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ataraxiaspainting · 20 days ago

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O Fatale Imperium, O Fortuna!

Part I of III - Power and Control.

Yan Sunday x F Reader.

Synopsis: At the heart of what used to be a town, your fellow villagers wait on their knees to be blessed by a kind stranger.

Warnings: Yandere themes, non-consensual body transformation, religious themes because it’s Sunday, unhealthy relationships, major spoilers for the main Penacony quest in Honkai Star Rail, manipulation, descriptions of poverty, descriptions of physical illnesses, minor character deaths, and drugging.

Word Count: 3k.

shoutout to my friend @harmonysanreads for proofreading some of it! i really appreciate her and all the stuff she writes so please check her out! <3

*~*~*~*

"Requiem aeternam dona ets, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ets. Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem. Exaudi orationem meam, ad te omnis caro veniet. Requiem aeternam dona ets, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ets."

- Introitus, Mozart's Requiem.

*~*~*~*

Jenovath, the planet of three truths – the closest neighbor of Penacony, the planet of dreams. Two moons rotate in a clockwise motion while the other two move in the opposite direction. The youngests, Jenova Nativitas and Jenova Vita, have almost always been a fated pair – one gifts humanity with vegetation while the other gifts them with life in other forms. Both have always been honored within your village – the most famous example being a large statue of the goddess Jenova at its center holding them in her gentle hands – unlike the other two planetoids.

Jenova Mortem and Jenova Copulatio; both unwelcome gifts from Jenova’s son a millennium ago.

In your childhood, you remember the sun’s warmth atop your skin as you explored the forests around your village. Now Jenova Morteum and Jenova Copulatio have combined into one, and now this planet’s source of light is gone.

The plants died first. The herbivores next. The carnivores around the same time. There are no more blessings from Jenova Nativitas or Jenova Vita, only curses in the form of disease and disorder. Black coils inhabit the bodies of the older generations, the same ones who were cursed by their goddess’ envious only child.

The younger generation is left fighting for the scraps of a world forgotten by the rest of the universe. You may be older than some of them – you have no clue how people still have kids in times like this – but in reality, you’re just as lost. You’re just as clueless when it comes to begging whatever few travelers are left for necessities, and you’ll probably die soon just like everyone else who has come before you.

“Such unnecessary pain.�� The stranger murmurs, kneeling to you. You don’t look anywhere aside from the makeshift knife in your hands. Your palms bleed since the handle is non-existent. After all, it is just a piece of glass you managed to take off of another abandoned lodge cabin meant for visitors.

The robe on his head does little to hide his real appearance. Golden eyes, a face as pale as sand, and what looks to be two halovian wings blending in with his gray hair.

Your body isn’t as damaged as the other people nestled in this part of the town – while you only have small black markings on the back of your neck going down to your midriff, most of the others have large excesses of skin on their faces, hands, and feet. Their ability to talk, walk, and touch things have been severely limited due to Hirona’s inflicted evil – meanwhile, you're only limited in the ways you can cover your markings because most of the clothing you once had has been sold.

*~*~*~*

Instead of sleeping on stone tiles – or a cardboard box if you had gotten lucky with your findings in garbage disposals – you lay awake, nestled between freshly ironed sheets and a mattress you feel is softer than a cloud. On the bedside table, there are a few gifts from the staff. Nothing too fancy with the crisis at hand, but the kind gesture is more than enough in comparison to what you have been given on the streets recently. A basket of cut bruised fruits, two red roses in a glass vase partially shattered on its top, and a little card with the manager’s signature on the back thanking the stranger – Sunday he told you was his name – for his patronage and blessings. Just an hour prior, he had presented you to the receptionist. She started to cry when she looked upon your skin, and soon some of the other staff members came to see what the commotion was about.

In just moments you two were presented with a freshly clean room – so clean you had nearly slipped on the wet flooring. You would have fallen if Sunday were not right behind you. It would be a terrible thing to have your curse undone and then proceed to break a few bones.

Sunday calls to you from the other side of the room, standing beside his own bed to read the note in his hands. “Miss [First], would you like some of my favors? I noticed yours are of… lesser quality.”

He’s observant from what you have seen thus far. After your healing, he had walked with you to the nearest clothing store – it was quite far, as evidenced by his offering for you to stay closer to the area he found you at while he went to secure the goods. He somehow knew your size and noticed how even your socks didn’t fit you as nicely anymore.

“I don’t mean any offense by the way; I’m also just not quite hungry at the moment.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, freeing yourself from the comforter. “I don’t mean to take more than I can give back. You have done so much already for me, for the people on Jenovath.”

“I argue that my efforts are just beginning.”

You turn your head a bit to the side, your grip on the warm pallet fading as you urge yourself to get up. “Are they?”

Sunday nods, putting a hand on his chest as he closes his eyes. The note falls with his other hand to his side. “After all, I have only cured about twelve people total thus far – including you. There is still much work to be done, so you can take as much as I throw.”

