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kii-nami · 6 months ago

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GILDED DREAMS | SUNDAY

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary. Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood. Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

cw: 6.5k words; part one of three; next part; fem!mc; nameless!mc; i'm not a hsr lore scholar; sunday get behind me i have a glock and nothing to lose except you;

To survive is to suffer. And crippled birds neither fly nor sing. All they are truly good for is to live a life of captivity. The only way to keep them safe is to build them a cage strong enough to protect them from all known predators. A prison of comfort, peaceful enough for them to forget their broken wings and settle down, with only sickeningly sweet scent of heaven in the air. Idyllic enough for it to become a dream.

Thus, Sunday dreams of eternal paradise in which no bird will ever get its wings clipped. In his gilded dreams, humanity’s life is free of misery. There is no survival of the fittest, for there is no weakness. There is no uncertainty, for there is no future. There is no suffering, for there is only Order. Or so the Dreammaster says.

And Ena the Order dreams of a paradise for everyone but Sunday, as he is a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of peace. One must be crucified for the sake of humanity, and Sunday is more than willing to become a martyr if it means he will finally obtain a cage big enough to contain anything and everything that could threaten his family. Or so the Dreammaster says.

To live is to dream. And you, Sunday decides, dream of nothing. For if you were, you would not have been roaming the halls of this maze. Yet Ena the Order sees none of your trespassing, and Sundays dares not to disturb Them with the news of someone so easily escaping their handmade heaven. Yet the ravens won’t stop screeching, the voices continue chanting. You do not belong here, so Sunday has no other choice but to take you out himself. That is the right thing to do. Or so the Dreammaster says. That is what he wants.

“Be not afraid.”

Your hand stops midair. The ribbons of your intricate sleeves keep swaying gently as your fingers tremble a mere inch away from the marble surface of the statue you were admiring. Then you shudder, dropping your arm limply at your side and finally look at him.

“Fear is the soul killer.” You agree easily, the light tremor of your voice betraying you by giving that very fear away. “I’ve been wandering these halls for hours, however. It is natural for me to expect the worst, Mister Sunday.”

You know him yet he remembers you not. So it must be your first time in Penacony, otherwise Sunday would have surely remembered someone like you. Someone who is capable of evading Order’s omniscience. It matters not, however. For he will guide you back to paradise with his own hand.

“I shall show you the way, then.” Sunday offers you his hand in an exercise of faithless chivalry. The white fabric of his gloves is yet to be stained with blood or soiled with the touch of the passing visitors he is forced to exchange pleasantries with. But soon it will be. He doesn't want it to. “If I may.”

“I would be eternally grateful.” You smile. “My family must be worried sick about me.”

There is nothing but kindness behind your voice and the light reflecting of your eyes can blind a sinner if they look at you. Sunday knows better than to trust the emptiness of words and fool’s gold of flattery for he is throwing those around on the daily. So when your palm presses gently against his own, he leads you to your untimely demise with no hesitation and all the remorse one could have, leaving you none the wiser to his true intentions.

Sunday half-expects to be stabbed in the back with some sort of a mythical dagger bestowed upon you by an Aeon who opposes the harmonious Order he is conducting under Ena’s blessing. He's waiting for you to try and snap his other wing right off his back to make sure he isn't even capable of dreaming of the skies. Yet nothing of the sort ever happens. It's a little unnerving, unsettling in a way that makes Sunday feel the phantom pains of things long lost. He wants to accuse you of treachery yet cannot. He wishes to call you a master of deception yet cannot.

Like a saint, you seem to trust him to help you find your way back. Akin to a sinner, it is him who rules over the silver of his tongue and the steel of his word.

Sunday knows he should dispose of you in the waters of the dream pool like he intended to do. That is what the Dreammaster would have wanted. Anything that is a threat to Ena the Order is a threat to his gilded dreams. And those who threaten the cage will inevitably draw a weapon against Robin. Yet he sees no ill intent in your eyes. Just concern for your family who you supposedly burdened with worry of your disappearance. And as it gradually dissolves with each step he takes to the exit of reality, a conflict in him grows stronger.

Standing at the crossroads, Sunday knows nothing. So when the time comes for you to fall back into heaven, he is there to catch you with a promise of never meeting again.

Too bad he never asked for your name. How miserable it is you never thought yourself important enough to give it to him unprompted.

Even in dreams people like Sunday are not exempt from suffering. To suffer is to survive. That is just the price you must pay for being tied to reality like a Charmony dove that has been chained to a metal ball and released into the wilderness. And Sunday may be the head of the Oak Family on paper signed with a bloodstained feather plucked from his own wing, yet he despises dealing with people from the IPC. All precious stone in only name and nothing else, Aventurine is positively infuriating.

In more ways than one.

