*~Orthodoxia
«Sunday x Gn! Reader»
🪦| SFW, Angst, Undefined relationship, can be read as romantic/platonic (bed sharing, cuddling)| WC: ~11K
⚰️| CW: Inspired by the song Orthodoxia by Guchiry, misplaced religious worship (fictional religion), Sunday is a priest and cult leader, Small town cult setting AU, Third person prose (reader is referred to as [Name]), Major character death, Minor character death, Murder, SH? (Sunday), Allusion to suicide, Graphic descriptions of violence, Non sexual grooming, A bird dies, Ena=God, Gopher sucks ASS, mostly Sunday angst with reader being there sometimes, English isn’t my first language, non chronological, first fic ever (╹◡╹)
Credit for the commandments to Guchiry
A/N: This is so long 💀.. There’s a few plot holes? and the writing is kinda repetitive but i spent too long on this not to post. Extra warnings, beta read but not proofread, reader char is intentionally bland, not canon compliant/OOC-ish ∩^ω^∩.
EDIT: Oh god this got much more attention than I was expecting. I am (slowly) working on rewriting it 🤍
1. God’s great grace is given to those who are completely faithful.
Sunday inhaled deeply while tugging at his pristine white glove in an attempt of straightening it. In his mind, he looked like a complete mess, completely unfit for a High Priest. His Master and founder of the One True Religion, Gopher Wood, had recently taken his last breath, finally succumbing to the horrible illness that had tormented him for years. As his adopted son, the gray-haired halovian was to take on his duties post-haste. The young man only took half a day to compose himself enough to make a public statement. He probably would have taken longer, had he actually cared to pretend to grieve.
Upon deciding he was satisfied with the state of his attire, Sunday stepped out of the sascrity, taking his place at the pulpit. The gazes of all of his Master’s- no, his own followers, locked onto him, confused and impatient to hear the reason for Mr. Wood’s absence at yesterday’s service.
The man smiled, hoping that the way it didn’t reach his eyes wasn’t very obvious. After a few moments, he just decided to close them.
The fear of rejection by his followers felt as if it was rapidly piercing holes trough his insides, however, he knew that THEY wouldn’t fail him when he needed THEM most. After all, the first ever thing taught to those interested in the religion, is that good things come to those who believe.
2. Only the high priest is permitted to take God's name in vain.
“Fuck! God fucking damn it!” An unfamiliar voice screamed from an alleyway, which Sunday was just about to pass while on his routine walk. His wings twitched, and the ones on his torso tensed. He contemplated if this even counted as a violation of the second commandment, as the use of the words ‘God’ and ‘Lord’ had less restrictions than the uttering of the true name of the one they were referring to. He also thought about the possibility that ‘God’ was the three-faced idol the next town over worshipped, that maybe one of them had snuck in. He ultimately decided that using any heavenly title accompanied by such words was disrespectful, and he’d try to steer the speaker onto the right path, be they a follower of Order, Harmony, or something else entirely.
Despite the amount of information he mulled over, he really didn’t spend long thinking before rushing into the alley.
“Are you alright?” He inquired to the person that had emitted such obscene words just moments ago. Their clothes didn’t reflect those of a citizen in this town, nor the neighboring one’s. They whipped around to face him, wearing a frightened expression.
“Ah..Huh?” The emotion of surprise seemed to overshadow that of fear. Sunday gave an amused smile at this.
“Do not be afraid. I am Sunday, messenger of Ena. I heard you…Cussing, earlier. Judging by your attire, you are a foreigner, which explains that. However, I feel as if I should inform you that such an act is quite worrisome here.” He could no longer suppress his giggle, which confused the stranger.
“What’s so funny?”
“Hmm..Do not worry. Mind telling me how to address you? And, if you’re comfortable, what brings you here?” Sunday stepped closer, and leaned in towards the person.
“I’m [Name].” They replied, taking a step back. After spending a moment deciding whether or not to reveal the circumstances that led up to them ending up where they did, they concluded that he was trustworthy.
Sunday listened, and considered their words carefully.
“I see. Since you have no home, would you like to live with me, for the time being? I’ll help you find a job. All I ask is that you attend church and clean up after yourself.” He offered his hand, wings relaxing.
[Name]’s breath hitched. It wasn’t like they had many choices… If they stayed on the streets, they’d most certainly die. If they went with Sunday, the outcome had a slightly lesser chance of being the same.
After thinking very carefully, they took Sunday’s hand wordlessly.
3. Those who do harm to God's messenger, the high priest, will be expelled.
As much as Sunday wished he could forget the worshippers of Xipe existed, trade between the two towns was beneficial for everyone. After the death of Gopher Wood- who refused any sort of contact and terminated the transaction of goods-, Sunday begrudgingly sent one of his trustworthy followers to request that the old commerce deal be reinstated. And so, it was.
To the average citizen, all seemed well. However, Sunday could notice the way everyone that interacted with Xipe’s Worshippers on a regular basis attended church less and less often. He tried to brush it off as them being busy with such an important new task. This was until, on the seventh day’s service, the holiest of all, one of the traders defied the rules and interrupted Sunday’s sermon by standing directly next to him. The halovian’s heart skipped a beat, but he simply smiled.
“Good sir, are you not feeling well? This is not an appropriate place for you.” He placed a gentle hand on the trader’s shoulder. His kind act was met with a harsh slap which resounded through the entire chamber. However, his smile did not falter.
[Name], who had been sitting in the front row of pews ever since Sunday ‘rescued’ them, stood up, as did the woman next to them. They wanted to separate the two, but the priest extended a hand towards them as a sign to stop.
The atmosphere was painfully tense and uncertain, until the merchant reached into his pocket to retrieve his dagger. He then pressed it to Sunday’s throat, finally causing his expression to shift.
“You bastard… You rotten, filthy, deceptive scoundrel! You lied! All you and your good-for-nothing father have ever done is lie! You will pay for this.” The trader hissed, preparing to slice the man’s flesh. Sunday’s eyes narrowed as he effortlessly ripped the knife from his hands by the blade, cutting deep into his own palm. He then tossed it to the side, and grabbed the traitor by the neck.
“Tsk..What a shame. You were quite valuable.” He shook his head disappointedly before dragging him outside.
No one dared to follow… Except for [Name]. Before anyone could tell them not to, they sprinted after Sunday, finding him kicking his attacker in the stomach repeatedly just outside church doors. [Name] gasped, but they were cut off by the disgusting feeling of bile rising up their throat. This caused Sunday to turn his head. His eyes were wide, however, a disturbingly sweet smile stretched across his features. He delivered one final kick- to the chest this time- and quickly closed most of the distance between him and [Name].