Your gluttony gets the better of you – you don’t ask for his permission again.

*~*~*~*

“How did it feel, kid?”

The man in front of you has given you no warning before he speaks. Instead of ever using his voice, the bottles and shakers and cups do the talking for him most of the time – and the strength in his body that almost anyone can notice right away. You would have to be a fool to start a riot in Cooper Caprum’s bar. The Great Bubble is no place for transgressors.

“What are you talking about, Mister Caprum?”

“That boy – ‘Sunday’ I heard his name was.”

The two glass cups mix liquids without a mere ounce of Cooper’s strength. Everything he holds in his hands belongs to Jenovath’s much more successful neighbor; or more specifically one of its most popular companies. SoulGlad Soothing Soda. SoulGlad Redsunset Sauce. When the concoction turns a deep violet, you’re tempted to revoke the offer you made to him.

“Ah, so you know Mister Caprum already?” You nearly jump at the sound of Sunday’s voice coming from right behind you. “That’s lovely to know.”

He points to the stool beside you; it’s much less stable than the one you sat on.

“May I join you two?”

“Of course,” You reply, switching your seating before he can fall. “Take mine-”

Since you took his place, it’s only natural you’re the one to hit the floor. The new grip on your wrist is tight, almost like an embrace. Once you are back to being upright, Sunday goes to brush the dust off of his sitting.

You’re certain there is nothing, but Sunday somehow still sees dirt – and you decide to make nothing of it.

You sigh, pulling out your wallet in case this bet doesn’t work out in your favor. “One thousand, right?”

Cooper nods his head like an eager child whose parents agreed to get him a puppy in exchange for good grades. “Mmhmm… and one secret.”

“A secret?” Sunday inquires, raising one of his wings in confusion.

“Alright,” You shake your head, placing the agreed-upon amount of credits on the table.

Cooper copies your gesture. “Which cup would you like to start with, Missy?”

“Small. Then… I’ll hopefully make my way up.”

…

You had lost the bet early on; you weren’t able to even finish the original small glass you had selected.

Cooper managed to drink the whole thing on his own – all with a chuckle and wink every few gulps he took. But he has been a bartender for twenty-four years, so you hardly find it surprising. He must have had countless odd combinations thrown back at him the moment the client didn’t approve of it, either made by him when experimenting or being told to do so by the client. From the few pictures left on the hotel’s walls, you assume that this is where he has gotten his strength; kicking people in the nose the instant they don’t want to pay their tab.

He didn’t have as much body hair and not a single noticeable muscle, no tattoos but plenty of uncovered scars.

“Two thousand now – do you want to keep going?”

“I think she’s had enough,” Sunday interrupts, putting his arm around your back to hoist you up with him. “We’ll go back to the room now, thank you.”

Cooper looks down expectantly at the space in front of you, only the original thousand credits placed upon it.

When Sunday notices, he seems to resist grumbling and takes out the same credit amount from his pocket. “Here.”

“Thanks for your patronage, Mister Sunday.” Cooper chuckles, the cigarette in his mouth starting to lose its flame. “Come back again soon, kid.”

*~*~*~*

From his gaze alone, you can tell Sunday disapproves of your lost wager – it’s fair, you think, for him to feel only condemnation.

However, Sunday now disapproves of most activities you try to do now. He’s behind you whenever you enter the bar, reminding you of how much of a lightweight you are and how easy it is for Cooper to persuade you into things you normally would not do sober. He dislikes the preferential treatment he is given over you by most of the staff, demanding for you to be treated with equal respect.

“Miss [First] Alloy is the first person I have healed from Hiroth… please don’t treat her like she is nothing but lowly trash.”

Sunday does not sleep much anymore either, preferring to go into nearby houses to bless the cursed.

You can hardly remember what he looks like without such heavy eyebags, almost as dark as the smoke that comes out from Cooper’s cigars.

One day, he came back with a strange cut on his cheek – a cut too shallow for a knife but too deep for a fingernail.

Your savior tells you not to worry about him – to focus on taking care of yourself because ‘there is no other care within this universe similar to it’ – but you can’t help frowning as you wipe the golden blood away.

*~*~*~*

“I can’t,” Sunday repeats, his arms still crossed as he looks at the three faces before him. A boy no older than six, a girl no older than five, and a woman who has her daughter’s blue eyes. “I have other matters to attend to. I apologize, Mrs. Caprum. Your husband gave you false hope.” When Mrs. Caprum tries to beg again, he unravels one of his arms, putting a hand up and shaking his head.

As Sunday has said over and over for the past hour, Cooper’s wife and children are beyond saving.

The boy has purple skin – clotted and puffy like balloons – covering his vision.

The girl is afflicted with a similar swollen spot on the top of her lips, preventing her from speaking.

Their mother’s entire skin was a sickening plum color with only a few areas smaller than a freckle remaining untouched.