“One of Astral Express girls disappeared from her room last night.” His smirk is full of poorly hidden mischief and something else that Sunday simply doesn’t care about. He may crave control over all that is his, yet he wishes not to claim someone like Aventurine as one of his own. “How perfectly aligned with your sister’s unfortunate death…”

The muscles of his back are strained. To dominate over his own desires is just as important as it is to rule over every single aspect of the dream that is this life. The gilded dream of Ena the Order must continue, and Sunday will not be the one to sabotage it. To dream is to live.

Sunday taps the railing, “Are you accusing me of kidnapping now?”

Soothing tone and relaxed posture, Sunday will continue his reign over the dominion of Control no matter what he feels or wants. There is no other way. Crippled birds neither fly nor sing, nor do they grow their missing wings back. And even if some foolish being deems them fit enough to recover, takes pity on them and nurses them back to health, domesticated birds will only use those hollow, mended bones of theirs to plummet right back to the ground.

“Just stating my observations.” Aventurine laughs, a noisy little snicker that pierces Sunday’s ears like a nail on the chalkboard. Then he waves dismissively, the lackluster wiggle of his fingers as he turns around to leave. Good riddance, if only eternal. “Good luck. Her Foxian friend is very fond of fried chicken. Me too, now that I think about it…”

Sunday remains standing on the balcony for another hour. There is no rush. He knows who it was that vanished without a trace, and he knows where to find you. But he cannot control someone like Aventurine so Sunday dares not making any irrational decisions. Unlike Aventurine himself, Sunday isn’t fond of gambling. Uncertainty is at the roots of all evil.

He leaves and goes about his business. A sinner to confess their wrongdoings to him; a passerby to shake hands with, a Masked Fool to dampen already soiled mood; a Nameless to throw him a passing glance of suspicion; Robin’s shadow that should not be there for now. If the vermin – a truly formidable man all things considered, yet simply infuriating – is watching, he will see nothing but a busy head of the Oak Family. If Aventurine has better things to do than to follow Sunday’s footsteps in a feat of uncharacteristic obsession, at least Sunday finished all his work for the day and could finally take a shallow breath of momentary relief.

The halls of the maze are empty as they should be, yet Sunday didn’t expect to find anyone there in the first place. You remain in the dining room, rooted next to a marble statue, fingertips barely grazing the cool stone. The ribbons are swaying side to side and the white of your clothes is stained with pinks, blues and purples right in the middle of your back. The colors bleed out from there and drip down the dress onto your skin.

“Be not afraid.”

“Fear is the soul killer.” Your trembling fingers falter and when you turn to face him, there is way more of those pinks and blues all over your heaving chest all the way from your neck. Sunday knows not of what happened and he dares not to ask; his harmonic tuning failed once, and he will not be deceived anymore. “Are you here to escort me back to the dreamscape again, Mister Sunday?”

Sunday swears that if Ena could see you, They too would be just as terrified as he is at that moment. “I’m afraid I do not follow, Miss.”

“Then I shall pretend I said nothing.” You shrug, Sunday’s outstretched hand is hovering in the air for you to take. You do. With no hesitation and all the faith of a religious fanatic, you once more let him guide you out of the painful reality and into a dream as if you didn’t just admit to fully comprehending this fact. “Please be mindful that I will wake up no matter what. Your gilded dream rejects me.”

Sunday stops in his tracks. His crippled wing is pressing uncomfortably to his side, smoothed over bone digging into his skin as a reminder that he cannot ever fly even if he was delusional enough to try to. Every breath is a labor of well-practiced habit and an effort of greatest heights. You’re patiently waiting for him to gather his control back into his tightly clenched fist, the one that is always pulled behind his back to the broken wing he could never repair.

The colors are still bleeding all over your dress as your chest rises and falls in odd intervals. You may have the patience of a saint, yet your fears all eat you alive. Fear is the soul killer. Or so you say. To suffer is to survive. To dream is to live. How can you live if you can never dream?

You furrow your eyebrows. The harmonic tuning has failed yet again. This time without even clouding your mind enough to put you to sleep. Yet your jittering palm keeps trembling in his hold as you exhale lightly, trying to shake off the vibrations of his halo. A delicate cross dangling from your neckless is staring back at Sunday with resentment that he only saves for the person who shot Robin and the Cancer of All Worlds which took away their mother and the scissors which clipped his wings so Sunday would never dare to escape. Or maybe it’s just his reflection looking back at him from the golden glow of the cross.

In retrospect, you did nothing wrong. You don’t even try to hide anything from him, laying your knowledge bare for Sunday to interpret however he wishes to. A sinner that has confessed to their wrongdoings is ought to be forgiven in the eyes of any deity. Yet has this so-called sin been committed in the first place? If you allowed him to baptize you not once but twice, fully comprehending it meant abandoning any uncertain future you humans seem to crave so much.