“You shouldn’t have followed me. But, I suppose it’s my fault for not teaching you what to do in such situations.. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
[Name]’s eyes darted between the priest and the corpse he had just created. They soon murmured the first thought they could muster:
“Your hand..”
“I will be fine. Go back inside, and stay put. Service will resume shortly.” He smiled before promptly walking out of sight.
[Name] considered running for their life as far away from this town as geography would allow. However, something was holding them back. After taking a minute to process, they re-entered the church, earning dirty looks from the other members. Only the woman that had stood up alongside them earlier spoke to them.
“Don’t do that. No one wants to see what happens to those who get ‘expelled’.”
4. It is the high priest who is the rightful successor to God’s will.
Despite it not feeling like such, Sunday was once a child. He had a family as well, more or less. Although thinking of Gopher Wood as his parent made him feel sick to his stomach now, a brief period of time where this wasn’t the case existed.
After the traumatic loss of their parents, Sunday and his dear sister, Robin, were sent to an orphanage much like any other unfortunate soul in the same situation. Robin thought they’d be adopted within the year, but Sunday was already planning the way in which he’d make a living for himself the moment he became an adult. He’d save up any and all money he didn’t use strictly on survival to be able to sustain his sister when she reached the age of eighteen as well, he thought.
In a surprising turn of events, a man from a small, far away town, visited the orphanage only three months after the siblings’ arrival. He smiled the instant his gaze landed on them. Originally, Sunday thought it was because of their shared, relatively uncommon species, but he’d later come to convince himself that Gopher Wood saw something in them that day.
In what had to be record time, he had legally adopted them. As they rode the horse carriage to their new home, Robin snuggled close to her brother, and whispered an optimistic ‘I told you so’. Sunday simply smiled, for the first time since the death of their mother.
The first day felt like the most fun a recently orphaned child could have. They were given various sweet treats by their new neighbors, and a tour of the town. Everyone seemed to dote on them, which almost made the young boy finally lower his guard fully. He thought he was safe at last, and could heal.
Big mistake.
That very night, Sunday was ripped from bed by his eerily silent ‘father’. Before he could even ask what he was doing, a hand had been slapped over his mouth. He, being docile and untrained at the time, allowed himself to be molded like clay.
In less than an hour, Sunday had been exposed to things that would shatter the mind of most children into pieces. At the end of his extensive explanation, Gopher took Sunday to the dark, empty church, where he forced him to kneel in front of the altar. Because he hadn’t succumbed to the information that he had to forcibly ingest, Gopher considered him a worthy heir, and introduced him to Ena as such.
And yet, that was not the point where he stopped seeing that man as family. In fact, he never saw anything wrong with that behavior. He always felt so proud to be chosen, entrusted with such an important position.. Gopher said he was special. Smart. Nearly perfect. He was everything he could’ve ever wanted in a son. The knowing glances they exchanged as Robin discovered the surface rules of the religion at the pace that everyone else except for him did made Sunday feel good.
For about a year, Sunday loved his life. He felt as if he finally had a purpose..
On the night of a seventh,going into first day of the week, in the latter half of November, Sunday found himself choking back tears on the bathroom floor, knees hugged tightly to his chest along with his discarded shirt. Gopher Wood, that monster, sat behind him, trimming away at the child’s lower wings. When he was done, he’d move on to permanently tainting them black, like his own.
‘The truest act of devotion’ he called it. To prove their loyalty to Ena, high priests had to discard something they held dear at a young age.. For halovians, their wings were naturally their pride and joy, so, the dark haired man picked those for him. Sunday asked to be allowed to choose something, anything else, but his request was declined.
Of course, this wasn’t any form of religious practice. Gopher had made it up to further mold his poor victim into what he needed him to be. Every time the boy dared to show any feelings regarding that action, he reminded him that as the high priest, all his actions were carried out trough God’s will.
Sunday never wore a base layer of clothing that didn’t almost perfectly match his new wing color after that. He felt hideous, and he’d rather have people think he lost his wings completely than show off the cruel defilement he’d endured.
Since then, Sunday could no longer see him as a father. Of course, he still respected and obeyed him, as not doing so would be disrespectful to THEM, too. After all, priests were naught but a mirror of their God’s desires.
5. God’s teachings are the divine providence of this world.
Sunday tossed in bed, wings wrapping around his face as he groaned quietly. He was tormented by thought, and couldn’t sleep.
Upon the passage of one hour, he rose from his spot, and slowly stepped out of his room. [Name] slumbered on his couch, as they had since the first time Sunday brought them home. He felt bad for not being able to provide them a proper bed, and made a mental note to work on that soon. After all, it wasn’t like it cost much, or… anything at all. He was just a very busy man.
The priest then stepped on the single creaky floorboard in the entire house, alerting his roommate.
“Sunday..?” They yawned, rubbing their eyes as they blinked them open.
“Ah. I’m sorry that I woke you.”
“It’s alright,, but what are you doing up so late? And why are you going out?”
“Mm. I need a walk, to clear my head. I’m finding it hard to rest well tonight.”
“Me too. I barely even fell asleep a few minutes ago, and it was so light.” [Name] stretched their back as they spoke.
“I see. Do you want to join me?” He offered, and the other person excitedly accepted, standing up and almost stumbling. Sunday caught them, helping them to stand better. They gave a grateful look in response.
The two then exited the house, the cold night breeze gently biting at their skin. They set a comfortable pace as Sunday directed them to the woods across the river that served as town border. [Name] hadn’t gotten the chance to go there yet, as it was ill-advised to venture too far from the town.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?”
“Don’t you trust me? Do you think I’m going to murder you for your sins?” Sunday smiled, turning his face away so [Name] couldn’t see.
“I do! It’s just that… Wait, have I sinned?”
“Of course you have. You are still new to our religion, you’re bound to make mistakes. Even devout believers sin sometimes, but God forgives all, therefore so do I.”
“Do you sin?”
“Me? No. Sinning would be disgraceful to our Lord. I mean, if even the high priest doesn’t carry himself as THEY intended, how would any normal person be inclined to either?”
“True.. Doesn’t it get exhausting having to be perfect all the time, though?”
“Not at all. Do you know the fifth commandment?”
“God’s teachings are the divine providence of this world?” [Name] cocked their head at him, almost tripping on a fallen branch in the process.
“Very good. As the high priest, I have to know these teachings better than any other mortal. The stronger one’s knowledge, the stronger they feel God’s love.”
“Oh. I never thought about it like that.”
“Well, now you have.” He halted, left arm occupying its spot behind his back as usual. [Name] stopped as well, confused.
“Why’d you stop? Aren’t walks supposed to be continuous?”
