is losing sight of what is right in front of him. How many times has he sent you to die? To suffer?”
“I don’t suffer.” Blade, again, protested that, “I told you. It’s simply…a quick dream.”
“I don’t believe that. Do I have to curse you, so you cannot lie?” Sunday shook his head in disgust, “so much blood, your chest was torn open, do you realize?”
“I am aware, yes.” Blade paused, “you should not have had to see it, I will agree on that much. But if you wish to be a Hunter…you will see other horrific sights, Sunday. It is not a pretty life.”
No. It wasn’t. It was a cruel, lonely life. It was reality. One couldn’t live without casting themselves with blemishes and dirt, even as they tried to remain pristine, clean, and pure, and good.
Am I just supposed to accept that? All of this pain, and suffering…
“I understand that the life of a Hunter bears loss and pain. Isolation, and guilt.” Sunday continued, “I simply refuse to accept your body being used and hurt simply to achieve a purpose, over and over again…!”
“That’s where you draw the line?” Blade’s voice grew darker, and he stepped away from him, “if you cannot handle bearing such truths, then leave. You do not have the stomach for this, failed Aeon or no.”
Sunday trembled with absolute anger. Blade had never talked down to him in such a fashion before. His hands were clenched into fists, shaking even in their fragility. Was this what he truly thought of him? Weak willed, pathetic, and far too idealistic?
If you’ve thought that of me, then why speak to me at all?
“You have been cursed with endless life, and immortality.” Sunday found his voice, stepping forward before Blade could walk away from him, “that does not mean you need be cursed with endless suffering, Blade, I refuse to believe it is necessary…!”
“Life is suffering.” Blade whirled on him, suddenly giving a flare of anger, “I had thought a man who touched godhood would understand. That is all life is. Do you know what I am here for? Why I linger, despite long having lost the taste of joy, despite the fact that I am nothing more than a lingering shadow, a ghost hovering over their own corpse?”
Blade, suddenly, gripped his wrist, and pulled him against the wall. Sunday looked up at him in surprise, trying to break his grip, but failing rather miserably. Blade, despite his recent brush with death, was strong, and right now, he saw some of that light in his gaze. Red, and burning, molten fire.
“Because I wish for death. I wish for a true end.” He squeezed down harder, “that is what Elio has promised me. If I must suffer in the interim, if I must glance at that untouchable shore, again and again, before I can finally reach it…I will do it gladly. Because life is suffering, and what you see before you is merely a specter possessing a weapon. Do not weep for me, Sunday. I neither care for it, nor deserve it.”
Sunday was quiet, looking up at him. Somehow, all of his anger had faded. Somehow, all of his fury had faded. Somehow, all he was left with, was aching sympathy, and a few words.
“I did weep for you.” Sunday found himself saying, voice surprisingly soft. Blade’s breath hitched, eyes widening in surprise. Sunday continued, “when I thought you were dead…I did weep bitter tears. I did not think myself capable of them anymore…but there they were.”
Silence.
Sunday had never felt a silence so…endless. He stared up at Blade, at his molten gaze, seeing it slowly soften. His grip was still harsh on his wrist, but slowly it too began to loosen. Sunday felt the skin would bruise. Somehow, he wasn’t concerned.
Quite hypocritical.
It was very difficult not to be lost in Blade’s eyes - amber depths, like a furnace flame. No, they were getting softer, softer right before Sunday’s eyes. They were dimming, even if the light did not go out. Could not go out. Now, they were more like candles, flickering in soft echoes of life.
Sunday stared, and stared, and stared. He had forgotten how to speak, or how to move, or how to even look anywhere aside from Blade’s eyes. And then, quite abruptly, Blade pulled away, turning from him.
The spell was broken. Sunday blinked, and then, heat flooded into his cheeks. Without realizing it, he hugged his own shoulders tightly. Sunday didn’t think he’d ever been so close to someone, not like…not like that.
Not when I could see myself reflected in those eyes.
“Blade - “
“Elio’s use for me begins and ends at my ability to regenerate. To heal from any injury.” Blade stared down at his bandaged hand, the hand that had been gripping Sunday’s wrist so very tightly. Sunday could still feel the phantom grip, the dull sting, but it was fading. Somehow, that made his chest ache. “That is why he has recruited me. That is the use I bring.”
“I don’t think a being like that acts for simply one reason, when they see so much we cannot understand.” Sunday reminded him, lowering his hands from his shoulders. He stared at Blade’s back, unable to see his face. But the tension in his shoulders, in his neck, was obvious to see. “Elio claims he knows every future you will possibly have. Perhaps things aren’t so simple.”
“I suppose a priest would make such simple concepts more complicated than they need to be.” Blade spoke bitterly, “Elio needed a weapon, and one who cannot truly die is useful for him. That is all.”
“I don’t know if I believe that.” Sunday’s voice, by contrast, was soft. Blade - he truly went by Blade, then, because he believed himself just a weapon - “You cannot know that either. I believe you are made for much more than that, no matter what you tell yourself.”
Sunday’s voice sounded gentle, in a contrast to how bitter he’d been as of late. Blade was obviously contemplating his reaction, his words, what he had imparted onto him. Sunday just didn’t know if it was enough.
Ahh, what am I doing? Am I Sunday the Stellaron Hunter? Or Sunday the Bronze Melodia? I have left that part of my life behind, and yet…
When he saw such suffering, and pain, perhaps who he had been before still gathered up within him.
“...I cannot tell Elio to spare my deaths, Sunday.” Blade finally turned to him, eyes that soft and sad candle light, drawing Sunday in yet again, “that is not the life of a hunter. I am many things. A coward is not one of them.”
“No.” Sunday agreed, and it was surprising how easily he found himself agreeing, as if he knew Blade. Perhaps these lopsided conversations he’d had with him had affected him more then he had thought, “I understand…we must sacrifice. But - “
“Around you, I will take more care.” Blade interrupted, and Sunday gave a start, “staining that gaze with sights that horrify you so…I will try and refrain. That is all I can offer.”
How sad. Only for my sake does he even falter.
Sunday hated others looking to him out of pity, or seeing him as frail and weak - even if such weakness and frailty was certainly there. Sunday was not a strong person. Even now, he had merely stolen the strengths of Aeons, dead and living, in order to achieve all he could. It was all borrowed, and none of it was his own.
How bitter that made him feel, and Blade’s words just reminded him of that.
But, if that obvious fragility would get Blade to be a little more mindful, then perhaps right now Sunday could grit his teeth and bear it.
“I do not need to be coddled. But if it will make you show some sense…then fine. For now, that is acceptable.”
“For now.” Blade repeated the words, incredulous that Sunday thought he could change things further later, “you truly are ambitious and arrogant enough to have attempted ascension. Fine. For now.”
Sunday wanted to correct him - he had not attempted ascension in the way he was thinking - but Blade, apparently, could no longer stand to be around him. Despite the fact that this was Blade’s own room, he whirled out of there like a whirlwind itself, shutting the door behind him as Sunday was left in silence.
Silence, again.
He sighed out, clasping his hands against his mouth in what was more a reflexive action. He could not pray, of course. Not any longer, and yet.
Peace, for that man. I wonder if it is in one of the possibilities laid out before us. Surely, there must be. And yet the world, truly, is so cruel.