What is right and what is wrong? What is a virtue and what is a sin? What is an Order and what is a Doubt? Sunday knows not. But he needs to collect all his control and pour it into a cup for you to savor one way or another. If not a sinner, you are a saint. Ena the Order sees you not, so you must have been imprisoned by someone else already. And it is Sunday’s duty to free all of mankind of the shackles of turmoil and lead them to paradise.

For he cannot let you leave yet he cannot bring himself to kill you. Sunday can talk in riddles and try to manipulate your emotions all he wishes, yet you seem to reject the vibrations of Order without even trying. So how does one contain something they cannot control? How does a devout believer tempt a messenger of a foreign god?

“I cannot let you go.” Sunday’s voice is a little hoarse, he is not used to telling the truth. It most often than not leads to suffering, yet something tells him you will see right through him if he does lie. Maybe he has much less control than he initially thought. “You know too much.”

“All is fair, Mister Sunday.” It is not a response a sane woman should give. “However, may I be so bold to ask for a clean dress?”

But saints are all-forgiving, and ordinary people are not meant to understand their reasoning. For there is none. At least not with you. No reason and a heart pinned to your sleeve, bleeding color all over your skin. Sunday needs to know your name so he can search high and low for the Aeon who crucified you for Their own selfish whims.

“I shall pick the best one there is.” Sunday nods.

Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood.

Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

The dress is beautiful. And so is the next. And the one after that. And all the others that follow.

Ribbons and feathers. Intricate lace and weightless silks. Gold and diamonds. All never worn even once and kept neatly in the wardrobe of your bedroom. If your disapproving sigh is anything to go by, you don’t appreciate the excessive luxury, yet accept them just to hide them in your closet and put on the simplest of garments that he brought to you the day you entered the mansion.

Sunday cannot understand you, but differences are included in the natural Order of things. Reality is a lonely prison of misery, and Sunday returns there for he has no other place to belong to. Yet you seem to enjoy it as a long-awaited vacation. Way more than your family does it back in Penacony’s gilded dream.

Sunday doesn’t think your behavior is reasonable, yet he questions you not. You won’t give him the answer he is seeking, anyway. Your heart may be out there in the open, yet the pages of your thoughts are written with invisible ink and no amount of heat can paint them with life.

You have a habit of refusing things you deem unnecessary or excessive, your friendly exposition never wavering even under pressure of almost constant loneliness. Some days Sunday wonders what would happen if he doesn’t return here after all his tasks for the day are done, when Aventurine with his Nameless Foxian companion and her other nosy friends don’t breathe down his neck with accusatory air. He does not entertain such foolish thoughts; they would break his carefully crafted routine and Sunday is a being of habit. For habit is Order.

And so, against his better judgment of clipped feathers, Sunday returns. To your palace of a bedroom, with three light knocks and a little apology for intrusion. You are rarely there, so he is forced to look for you just as he is searching for the Aeon responsible for your fate. And when he does find you, all Order crumbles.

To live is to suffer. Your suffering is intricately woven into your every breath.

On Mondays you prepare a special dinner. It’s just you and him and a lonely candle on a little table on your balcony. The stars are dripping the color of your blood, the wine in your glass is untouched and you never eat more than could fit in a teacup. A life of such modesty is far too unfamiliar for the bird who was brought up in a cage of golden bars and silver spoons, yet Sunday doesn’t mind. He’s got other, more important things to worry about. For if the Dreammaster finds out about you, he will wish to dispose of you. And Sunday may have already sinned for the betterment of humanity, yet he isn’t sure if he is capable of turning saints into martyrs just yet.

“Won’t it be easier to just kill me?” You constantly disarm him with your questions. Some days Sunday isn’t quick enough to even imagine drawing a weapon to protect his mingled self.

“No.” Sunday answers a bit too quickly for his liking. “I mean you no harm, Miss [Name].”

On Tuesdays you clean. The mansion is spotless for it is empty, and there is nothing, but a thin coat of dust gathered around on the bookshelves of his study. You busy yourself with it even if you are told not to bother with such things. Sunday wishes to treat you as a guest despite the circumstances. All people were born equal and pretending that you are anything less than he is would going against what he stands for. His gilded dreams are not built on bigotry or injustice, only harmonious Order of happiness.

Your presence in the room is that of a dove on a branch behind a glass dome. All hollow bones and disarray of feathers, Sunday cannot ignore you even if it is what the Order would have wanted. Yet what the Order cannot see, that is all for Sunday to keep for himself; to hide under his pillow so it won’t ever be taken away from him by any collapsing dreams.

“Do you think me a madman?” He asks.

You laugh and shake your head in amused disagreement. Sunday wishes he could steal your laughter straight from your vocal cords to fill in the holes in his wings with it. He cannot. Yet would you let him if he asked with the utmost honesty? Only time will tell.