“I’m sorry.”

The words that come out of you are true, heartfelt, just like how Sunday has talked to you before. You look down before he does, not wanting to take in such a scene any longer.

Sunday has told you he is not all-powerful. He has told many people that countless times, not that they listened to him.

“Bullshit,” Cooper snaps – in an instant, Sunday’s scarf is grabbed and he is raised just an inch or two above the ground. “You can heal them – stop lying to me, you bragged all fucking night a week ago about your powers.”

“I do not brag, Mister Caprum.”

After the two stare – one with disappointment, the other with hate – you catch Sunday before he falls.

*~*~*~*

The next time you see Cooper, it is him sitting down at the bar. The Great Bubble has had a closed sign next to its front door for about twelve days now.

Cooper took the time off, not paid of course, after Sunday’s denials. Sunday kept working to heal other people… but not the Caprum family.

“They’re dead.” The bartender murmurs when you’re just close enough. “My Sarah, my little Julia and Victor. They’re dead because of him.”

You don’t know how to reply; instead sitting on a wobbly stool that looks just as damaged as Cooper’s does.

You hold onto the table’s edge to keep a steady balance while Cooper rests his elbows atop it. Your mind – so silent now that Sunday has gone out on business yet again – wanders to find another purpose.

Perhaps you can help someone instead of relying on luck to do it for you.

“It’s probably not going to help… But,” You begin, looking at the stone’s large cracks instead of how skinny Cooper has gotten. “I can tell you the secret I promised you. Both of them.”

You try to follow a path similar to your savior’s – a path full of rejoicement and triumph.

“I-”

I was a part of House Sterling.

The rag covering your mouth prevents you from speaking.

I was the eldest daughter but was unwanted by my father.

The sweet smell prevents you from screaming but also prevents you from speaking your truth.

As soon as my mother died, I was on the streets.

Your eyelids droop like you haven’t slept in a long time – so similar to when you were fending for yourself, for your sanity, for your hope-

*~*~*~*

“Ah,” Sunday looks down at you from the chair beside your bed – he closes the familiar book you see him carry everywhere. “You’re awake.”

You try to speak with all your might, but something is stuck within your throat – the passage of airflow and saliva is kept open, but words cannot seem to come out.

You taste something floral and sweet sticking to the roof of your mouth. Earthy not like a mushroom… but like tea that has been steeping for much too long. It takes a few more moments for you to learn how to breathe strictly through your nose as something tickles you every time you inhale the air.

“Mister Caprum has been put under arrest.” He leans in, his hair nearly covering the entirety of his eyes and forehead from sight. The smell of cleanliness does little to deflect your senses from the inside of your mouth.

There is a hint of blood coming out from the lump in your throat.

Or is it from the supposed pacifist?

“You need not fear anymore.”

Maybe it is from both of you.

“I shall take care of all your burdens and woes.”

Maybe it is from neither of you.

“You don’t need to lift a finger anymore, Miss Alloy.”

You try not to force yourself to even whisper to him – even though you have so much to say, so many questions to ask him. You remain silent as Sunday takes the wrist closest to him, holding the palm against the right side of his chest.

“I was horrified.” He admits, forcing a gentle smile as he now stares down at himself. “I had thought I was… going to lose you. I thought maybe Mister Caprum wouldn’t treat you differently because of what had happened. I thought wrong, it seems.”

That explains only half of the story. Why can’t you talk? Why does your larynx feel like it is being squeezed until it eventually pops? Why is there a minty aroma being mixed in with the scent of blood?

It doesn’t hit you yet – Sunday attempts to tell you the answers you wish for as nice as he can.

“I regret letting you know someone so… advantageous.” You feel his heartbeat. It’s slightly above yours, moving up and down in a way akin to a rainstorm’s rhythm. Bum bum. Bum bum. Bum bum. “He takes your money, uses your trust, attempts to take your secrets, and he almost took you.”

The pulse quickens faster than you can process his words. Dun dun dun. Dun dun dun. Dun dun dun.

“I’ll miss your voice. I’ll miss a lot of things from you,” Your vision somehow gets more blurry, more hazy. Ah. It’s simply your tears – one of the few things Sunday doesn’t plan to take from you. After all, everyone cries. “But it’s for the best. I’m sorry it had to go this way.”

He is genuinely sorry. So very sorry. You know he is. However, it doesn’t make the thorns digging into your throat any less painful.

“Please don’t hate me.” He sounds near tears himself. Maybe that is why he doesn’t see your sadness as something to alleviate – he cannot even stop himself, much less stop you or anyone else. “Hyssop flowers are beautiful.”

*~*~*~*

“Kyrie eleison.

Christe eleison.

Kyrie eleison.”

- Kyrie, Mozart's Requiem.

*~*~*~*

a/n - ahhhhhhh chapter one’s done! if anyone wants to leave any suggestions or theories, i would be happy to hear them!! aya out… only for now of course!

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