“Yes…Would you mind pausing here for a moment? If I’m not mistaken, this is the clearing I used to come to for respite when I was a child. I have no time for such things anymore, but it brings me a sense of nostalgia.”
[Name] nodded, and awkwardly walked closer to Sunday. There didn’t appear to be any sitting spots, so they just took a moment to appreciate nature’s beauty.
Not much time later, Sunday decided it had gotten far too late to be outside any longer. As they trekked back home, the priest noticed [Name] become slower by the second. He offered to carry them, and in a moment of exhausted weakness, they accepted. They’d soon fall unconscious in his arms.
The following morning, [Name]’d find themselves in Sunday’s bed, with him nowhere to be found.
Confused, they stepped into the living room. Sure enough, the man was curled up on the couch.
6. To disobey God is to deviate from Paradise.
[Name] was integrating nicely into the town already. While trying to decide what job they should try land, they picked up gardening as a short pastime. Sunday had graciously lent them a patch of his backyard to plant things in, so long as they managed to keep it free of weeds. They agreed, and were doing a great job so far. The first thing they tried was strawberries, as it was the optimal season for planting them.
[Name] decided to ask the neighbors to see if anyone had any runners they could borrow.
“Hello!” They waved at an older lady who was conveniently planting something in her own garden. She lifted her head, smiled, and waved back.
“…Ahem. I was wondering if you had any strawberry runners? I want to grow strawberries… I don’t have any money right now, but I’ll pay you for them someday!”
“Ah, such nonsense.. Since Mr. Wood saved us, money is obsolete.”
“Huh? Then why do people still have jobs?”
“So they don’t get bored, of course! If you’re worried about payment, pay with a favor. Give some to Mr. Sunday when they’re ripe. I’m sure he hasn’t had strawberries since Miss Robin… Ah, nevermind, I’ll fetch ‘em for you.” The lady hobbled into her house, leaving [Name] confused. They made a mental note to ask Sunday about this ‘Robin’ someday.
The woman soon returned, and handed the runners to [Name], eagerly.
“Here you go, dearie. Give some to me too, if I’m still around by then…” she chuckled, trailing off into a cough.
“Don’t say that.. But, I will! Thanks so much!” They waved again, and sped off to plant the strawberries.
About three months later, the fruits were ripe. [Name] was utterly delighted… They looked absolutely perfect, as if it was obvious from a glance that they had the perfect texture and amount of juice. They quickly collected them all in a basket, and ran inside, where Sunday was actually home, for once. [Name] was happy about this, and hurried to separate the basket’s contents into bowls. The priest tilted his head at them, curious.
“I see you’ve made good use of the land I gave to you.” He hummed observantly.
“Mhm! I couldn’t have done it without the grandma across the street, though. I have to give her a portion back, but.. She asked for something else as payment.”
“Oh?”
[Name] handed Sunday a full bowl, happily.
“She wanted me to give this to you! She said you probably haven’t eaten any since some Robin something something..”
Sunday froze, and his breathing paused abruptly.
“Who’s Robin anyway? It sounds like you know her…”
“Robin is a sinner who denied our Lord’s presence in her life. She is where she deserves to be right now.” His voice had a weird edge, almost as if it was breaking.
“She’s not someone you should concern yourself with again. Ahem; thank you for the gift. It was very thoughtful of you. Send my regards to the neighbor, too.” He left, strawberry bowl in hand.
[Name] frowned, dejectedly dragging themselves and one of the remaining strawberry bowls to the neighbor’s house. She was in the yard once again, so they just walked up to her.
“Ma’am! I picked the strawberries today!” They handed her the dish.
“Thank you, dear. You gave them to Mr. Sunday too, yes?”
“Of course. He said to give you his regards. But, something weird happened. When I asked him about Robin, he just said she was a sinner. That wasn’t much of an answer, so could you tell me more, please?”
“Really? Hm. I wouldn’t expect him to be that cold towards the memory of his own sister…”
“…What?”
“I’ve said too much. Please leave.”
[Name] frowned, but did as asked. It was taking them some time to accept the fact that there were certain topics everyone seemed to get tense around..
7. To harbor doubts about God is to suffer the disintegration of thought.
Gopher Wood always despised the neighboring town, in which he was born, raised, and first established his religion. He hated not having control over every single atom there, so, he left. However, he wasn’t always completely unwilling to maintain a cordial relationship with them.
When his daughter, Robin, reached the age of twelve, he assigned her the role of ‘peacekeeper’. She was to befriend politicians and people of note, engage in the culture there. and report any intel she could’ve gained back to Gopher, who would then try to usurp the town and convert its residents to worshippers of Ena, ergo himself, by commandment fourteen.
By her 13th birthday, Robin’s reports suspiciously all turned into ‘They didn’t tell me anything’. The high priest soon grew skeptical, and ordered Sunday to get an answer out of her by any means necessary.
And so, he did.
He approached her door, taking note of the unfamiliar tune she appeared to be loudly humming. Due to growing older, they now had separate rooms. This didn’t help their relationship whatsoever, as their paths in life were already pulling them apart.
“Sister?” He knocked.
“Come in!” She called out, ceasing her singing. Sunday did, avoiding her gaze.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“Sure. Sit down.” She gestured to the empty spot on her bed, next to herself. Sunday shook his head, which felt like a dagger being pierced trough robin’s heart.
“Oh. Okay… What did you want to talk about?”
“Master ranted to me earlier about the lack of new information regarding the neighboring town lately. I found this weird, so I just wanted to ask you about it. Please be honest with me, are you hiding something?”
Robin’s eyes widened, before drifting downward. She dipped her head in a slight nod.
“Brother… I’m sorry, I meant to tell you earlier, but I feared your response. I..” she inhaled, then exhaled. “…I worship the Harmony.”
Sunday stared at her with the most disgust his face had ever held. He began to slowly shake his head.
Robin stood, paced over to him, and grabbed his hand, holding it close to her chest.
“Please, just listen to me. I discovered something that will change your view on-“ She trailed off as she met his gaze. It was evident that there was no possible way to reason with him. At that moment, it didn’t feel like she was even looking at her sibling; but rather, at the man that destroyed him.
Defeated, she let go of his hand, and sat back on her mattress. As she watched her beloved brother leave her room, she accepted that her days were now numbered.
8. To blaspheme God is to deny one's own existence.
Robin wore a gentle smile as she was walked down the path to a completely empty plain by her brother. The girl was dressed in pitch black robes, a symbol of her betrayal and a way to make her death far more painful. And yet, she didn’t seem all that bothered.
“Sunday..” she hummed.
“You’re not supposed to speak.”
“I’ll be dead soon either way. What’s one more sin?”