You are a willing participant of all and any conversations, despite allowing him to talk most of the time. You listen and ask questions, give your own opinion in bite size pieces that never overshadow his voice. His dreams are grand, and his plans are fragile, yet for all that is worth you take him seriously. A noble man with a heart which bleeds for everyone but himself, you call him. A kind person with good intentions which will pave his downfall for him, you say easily. A caring brother, who will always put his family first even if it is bound to strain the thin red thread that connects them to each other, you smile wistfully.

“A flightless bird which longs for the sky. That is what you are to me, Mister Sunday.”

His soul aches. All bruised and mattered. Sunday would rather you simply called him mad.

On Wednesdays you tend to the garden. Flowers are blooming here no matter the season. Even in reality Penacony is still a dream, albeit not dusted with a thin layer of gold and illusions. You move around the sea of color like a ghost, the white of your dress stained with soil and a twinge of misery.

You don’t think Sunday is mad and you understand his dream of peace, yet you never condone his drastic approach to things. The dreams in which you hold happiness in the palms of your hands simply do not exist. That is what you say to him, picking two stray peonies from the bush and handing one of them to him with the tenderness of a torn-up heart. The other gets its petals plucked one by one with a gentle touch of your fingers, and the pain of the missing parts of him grows with each one getting lost in the green of the grass underneath your feet.

No wishes ever come true in a gilded cage so people will always seek reality, no matter how painful it may be. Sunday thinks his wishes can only ever be fulfilled by a dream in which nobody will suffer anymore. There is simply no such a thing that cannot be obtained by a paradise he wishes to create for everyone with Ena’s holy rule. And you – the misguided messenger of a foreign god, a martyr for a cause which you don’t stand for – you also deserve your wishes granted to you. For everyone is born equal.

“What do you dream of, Miss [Name]?” Sunday wonders, watching you longingly collect every single petal from the grass, mend them together with the hues of pinks and purples and then tear the peony back into pieces.

“I dream of living.”

You look up at him with misty eyes, clouded with yearning and unshed tears. The colors float around your head like a halo. Maybe one of these days Sunday will finally find an answer in those scattered petals.

Thursdays you watch the stars. Time flies as the stars keep shooting from the sky like fallen angels, and you simply observe as they crash and burn. Your fingers twitch as if you wish to catch all of them, yet you ask for nothing.

Sunday comes, his back hunched by the growing weight of endless responsibilities and troubles. Yet when he leaves with his shoulders less tense and buzzing static in his chest, to return to his life of sacrifice that is necessary for the good of all mankind, he never forgets to ask what you wish for. Silence is the only answer Sunday receives, and the gentle sway of the ribbons in a summer breeze tells him he will regret ever asking this question when you finally deem it appropriate to indulge him.

The stars glow bright when you’re out here in the garden. Caged birds keep singing their woeful tunes. Thread and needle in your hands, you’re mending the hem of your dress, still refusing to wear any of those more extravagant ones. Your nightgown is not made for the outside and you shiver. The night isn’t getting any warmer, yet you ask for nothing. To live is to suffer, yet what is life if you only ever knew of torment.

A jacket he places on your shoulders does little, and whatever selfish wishes Sunday has must be drowned in the sea of shooting stars. For they will not be accepted. There is no place for them in this reality in which he lays his mortal body on a stone and holds the nails which he will get crucified with in his own two hands. Yet if the Dreammaster were here, he would have shared Sunday’s vision of the gilded dream that he is bending and breaking to his will just to make enough space in it for you as well. A paradise in which you stay here by his side forever as the messenger for him and no one else.

“I wish for nothing, Mister Sunday.”

Sunday knows it to be a lie. You whisper your true wish with the last breath you take before falling into restless, golden slumber. He will break this world in half to grant it to you, even if it calls for eternity of loneliness. A twitch of a broken wing, you’re almost weightless in his arms. Sunday does not understand why just yet. But he will.

On Fridays you play the violin. For once it’s his fingers that are stained with color. Sunday is staring at the canvas, hues and tones blending together with shadows and highlights to create a heavenly image of absolute divinity. He thinks it belongs to a chapel right where he gets down on his knees to confess his wrongdoings and pray for forgiveness, yet Sunday knows even existence of such a thought in and of itself is a mortal sin.

The melody is full of sorrow and the birds which you released from the cages are all perched on the pews of the chapel where you put them. They cannot fly, so they cannot escape and meet their end in horrifying loneliness. For now, you are here to catch them if they were to fall, so they can only sing along to the miserable tune of a violin in your hands.

“To live is to suffer. We must make peace with this suffering.” You put the instrument back in its case and lock all the birds back in their respective cages.

They do not resist, so Sunday is convinced you are implying that they’ve made peace with their suffering just like the two of you accepted yours. Yet when Sunday washes the pinks and purples of his fingers, he cannot help but think you are wrong. To live is to dream. And to dream is to slumber in eternal paradise, where no suffering can ever touch you.