“…”
“I love you. Please don’t blame yourself, I forgive you.”
Sunday didn’t reply to this, and pushed her towards her final resting place.
“Press your back to the stake, please.”
Robin obliged, placing her hands behind the wooden pole as well, without even having to be told. Sunday, under the watchful gaze of Gopher Wood, tied them together, then her torso to the stake.
A citizen then dumped the wood Gopher had hand picked the day prior as the fire fuel to Robin’s feet, before backing up. As per the high priest’s request, Sunday was to light it.
The heir felt nothingness rip and tear away at his being. As his Master placed a flaming torch in his hand, Sunday thought about all the things he wanted to do right now. He wanted to cry, but that would be ‘disgraceful’. He wanted to grab his sister and run, far away from here, and start a new life together, but they were just children, with a horde of angry, violent adults behind them. He wanted to fall to his knees and scream in despair, but the raven-like man behind him would definitely punish him severely for that. As his legs trembled, threatening to give out, Sunday wondered what the worst consequence could even be. Upon remembering the ruined state his wings were in and that he had another pair in an incredibly visible location, he took several deep breaths to calm himself down.
“I’m sorry.” He mouthed, before pressing the torch’s tip to the firewood.
9. God sees, but THEY never save.
Sunday inhaled deeply, eyes shut. The winter air numbed his lungs, allowing the cold to overwhelm his body. He felt no pain, or any physical sensation at all. He simply felt like pure consciousness.
“Brother!” The worried voice of his sister called out to him. Alarmed, he exhaled, and ended his meditative state.
“What is it?” He questioned, tone unusually flat.
Robin held her hands out to him. They contained a baby dove. It was barely even covered in pin feathers, meaning it couldn’t have been more than seven days old.
“I was walking to Mr. Gary’s farm because I promised to help feed his animals, but i found this hatchling crying by a tree… I can’t find its nest, or parents, b-but it’ll freeze to death if we don’t do something!” She sobbed. Sunday examined the tiny avian closely.
“Yes…I do suppose the best course of action would be to raise it ourselves.” He crossed his arms.
“Why do you sound so hesitant..?”
Sunday was worried about what his Master would do upon discovering the animal. He wondered if its wings would be clipped, like his own were. The boy pressed a hand to his mouth in thought, eventually settling on the conclusion that there would be no reason to commit such act, as it was only done to himself so he could prove his worth to Ena.
“Fine. Give it to me.” He demanded, and the girl obliged.
The siblings rushed back home, where Robin filled a shallow bowl with warm water. Sunday placed the chick in it, but held on, just in case. It let out chirps of increasing volume, which the boy found endearing. He soon let go, stroking under the bird’s chin instead. Robin gasped, and leaned in closer to observe this. Her brother interacting with animals was a truly beautiful sight.
“How long will it take until it’s grown? I can’t wait to teach it how to fly!” She smiled widely, blinking up at Sunday.
“Huh? Why would we do that..?” He raised an eyebrow.
“So we can release it?” Robin now looked confused.
“What? You can’t be serious. What even is the point of saving it now if you just want to send it to die later?” He pulled the bowl closer to himself, protectively.
“It won’t die! It’d just be cruel to keep it inside for the rest of its life!” She argued, straightening her posture.
“It will.”
“No, it won’t!” The girl gripped the edge of the table. Sunday pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned his back to her.
“Fine. If you insist, you’re now responsible for its well-being until the end of the next week, when you must release it into the wild.”
“Fine.” Robin huffed, and pulled the bird and its makeshift bath back towards herself.
Seven more days passed, in which the dove grew out all the needed feathers for flight. Robin was absolutely ecstatic, and dragged Sunday outside.
“Okay..How do we do this?” She asked.
“What, you made a decision that could be the difference between life and death for another living being without any research?”
“Well, when you put it like that-“
“Do you admit defeat?”
“No! I know it’ll survive! Just tell me how to help it fly.”
Sunday simply shrugged, which upset Robin. After some contemplation, she placed the dove down on the ground, and held her breath waiting.
The bird soon spread its wings, and departed from the ground. The young girl squealed happily, and watched with wide eyes. She then turned, grinning triumphantly at her brother. It was then that she noticed the tall, dark figure looming right behind him.
“Master? What brings you here?”
Gopher Wood simply smiled eerily, and Sunday grimaced, eyes fixed on the now flying dove. A chill of deep dread struck Robin’s spine, making her turn again… Just in time to see the razor sharp talons of a raven dig into the body of the smaller bird. Right as its beak was about to rip flesh off, the girl ran into the house, sobbing loudly.
Sunday and Gopher kept watching. The scene was horrible, gory and disheartening, to say the least.
After a period of silence, the boy spoke up.
“That was a trained raven.”
“What a keen eye.”
“…Why? Robin didn’t have to see that. She’s just a child.”
“I disagree. It was her choice to free the dove, wasn’t it? She has to learn that her actions have consequences, and that defying the concept of order won’t get her anywhere.”
Sunday wordlessly nodded, before walking off.
On the way to the clearing he’d claimed as solely his- which he only turned to when he was having ‘sinful’ ideas that he felt too scared to even think about in the confines of the city- he wondered if Ena would really want one of THEIR creations to suffer, just to teach another a valuable lesson. He then considered that THEY might not truly even care about anyone and anything at all. If he could see and intervene in anything happening in the world, Sunday would try to save every being. But, in the end, he was not God, and THEY were.
10. God listens, but THEY never speak.
“Father..” a weak voice on the other side of the confessional threatened to break. Sunday straightened his posture, as he instinctively always did when spoken to, even if he couldn’t be seen.
“Speak your sorrows, child of the Order.”
“I can’t take it any longer. It feels… It feels like my prayers are falling on deaf ears. My life has only been spiraling into misery… Hell, even a sign would help loads!”
Sunday closed his eyes, thinking deeply.
“I understand how you must feel. However, you should know THEY don’t often give ‘signs’. You may share your troubles with me, and I promise to try my hardest to help you.”
“You’d really do that?”
“I would.” He nodded. He’d trained himself to be aware of his body language and what every single difference in stance could be interpreted as. So, he applied that even when alone, hidden, or in an otherwise casual situation.
“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you… May I ask a question first?”
“Hm?”
“Do THEY give you signs? Speak to you? Anything at all?”
The halovian fell silent. He didn’t know. Ever since he’d taken over Gopher Wood’s duties, he felt like a failure for being ‘spiritually disconnected’ from the Lord.
“The answer is what you think.” Was what he settled on.
The person on the other side sighed. The next time they spoke, their voice sounded muffled.
“I’m a murderer. I don’t deserve to live. Do you think THEY would forgive me if I..”
“Don’t say that. You are stronger than you think. Why do you consider yourself a murderer?”
“I had an argument with my little sister. It was over something so stupid, I don’t even remember what it was. I was so angry that I pushed her. She hit her head on the kitchen counter, and… oh god. There was so much blood. I saw her brains, Father. I will never forget the sight. I see it every time I sleep, every time I close my eyes, every time I see things that remind me of her. Please, how do I make it stop?” They sobbed.
Sunday was silent, eyes unfocusing as the vivid memory of Robin’s body being charred alive by flames tore its way out of the corner of his brain he’d banished it to.
“Father?”
“…Apologies. That is a lot to process, I was thinking of the optimal way to help. How long ago did this accident happen?”
“I don’t know. It could be anywhere from a few days to several months. After I buried her, everything’s been a blur. She was everything I had left… i hate to think that if I treated her nicer, showed her how much I appreciate her; if I tried to understand her better and didn’t let my emotions get the better of me, she’d still be here.”
“Yes.. You said you buried her body?”
“I did.”
“Where?”
“…”
“I see. You don’t have to tell me. I can feel that you are genuinely remorseful. Fear not, the Lord will forgive you, and I’m sure your sister would too. As for the mental scarring, I can only hope that your confession has lifted some weight off your shoulders. You are not alone. If you ever feel as if you need to take drastic measures, I hereby permit you to seek me in my free time. Your life matters, and I’d rather a slight inconvenience to myself than lose another life. It gets easier, I promise. Hardship is the key to happiness.” Although he was saying all this, he barely even believed or understood himself. He’d never had anyone comfort him when he was in a similar situation, nevermind attempt to help him. When he tried to turn to Ena for solace, he was only met with silence… Which was to be expected. However, the toll it took on him was greater than he could’ve ever expected. In any case, he hoped he’d helped the member of his community, even slightly.
The sound of the fabric belonging to the other person’s clothes could be heard- presumably them standing up. It was then followed by footsteps. Sunday groaned loudly once he figured they’d have long exited the church, and placed his face in his hands. This was going to be a long day.
Upon returning home way past midnight, Sunday looked uncharacteristically horrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his wings drooped pathetically as he slouched, including his ‘deformed’ second pair, which usually stayed tucked into his coat.
“Sunday!” [Name] ran to the door as soon as it opened. As they bore witness to the state of the halovian, they fell into baffled silence. He blinked blearily, far too tired to be embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. Go to sleep.” He mumbled, trying to push past them and towards the couch, as the two had traded sleeping utilities after their late-night walk.
“No! Are you okay?”
“Excuse me?”
“You look horrendous. I’m worried.”
“Thanks.” He deadpanned.
“I obviously didn’t mean it that way. It’s just not like you to be so… improper. Woah, wait, you have four wings!?”
“I don’t want to talk about either of those things. Please move, I’d really like to sleep.”
[Name] frowned, and instead of letting Sunday go to sleep on the near back-breaking couch when he was clearly in no condition to, they intertwined their hand with his, pulling him towards the bedroom. Before Sunday had the chance to protest, they’d reached their destination.
“What are you doing?”
“What, you said you wanted to sleep.”
“Are you implying you want to… share a bed?”
“Yeah! That’s not sinful, right?”
“I suppose not.” Sunday gave up.
“Great. I’ll let you change, call me back in when you’re done.”
Sunday didn’t know what had happened to him by the beginning of the next hour. He found himself cuddling his housemate, face buried in their chest as their fingers carded through his hair. If he wasn’t so far gone, he would’ve felt shame to the depths of his bones.
As [Name]’s breathing and heart rate slowed steadily, so did their hand. Sunday smiled, slowly shifting their position until they’d fully swapped roles. While he appreciated being on the receiving end of affection for once, it was just his nature to want to return any kind act done for him.
He draped a wing around their body, figuring he’d finally found a use for the unsightly body part.
11. God knows, but THEY never teach.
Sunday’s hands balled into fists at his sides. He’d been staring at the glass casing containing the stone slate which the commandments had been first carved into for what must’ve been many hours now. He read them over, and over, and over, and over… Despite the fact that his mind was already similar to the slate, in the sense that the words had been permanently etched into both. Every day, he could feel himself growing more and more…Hateful. And so, he decided connecting with the Lord again would be the best course of action.
Unfortunately, he was wrong. As he obsessively examined and carefully thought over every word of the sacred obligations, he could only form more and more questions… More anger. More doubt. The contradictions between several entries now seemed painfully obvious. For example, it was specified that the high priest was the exception to commandment two, but no such thing exists for the numbers nine, ten and eleven… But, communication between God and the high priest was supposed to be the basis of the religion.
As the gears in Sunday’s brain turned, he began to laugh. How could he have been so foolish? These were all just lies. Lies made up by a selfish man who desired nothing more than to rule the whole world by himself. As his laughter grew, so did his fury.
Sunday dug his fingers into the side of the glass; fragile, as all things in this forsaken town. If everyone was under the permanent illusion of safety, why was there any need for precaution? It was so bad, that nobody locked their doors anymore. No one would want to break into your house and kill you, after all. The most likely murderer was the person you trusted enough to live with. As these realizations plagued his mind, Sunday’s hands only gripped the long since shattered shards of glass tighter, and tighter. It hurt so pleasantly right now. Although, soon enough, he dropped them in favor of grasping the stone tablet itself. As he turned around, his eyes darted through the church. He needed something to break it with.
After looking for a considerable amount of time, Sunday decided he’d just fling it at the wall.
As the glorified boulder was about to leave his hand, he hesitated. What if he was wrong? This definitely had to be a misunderstanding. Maybe he just wasn’t open minded enough to understand the deeper meaning of the commandments. After all, every older resident seemed so happy living the way they were. The younger generation- including himself- would grow into doing the same, surely… God is good, Sunday thought.
God is loving.
The priest lowered his hand slowly. He rotated back to his original position, regret filling him at the sight of the broken display and bloodied glass scattered across the floor. If he were to look into his hand, he’d notice the crimson seeping from his open wound was quickly transferring to the commandments.
Sunday closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He just had to clean this up, find a replacement case, and no one would ever know. His sin could stay between him and the Lord, forever.
As for understanding all the contradictions, he was now sure that he just had to try a little harder. After all, God doesn’t teach. For a start, this probably meant THEY wanted THEIR subjects to learn from their and others’ mistakes throughout their life.
Yes, this had to be the solution. This was nothing but another trial for Sunday to overcome; a test of faith.