The portrait he’s made of you will never do your beauty justice, but no icon could ever depict the true holiness of a saint. He will succeed eventually. You will have all the time in the world in his eternal paradise.

On Saturdays you dance. In a world less cruel, the one Sunday will create in the name of Ena, Robin is there to support your performance with the soothing voice of a Charmony dove. She is not, for you and him are stuck in miserable world where no wishes ever come true.

You would have been one of Penacony’s brightest stars, if only you weren’t chained to reality by those who do not deserve you. A twirl, the wind picks up your ribbons as you move gracefully to the melody of a tearful piano. And in a moment of fleeting weakness, Sunday asks about your shackles. And with a sway of your swan song, you share the tale of Istanai the Repudiation.

The Aeon who claimed you at birth and refused to let go even after They forsook your people, and you abandoned Their rusted prison. They are still following you around even after all those years even if They don’t want you. They make no sense for They reject all of it, along with anything else that They have ever touched. Even Their own children, the natural Order of things, any wishes or dreams; They abdicate everything and nothing, for that is the Path that They oversee. It is the Path you were born into and that is also the Path that you abandoned to pursue eternal Trailblaze.

“To live is to suffer. For you can keep nothing. Cannot wish to hold anything.” And then you admit, heat radiating off you in waves, “And I am only useful to this world for as long as I keep Their gaze on me.”

Sunday thinks you are wrong. Yet then the clock strikes midnight, and it marks the Seventh day. And on Sundays, you weep.

With your knees on the cold floor and hands pressed close to your heart, you keep praying in a tongue he cannot comprehend. The words fall from your lips hastily and desperately, as you beg for forgiveness in a language he does not know. Yet the things that Sunday does understand, all relate to the Aeon who stole your will and clipped your wings, chaining you to reality where the weak only get weaker and the strong keep getting stronger.

That is not the Path one should walk on, the loneliness of martyrdom for someone else’s sake is not a burden that should be bestowed upon someone but instead a choice one makes willingly. And you chose not your fate, yet suffer the consequences, nonetheless.

Maybe, Sunday muses kneeling next to you for a prayer. Maybe something simple like a dream is not enough. If They refuse to let you go yet condemn you for keeping them, Sunday can create something bigger than a gilded dream of illusion. Maybe a real paradise will be just enough to steal you away to a life that is worth living.

Your hand gently wipes a tear away from his cheek before it can fall and stain the floor of the chapel. It lingers on your fingers with deep red. One glove, then another. You are as warm as he imagined in the dreams he cannot keep, for he is the lamb of Ena and he is ready to be slaughtered if it means people like you – or Robin, or their dear mother – won’t ever cry anymore. The skin of your palm is smooth against his lips. It’s all Sunday can ever allow himself to have, and that is all that he will ever keep.

“You must leave tomorrow, Miss [Name].” He says, hands grasping your own.

A tear falls. This time it feels like you are weeping for him and him alone.

Maybe being a messenger of the Order is not the end for harmony of happiness, and somewhere in the realm of gods there is a spot for his own ideals as well. The Dreammaker may not understand or approve, yet when Sunday ascends to greatness of true holiness, on his first day he will free you from suffering. And on the seventh, there will be nothing but peace. For his gaze will never abandon you.

Sunday can promise on his blood on your hands.

And as it always is, crippled birds neither fly nor sing. They fall. Shooting stars and collapsing dreams, all Order has been forsaken as gravity pulls Sunday closer to his inevitable demise. His flesh and blood clings to him like the ideals he cannot ever atone for, yet in his noble pursuit of eternal happiness a sliver of selfish desire for comfort remains. So he lets Robin linger yet dares not to soil the purity of her embrace with the dullness of his touch.

A cage will always rust and corrode with time, falling apart at the seams. Gilded dreams are not meant to last forever. Nothing is truly eternal except for humanity’s striving to move forward into that useless future full of self-inflicted misery.

Robin’s breathless voice mutters something that is instantly lost in the wind and she pulls him closer. If Sunday were a better brother, a better man, a better person, he would have stopped all galaxies and frozen this moment just to let his sister descend this condensed and polluted air of his crumbling paradise like a stairway to heaven. He isn’t any of those things. So, he doesn’t even try. No miracle will happen if he does. A bird missing its wing will never catch flight right before hitting the ground.

And Sunday is nothing more than a crippled Charmony dove – a dying raven, truly – destined to roam the cage of his gilded dreams forever, for stepping outside signifies the end of Order and the beginning of Suffering. And he isn’t ready to die yet. He wasn’t ready.

To live is to suffer. To dream is to survive. With no cages and no birds in sight, Sunday accepts the inevitable.

“It is in human nature to reject usurpers, Mister Sunday.” Weightlessness of your voice envelopes all in bright light of heavenly warmth.