12. The entire Word of God is passed down through THEIR oracle, the high priest.
In an extremely rare occurrence, Sunday had found himself with a few hours of free time on his hands. He decided to spend one of them browsing the local grocery store, deciding on what snack to purchase for [Name], as a token of appreciation. He hadn’t asked them about their tastes outright, so he was attempting to piece them together from the few, yet valuable conversations they’d had. This was proving to be a more challenging task than expected, but he wasn’t about to give up.
“I believe this is what you’re looking for.” A voice coming from Sunday’s right spoke sweetly. He turned his head, confused. Before him stood a person, with an appearance so strikingly out of place that he managed how they even managed to make it into the city. They had white hair, parted into short twin tails on either side of their head. They also had long curtain bangs, however, the upper part of their hairstyle didn’t even utilize as much as half of their locks. The expanse of white fell down to the floor, dragging along it whenever they moved. They wore simple, yet eye grabbing make up, which nicely complemented their tanned skin. Their eyes appeared to naturally stay shut for the entirety of Sunday’s examination of them, not displaying any of the twitching that the eyes of a normal person forcing them to stay closed would. What was really out of place, though, was their clothing. They wore a tight, black dress which was about as long as their hair. It was rather revealing, especially in the chest and leg area. Whilst the town Sunday lived in didn’t exactly enforce ‘purity culture’ anymore, it was still unusual to dress immodestly. Additionally, the sort of corset piece wrapped around their midriff and neck appeared to be real gold, solidifying their status as an outsider. The followers of Order weren’t exactly wealthy, as money had not been used since the founding of the religion, and Gopher Wood considered the concept to be inherently unfair. Of course, this didn’t stop him from continuing to hoard any currency he came across, to be able to afford imported garments and accessories of the finest quality for only himself and his children.
“Pardon?” He narrowed his eyes, inspecting the item. It was one of the choices he’d been considering for [Name]’s snack, although he was still second-guessing himself.
“This is their favorite.” The foreigner extended their hand further, as if urging him to take it.
“What are you talking about?” Sunday was becoming uncomfortable.
“[Name]? Your.. Friend. This is their favorite. You are looking for something to get them, no?”
“Hah..I see. You’re one of Xipe’s slaves.” He chuckled bitterly, and grabbed a duplicate of the item they were holding off the shelf.
“I’d strongly urge you to return to your home, if you know what’s best for you. Good day.” He turned to leave, but a hand as cold as death itself gripped his wrist with a hold that would be sure to cut off his circulation if it was kept too long.
“Is this all the thanks I get? You would’ve spent another hour deciding if it weren’t for me.” The person pouted in mock offense.
“Stop. Get out of my mind, please.” He tried to pull away, to no avail.
“And what if I don’t? Are you going to call upon Ena to save you? Oh wait..” They laughed.
“Tsk…Do not use THEIR sacred name with such mocking purpose.”
“I really don’t get what you see in THEM. I mean, THEY’RE such a deadbeat! The Great One would never let THEIR subjects suffer.”
“Says the one whose idol abandoned THEIR town without leaving as much as a divine messenger.”
“Hm? But I am the High Priest.”
“High Priest? My a-.. ahem… That does not sound very likely. Clearly, you’re blessed in some form, but knowing Penacony, they would hold a week-long festival in your honor if you gave substantial proof of this. Who are you, really?”
The person smiled, and let go of his now bruised wrist. They’d still not opened their eyes once.
“Oh, would you look at the time. Well, I should get going. Until we meet again~” they waved, and walked away, humming an awfully familiar tune.
Sunday would then stand in the middle of the aisle, snack in hand as he tried to make sense of what had happened. He wondered if the person was trying to convince him to turn to the Harmony, or just teasing him. What’s worse is that if it was the former, he believed he might’ve actually considered.
The halovian soon dragged himself home, deep in thought. As he opened the door to see [Name] sitting on the couch as they had been doing more often lately, Sunday smiled. He sat next to them, far closer than usual.
“…I got you something.” He handed them the snack. [Name] gasped quietly.
“Ohh.. Did you know this was my favorite? Thank you so much!” They hugged him.
“Really? Must’ve been a lucky guess. In any case, consider this payment for the strawberries.” Sunday shut his eyes. Perhaps the worshipper of Xipe wasn’t all that horrible.
13. God’s aims are the aims of the world
Lately, Sunday had been frequenting the church in the dead of night. Since the meeting with the strange worshipper of Harmony, he’d been questioning his faith more than ever before. A part of him struggled with the same urge to run that he’d felt in Robin’s final moments. However, instead of his fear of angry, violent adults holding him back now, it was the fear of repercussions for becoming one.
He considered himself weak minded. He knew very well what he was getting into before accepting the position of high priest. He knew he’d have to murder and hurt, and yet… He never truly could. A secret Sunday swore he’d take to the grave, was that he never truly punished traitors as God commanded. Even after the incident with the tradesman, the worst he could muster was kicking him into unconsciousness and dropping him off into Penacony’s territory. That very night, he prayed to the God he himself had just betrayed, that the man was taken to a hospital. In his heart, Sunday still believed that if he were to implore the Lord to forgive those who turned away from them, THEY would.
Sunday had what one might call a heart of gold. He wanted the best for everyone, even if it directly contradicted the teachings of his Master, and the undeniable holy rules given to the world by God. However, his constant desire to help came at the cost of his own sanity- fact which he was acutely aware of. He considered it a small price to pay for the joy of others.
In his mind, he was responsible for the actions of each and every one of The Order’s followers. If they sinned, it was purely his fault for not managing to stop them. He’d be the one spending eternity in the burning embers, while any who sinned under him and died before he did, would be forgiven and led to the peaceful afterlife they strived for all their lives. If he’d explain this to any sane person, they’d most likely immediately pick up on how specific, flawed, and barely comprehensible his logic was… Unfortunately, he never would.
“You look tired.” The sickly sweet voice of the strange worshipper called from behind Sunday, making him halt.
“I know for a fact that I locked the gates.” He crossed his arms, but didn’t give the person the pleasure of looking at them.
“What can I say, I have my ways… Anyway, I don’t think burying yourself in your delusions is very healthy. You should rest.”
“I must say, you’re very bold. You simply can’t hold yourself back from insulting the Lord in front of THEIR messenger, hm?”
“I am simply stating a fact. You’re starting to doubt THEIR very existence, and you know that. If you acknowledge your situation, why do you still choose to indulge?”
Sunday did not speak for a long period of time.
“If you truly were a High Priest, you’d understand. God is all I have. I’ve invested so much time into becoming what I am now, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself otherwise.”
“And you still don’t follow the very principle that supposedly founded your religion. Clearly, deep down, what you want is to help everyone. You’d be well suited for the Harmony…”
“No. The harmony dictates that everyone must live through trial and error. That’s such unnecessary suffering, that can simply be avoided by protecting everyone.”