A feather. A ribbon. A silken touch of divinity confined in a painfully human vessel. If Sunday didn’t know any better, he would have thought he met face to face with some foreign man’s Goddess. Sunday knows better, however. So he closes his eyes and lets Istanai the Repudiation touch him. There are no rules he wouldn’t break to ensure Robin’s survival. And yet…

“I told you to leave.” Sunday is not used to repeating himself twice. His fingers tremble as he watches Robin take your hand and walk down the ladder he thought to be impossible.

“And as a human that I am, I rejected your order.” You smile. The light in your eyes is made of purest of diamonds and it keeps burning with holy fire. Sunday was foolish to think you would listen to reason and not your bleeding heart. “It seems we don’t have much time, so let me heal your wounds as I celebrate that my naïve soul has won for once.”

Robin, as all free-spirited birds are, is a creature of curiosity. She tilts her head and finds comfort on one of the floating ribbons, swaying on it like a swing. There’s a little ruffle to the feathers of her wings, yet she minds it not, opting to watch the two of you instead. Your eyes may be glowing, yet the sturdiness of your will is starting to wear off. Sunday isn’t sure whether it’s his silence that is making you doubt your decisions, Robin’s dedicated stare or your own thinning convictions. His guess is as good as any, but the most logical answer will always be him.

Your forced companionship has come to its inevitable end. Yet just like the day you two met, Sunday is at the crossroads yet again.

“Robin first.”

There are no protests, just gentle swaying of ribbons, a warm glow of pale pinks and purples, and Robin’s hushed voice humming a tune. She looks livelier, well rested, the shadows under her eyes dissolve under the shimmer of divine rejection. Your hands are hovering over hers, almost grazing the skin yet never daring touching it. As if you too, thought yourself undeserving. It made no sense, yet Sunday had no right to question the natural Order of things. Istanai the Repudiation refused to give Their children up, even if They abandoned them first in pursuit of eternal rejection.

A song stops. A couple of grateful words fall from Robin’s rosy lips. You nod politely, a smile returning to your face with a bit more brightness. You offer him a place to sit, a fleeting glance cast over your shoulder. Sunday has half a mind to follow in your footsteps and refuse, yet he does not. He is tired, wasted efforts and unyielding dreams quivering under the weight of reality, all he truly wishes for is to collapse for good. With his missing wing and shuttered principles. How long has it been since he took a proper breath?

Sunday takes a seat. Like a holy dove that you are, you hover near him from your own heavenly branch. Never touching and always lingering, yet the heat of your skin burns him just like divine flame would scorch a sinner. The light under your fingertips rejects his wounds and exiles his exhaustion, it bends his will and breaks his bones. And if letting go or Order meant keeping you by his side for the rest of his life – however long it may be – then Sunday wouldn’t mind a life of sin of a different kind. And if you were to cross this distance and touch him, he would ask you to stay. Yet you don’t.

To live is to survive. To dream is to suffer. Your mind is somewhere far away, and the ache of his bones makes Sunday feel like he is being reborn. From a dying raven to a Charmony dove with all his wings intact, capable of flying on his own.

“So it is true that your kind cannot be manipulated.”

You shiver. Sunday’s back is throbbing. There’s not a person here but a cat. Cursing you with a heavy gaze of his eyes.

“It’s not nice to sneak up on people like that, Mister Elio.” You chastise him gently, pulling away from Sunday and taking all your holiness away. It is only the sheer power of self-control that allows him to not reach out to tug you back into him so your sunlight can burn him alive. Such earthly desires matter not if you two are soon to separate and never meet again.

The cat – Elio – huffs, unamused by your demeanor. You pay it no mind, your ribbons dissolve into thin air until only two remain. Neither do you answer Elio’s question. Simply gather your holy blood with your own two hands and let it all spill yet again through the stigmata on your palms.

“May heavens be kind enough to let our paths to cross again, Mister Sunday.”

His bones keep aching. The restless feathers of his wings flutter even if he wills them to stop. He can surrender his halo to you and despite it being all that is truly his to own in this life, it would never be enough. Deities require giving up all mortal possessions before devoted worship could be possible and what else can he offer to you if not himself?

Sunday has no time to ponder that question. He doesn’t even have the time to say goodbye to you properly. As gilded dreams are not meant to last forever, and this one too is taken away from him by something he cannot control.

“[Name]!” Himeko seems inhumanly comforted to see you safe, pulling you in a tight hug. And considering she wholeheartedly supported the young Foxian woman threatening to pluck his wings naked for taking you hostage, it is only logical for her to do so.

A brooding man – Dan Heng, if Sunday’s memory doesn’t fail him – stands awkwardly a little behind the two of you, while the aforementioned Foxian lady and her eccentric pink haired friend share a collective sigh of relief. You hesitantly pull away and take a hurried step forward, ushering them away before they can notice anything – anyone – else. You are far too kind for your own good and someone ought to exploit it eventually. At least it won’t be someone like him. It is far out of reach of Sunday’s capabilities to shackle a bird born of paradise.