“Learning through mistakes? Isn’t that what you ultimately decided Ena’s ideal was, when you noticed people making mistakes over and over again, even when the whole point of this religion is to establish ultimate control and peace to the point where people will actively seek out pain to break the monotony?”
“…Then, I was mistaken. I never saw the similarities to the Harmony before. I pray THEY can forgive me as I try to truly understand THEIR commandments once more. Thank you for telling me this. I shall… Become a better fit for my role, through any means necessary.”
“Really? Or will you do as you’ve always done, and continue to refuse to harm anyone as your God dictates?”
“…Even if I were to do that, which I will earnestly try not to, the spiritual consequences would fall onto me, solely. I’m the one not doing my job, I-“
“Sunday! When was the last time you’ve uttered or thought something that makes any sense, at all!? Look deeply within yourself, you’ll realize how absurd you’re being.”
The halovian simply smiled. Perhaps, long ago, that would’ve been true. However, that was no longer a possibility. Any time he’d come to the same realization, his being would instinctively suffocate itself with a half-hearted explanation that would seem plausible enough at first glance, until he’d begin to deconstruct it, at which point the process would repeat.
The stranger’s expression shifted into a sorrowful one. They’d really tried to help him, but he was truly too far gone.
“I see. I hope your soul will someday be able to find peace.” They left, giving Sunday the opportunity to continue destroying himself in peace.
14. God and the high priest shall be regarded as one and the same.
Gopher Wood’s amber eyes intently observed Mikhail. His head was informally resting on the table, wings fluttering in anticipation as he waited for his ally to finish reading the documents he’d presented him with.
“So? What do you think?” He finally spoke, having grown impatient.
“I’m not done yet..”
“Well, you’ve read most of it. What do you think so far, then?”
“I didn’t know you had such little patience, Mr. Wood.”
“Yes, yes..Well, now you know.”
“I don’t consider it appropriate to share my opinion on something that I don’t fully understand. I ask that you continue waiting.”
“Fine.” Gopher scoffed, and stood up.
“I’m going to get another drink. Want anything?”
“No, thank you.”
Mikhail sighed as he continued reading. Him and Gopher had met just over three amber eras ago, under inexplicable circumstances. At the time, it seemed they had similar ideals for the future of Penacony- a beautiful town, ravaged by an unfortunate dispute. The two quickly struck up a friendship, or at the very least, a cordial working relationship. At first, they agreed that their end goal was to join The Family, a union of towns and cities who worshipped a god known as Xipe and believed in the concept of Harmony. The men slowly gained the respect of most Penaconians that, too,wished for peace, who allowed them to become something akin to a two-person government.
After all that, they successfully completed their goal. Although, soon after, Gopher began acting unusually. He distanced himself from Mikhail, only talking to him to ask odd questions, such as ‘if he ever wished the entire town’s residents could be puppets’. The blue-haired man grew incredibly concerned for his partner’s wellbeing, but could never reach Gopher to speak to him about this topic.
A few days prior, he had invited him out to drinks to discuss ‘an exciting new discovery’. They now found themselves here, Gopher having handed Mikhail a folder full of papers, detailing the proof of the existence of another deity before Xipe. THEY were known by the name of Ena, and represented Order, which was awfully close to the concept of Harmony, besides the awfully concerning attitude towards those who desired to follow their own path in life.
Just as Mikhail finished reading, the halovian returned.
“Are you done yet?”
“Yes…?”
“Wonderful! So?”
“I’m… Not quite sure I understand. Do you want to leave The Family and pursue this religion? Do you even have any current proof this, ‘Ena’ even exists..?”
“Oh, THEY don’t!” He giggled, joyfully taking a sip of his wine. Just as Mikhail was preparing to open his mouth, he continued:
“Not anymore, at least. But if we can make people believe THEY do, we’ll have them wrapped around our fingers. They’ll just do anything we want under the guise of religion. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? There can truly be peace upon Penacony.”
“…How drunk are you?”
“Plenty.”
“You’re not thinking straight. That would never work, it’d just be defying human nature. Besides, if the ones who continue trying to end our lives for opposing them can’t even agree with Harmony, what makes you think they’d want to obey the words of an imaginary God?”
“Oh, them? They have no place in Penacony either way. If I were to execute my plan, I’d be doing a great favor to everyone.” He grinned.
“That’s enough. Get up. I’m taking you home, and you’re going to sleep off all that wine.” Mikhail stood, tossing the documents into the nearest trash.
“I know what I’m doing, my dear Misha. I’ve been fantasizing about this since before we even met… It’s my greatest wish, and what’s the best for Penacony- no, the world, even! Why must you be so cruel~?”
“…You’re not who I thought you were. Why.. Why would you even say that?”
“Mm.. Tell me one thing, then.” He rounded the table, until he was face to face with Mikhail. He then grabbed the collar of his shirt, and pulled him even closer, grinning. “How long do you think a society under the Order’s rule will last? Hell, even with the most haphazard basis I can throw together in one night?”
“Don’t-“
“Answer me.”
“…A decade, at most.”
“Very well.” Gopher hummed, and let go.
“I say… Triple that, before it spreads to Penacony. At least a century after that until the downfall.”
“What are you planning to do..?”
“You’ll see.”
“You’re,, a psychopath. This will never work! Even if it somehow lasted for your entire lifetime, you’d never find a successor gullible enough to extend your little cult’s existence for that long.”
Gopher’s smile widened sinisterly.
“Cult? I prefer the word social experiment. Anyway, I should get going now. I heard the next town over has little contact with outsiders, and I’d like to get there before that changes.” He turned, and began to walk.
“Until we meet again, Misha.”
15. God is absolute.
After his second encounter with what seemed to be Xipe’s chosen one, Sunday felt completely drained. He hadn’t fully felt like a living, breathing entity since he was maybe six years old, but the mental haze that affected him worsened with each significant event that happened to him. He stumbled home at the same time that the sun began to peek over the horizon.
Despite the fact that he returned to sleeping on the couch after the night him and [Name] cuddled, he didn’t feel like sleeping alone at this moment.
Following several minutes of hesitation, Sunday opened the bedroom door, cautiously stepping in. Of course, his friend was sleeping peacefully, and luckily for him, deeply. The man stalked over to the closet door, which had been divided into halves to accommodate both his and [Name]’s clothes. He quickly discarded his current outfit, changing into a simple t-shirt and sweatpants. The shirt rode up his stomach slightly, as he hadn’t ever found the time to poke wing holes into his casual garments; therefore, his wings were just hanging naturally.