The cat laughs. Sunday hates cats. You cannot cage them, yet they can snap your wings even if you are perfectly fit to fly on your own.

And so, the cat does.

Sunday’s bones are still aching even when he shakes hands with Kafka. Such is the nature of growing pains. A lot of misery is in Order.

#sunday x reader #hsr x reader #hsr imagines #honkai star rail x reader #sunday imagines #honkai star rail imagines

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popradar · 7 years ago

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Weekend Planner: 20 of the Coolest Things To Do In Los Angeles

Here are 20 awesome events happening in L.A. this post-Thanksgiving weekend. Want the 411 on additional events and happenings in LA? Follow @christineziemba on Twitter or Instagram.

FRIDAY, NOV. 24

BLACK FRIDAY: E.P. & L.P. (Food)

Now this is a Black Friday event we can get into: E.P. & L.P. in West Hollywood offers us a break from turkey with a Chinese banquet-inspired feast of classic takeout dishes. The family-style comfort food dishes, available on Black Friday only, includes egg rolls, beef and broccoli, Dan Dan Noodles, Kung Pao chicken and shrimp fried rice. Items are priced from $8-29. There’s also a “Lechon” special, featuring a shareable suckling pig with shrimp crackers and homemade condiments ($29).

RL GRIME (Music)

Producer RL Grime plays the Shrine Auditorium on Saturday and Sunday, bringing his electro/house sounds to L.A. Doors at 8 pm., show at 9 pm. Ages 18+. Tickets: $38.34.

WEST SIDE STORY (Film + music)

On Friday at 8 pm and Sunday at 2 pm, the LA Phil screens West Side Story (1961) at Walt Disney Concert Hall. While the remastered film is projected in HD, the LA Phil plays Leonard Bernstein’s music live. David Newman conducts the orchestra. Tickets: $20-$166.

THE EXPANDERS (Music)

LA’s The Expanders brings its reggae sounds to the Teragram Ballroom on Friday night for the album release party for Old Time Something Come Back Again, Vol. 2. Opening sets from Dubbest, Iya Terra. 8:30 pm. Tickets: $16 advance / $18 day of show. All ages.

There’s still time to check out Shepard Fairey’s exhibition, Damaged, in DTLA. | Image: Shepard Fairey, Welcome Visitor, 2017, Mixed Media (Stencil, Silkscreen, and Collage) on Canvas.

SHEPARD FAIREY: DAMAGED (Art)

On Nov. 11, Library Street Collective, Shepard Fairey’s Detroit-based gallery, opened Damaged, Fairey’s first large-scale exhibition in L.A. in nearly a decade. The show, which runs through Dec. 17 (and perfect something to do with family in town), features more than 200 works focusing on social issues, politics, human rights and advocacy. Damaged is on view at 1650 Naud St. in DTLA from Wednesdays to Sundays from 11 am to 6 pm. Free entry.

BLACK FRIDAY RECORD STORE DAY (Music)

If shopping is your thing on Friday, then why not shop local record stores for Black Friday Record Store Day. Special releases include: a limited-edition vinyl 12” from U2 called “The Blackout”; and Warner Bros. Records and its labels are offering exclusive vinyl releases by Dan Auerbach, Gary Clark Jr. With Junkie XL, Death From Above, Steve Earle, Fleet Foxes, Gorillaz and Neil Young. Many more specials and releases on Friday.

SATURDAY, NOV. 25

MODERN HIKER: MOUNT HOLLYWOOD (Beer)

Modern Hiker presents a 6-mile, post-Thanksgiving hike to Mount Hollywood in Griffith Park on Saturday at 9 am. Meet across the street from Trails Cafe for a moderate hike through Griffith Park with great views of the Hollywood sign, stopping by volunteer-run citizen-gardens before returning through a pine forest from one of our Sister Cities and the Griffith Observatory. Learn a bit about the park's history, too. The hike is free, but Modern Hiker’s Casey Schreiner sells and signs copies of his book, Day Hiking Los Angeles (which makes a great holiday gift, btw).

POP-UP POOL DAY (Swim party)

The Annenberg Community Beach House in Santa Monica presents a Pop-up Pool Day on Saturday from 10 am to 4 pm. Passes available beginning at 9 am (walk-up purchases only). Rules and rates apply.

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HAMILJAM (Dance party)

Are you crazy for Hamilton? Then head to the Bootleg Theater on Saturday night. They’re hosting a Hamiljam, playing the entire soundtrack for a dance party (and sing-along), and then will play the Hamilton mixtape if there’s time. The dance party starts at 7:30 pm. Free.

SMALL BUSINESS SATURDAY + INDIES FIRST (Books)

Celebrate Small Business Saturday by taking part in Indies First—an initiative that encourages shopping at local, independent bookstores like Skylight Books, Book Soup, Chevalier’s Books, Vromans and many more. There will be author readings, honorary sellers, discounts and more.

TOM SEGURA (Comedy)

Comic and podcaster Tom Segura brings his No Teeth No Entry show to The Wiltern on Saturday night. Doors at 7 and show at 8 pm. All ages. Tickets: $25-$35. (Low ticket alert for this show.)

JOLIE-LAIDE WINE TASTING @ HAYDEN (Eats + drinks)

Hayden, a cafe-wine shop at Platform in Culver City, presents a wine tasting of Jolie-Laide wines on Saturday at from 2-5 pm. Tickets: $20 and includes four wines and small bites.

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FAMILY VALUES TOUR: JOEY IZZO (Film)

Family Values Tour: New and Selected Short Films by Joey Izzo is at Spielberg Theatre at the Egyptian on Saturday night at 7:30 pm. Hosted by Kate Berlant and the comedy collective Power Violence, the night features screenings of the filmmaker’s short films. The night features his latest film, “I Was There Too,” plus a rare screening of an experimental collaboration with musician-composer John Zorn. The night features a live performance by Fryborg (“cosmic analog synth improvisations” from Matt Jones of Castle Face Records and Male Gaze). Tickets: $10.

HANDMADE LA (Shopping)

The Craft & Folk Art Museum on Museum Row presents Handmade LA, its annual holiday marketplace on Saturday and Sunday. The weekend features 15 LA-based craft and design artists offering a wide-ranging gifts for all ages. Vending artists are: AKR Design Studio, Calila, Christopher Phillips, Delusions of Grandeur, Ena Dubnoff, Felt Flanerie, Fulcrum Jewelry, Post Studio, Rabbits and Robots, Rachel Ritter, TJ Cervantes Art, Tome Ceramics, Wonder Woven and Yukari. Hours: 11 am to 6 p.m. All-day parking is available for $5.00 with validation at 5750 Courtyard Place, 90036.

GREMLINS HOLIDAY TIKI PARTY (Film + party)

Birth.Movies.Death. and Spaceland presents a Gremlins Holiday Tiki Party on Saturday at 1 pm at The Regent Theater in DTLA. Ages 21+. Tickets: $5. The event is sold out, but check the ticket exchange as ticket become available.

SILVERSUN PICKUPS PUERTO RICO BENEFIT SHOW (Music) L.A.’s own Silversun Pickups play a benefit show at The Theatre at Ace Hotel in support of Puerto Rico hurricane relief on Saturday. All money raised at the show will be donated to "Unidos," a fund managed by the Hispanic Federation, a leading Latino nonprofit organization. Tickets: $35-$150. All ages. Doors at 7 pm, show at 8 pm.

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THE THREE STOOGES® BIG SCREEN EVENT (Film)

The Alex Film Society presents the 20th annual The Three Stooges Big Screen event on Saturday at 2 pm at The Alex Theatre in Glendale. The Society has curated a series of shorts with the theme, “Crème de la Cream Pies.” The day also features Stooges family members, friends and co-stars in attendance. Raffle baskets filled with Stooge goodies from C3 Entertainment will be available, with all raffle proceeds supporting the nonprofit the Alex Film Society. Adult general admission: $16-$16.50.

SUNDAY, NOV. 26

HOLLYWOOD CHRISTMAS PARADE (Holiday fun)

The 86th Annual Hollywood Christmas Parade makes its way down Hollywood Boulevard on Sunday beginning at 5 pm. In addition to floats and usual parade marchers, performers include The Village People, CeeLo Green, Ruben Studdard, The Band of Merrymakers featuring Tyler Glenn (Neon Trees), Zach Barrett (American Authors), Jeremy Ruzumna (Fitz & The Tantrums) and Kay Hanley (Letters to Cleo). The parade also features a special tribute for Toys for Tots from Ludacris. The parade’s hosted by Erik Estrada, Laura McKenzie, Dean Cain and Montel Williams, with special co-hosts Elizabeth Stanton and Garrett Clayton. The u-shaped route starts at Hollywood and Orange, heads south on Vine and west on Sunset. Grandstand tickets are sold out.

HOLIDAY MARKET AT SMORGASBURG LA (Holiday)

Smorgasburg LA launches its Holiday Market on Sunday (aka Black Sunday) featuring special discounts from Smorgasburg LA vendors. The Holiday Market includes regular and pop-up merchants from week to week. Hours: 10 am to 4 pm. Two hours free parking.

NEIL HAMBURGER (Comedy)

Neil Hamburger: Live is at the Satellite on Sunday night at 8:30 pm. In addition to comedy by Hamburger, the great lineup this month also features Natasha Leggero, Moshe Kasher, Debra DiGiovanni and Phoebe Bottoms. Door at 8 pm. Tickets: $8 in advance, $10 at the door. 21+.

—by Christine N. Ziemba

#popradarla #thingstodo #weekendplanner #events #losangeles

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