He slowly sat down on the unoccupied side of the bed, pausing to see if the sleeping person would wake. When they didn’t, he made himself more comfortable, even pulling half of the blanket over himself.
That action caused [Name] to turn. Sunday was preparing an apology speech for waking them, but they were unbothered. They grabbed his arm, snuggling it. The halovian took a moment to process, upper wings tensing in surprise. He was still not used to being touched, but he’d feel too bad pushing them away. So, instead of getting any rest, he just awkwardly stared at them for hours, frozen in place.
Finally, [Name] yawned, attempting to stretch. They were stopped by the sensation of a warm, solid object being held between their arms. When their eyes shot open, they barely stopped themselves from screaming at the sight of Sunday, who looked at them with a tired frown.
“Sorry,, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just feeling unwell, and I thought…” He didn’t finish his sentence.
“It���s alright. I’m just, a little surprised. You don’t really seem like the type of guy who’d enjoy this kind of stuff.”
“‘Stuff’…?”
“Yeah. You know, like, closeness.”
“Really? Hm.” He turned his head away, deep in thought.
“I guess you’re right.“ He nearly whispered, pulling his arm away.
The silence that followed was painfully awkward. So much so, that [Name] decided to speak the first thought that came to mind:
“Can I touch your wings?”
“Sorry?”
“I want to touch your wings. They look super fluffy.”
Sunday narrowed his eyes, wondering where they obtained such courage. A halovian’s wings were just about sacred, and most only allowed those closest to them to do as much as stare at them for extensive amount of time. And still…
“You may. But, please be careful. They’re very sensitive, and tear easily.”
“Wait, really? I wasn’t really expecting you to let me..” [Name] was dumbfounded.
“I suppose so. The idea doesn’t make me uncomfortable, as I… Truly appreciate you. It feels like you’re the only person that has seen me as human in an embarrassingly long time. This is the least I can do to express my gratitude.” He leaned in closer, extending the wings on the side closest to [Name]. They didn’t speak, only reaching out to pet the wing sticking out from under his shirt. Sunday was surprised, as he figured they’d first pick the carefully preened, pristine, and intact wing on his head.
“It’s so soft..” they gasped, brushing a finger along the trimmed edge of the appendage. They then moved on to his upper wing, scratching behind it like one would with a cat.
Sunday metaphorically melted, gently collapsing onto [Name]. His eyes closed contently as his roommate continued their exploration of his features.
Unfortunately, their happiness didn’t last long. The distinct sound of wood being axed through snapped both people out of their relaxed state. Sunday jumped out of bed, and out the bedroom door. The sound was coming from the front entrance- which was stupid, as it was unlocked, much like any other door in the town. He crossed his arms, glaring at the widening hole in his door.
Upon completely decimating the wooden structure, a furious mob of followers of the Order barged in, carrying pitchforks and unlit torches. Sunday blinked in disbelief, if only for a couple seconds.
“You liar… Murderous whoreson of a cunt! How could you… How? Do you even realize how many people have lost or wasted their lives on your fuckass cult!? You will pay for this!” A man near the front screamed, spit flying onto Sunday as he did so. He wiped it off his face, giving his subjects a tired smile.
“My children, please. This must all be one great misunderstanding. I urge you to lay your weapons down, and explain to me what crime exactly you think it is that I committed.” He clasped his hands together, eyes closing inoffensively. Once again, his communication attempt was met with a slap.
“Misunderstanding? Hah. Tell that to The Devil! Tie him!” The man ordered, in response to which, the follower of Harmony stepped forward, rope in hand. As they stood parallel to Sunday, they opened their eyes for the first time. The blue outer ring transforming into a deep purple one didn’t look the least bit human, and neither did the grey sclera. If anything, such colors more closely resembled the written description of Ena, if only reversed.
It was then that it clicked.
Sunday began to twitch, in what seemed like the unfortunate moment where the psyche of a tortured man finally shattered. Hell, maybe that was accurate. He soon began to laugh, louder than he ever had before.
As he found himself preoccupied with that, Xipe gave him one last pitiful glance.
“I’m sorry.” THEY mouthed, beginning to bind his arms and wings.
[Name] gripped the edge of the bedroom doorframe. They had been observing for the entirety of the conflict, frozen. Perhaps, if the sea of people didn’t extend well past the confines of the house, they would’ve tried to help Sunday.
“See? He’s gone far past mad- Wait, should we do something about [Name]?” A villager questioned another, causing Sunday to cease his laughter.
“Absolutely. Burn the entire house down, everything he’s touched is tainted.”
“Are you insane? They’re pretty new. What do you think are the chances that they knew?” A third chimed in.
“[Name] didn’t know. It… It was all on me. I’m the one who lied to you. I deceived each and every one of you in pursuit of control. I corrupted the pure intentions of Gopher Wood, and, I ended his life via poison. I am the only culprit.” Sunday tensed, frantically looking around to see how many people believed his faux confession. Of course, only the first sentence was even remotely true. However, if he were to die today, there was no reason to drag the dead and the innocent along with him.
The villagers fell silent, looking between each other in a silent discussion.
“I believe him.” Xipe said, tugging on Sunday’s binds as THEY lead him towards the door, clearing a path through the mob.
The crowd followed, much like a herd of sheep would. This left [Name] alone, and confused.
When the silence became deafening, they hurried to follow. They figured that even if they couldn’t physically be that close to him during whatever was going to happen, then being there at all might make Sunday feel less alone. Even if what he’d confessed was true; which they didn’t fully believe, he did save their life. This was the least they could do for him.
Tears rolled down Sunday’s face, shining golden from the bright sunlight seeping into them. He was awarded the courtesy of choosing when he’d be ended, and he picked sundown. He’d been nailed to a cross, through his hands, wings, and shoulders. The fallen priest was in utter agony, and yet, he was quite alright with this.
Xipe took the same role Sunday had all those years ago; the killer. The villagers were seething, and craved nothing but blood. So, they all collectively decided Sunday was going to be nailed, burnt, and finally shot in the neck. Xipe offered THEMSELVES as executioner. No mortal deserved to have to live with the fact they were the direct cause of another human being’s untimely demise…
As THEIR lit torch approached the kindling, Xipe gazed into Sunday’s eyes once more. They smiled. It was barely visible, yet earnest.
Sunday returned the gesture, inhaling the last breath of fresh air he’d ever take.
[Name] kneeled in front of the charred, bloodied, and decaying corpse of Sunday. They didn’t even think he saw them in his final moments, ergo, they exposed themselves to his disgustingly brutal end for nothing.
They dipped their head, placing the bouquet of wild flowers they’d picked from the clearing which Sunday introduced them to, at his feet.
“Do you want to bury him?”
“…What?” [Name] turned, recognizing the voice as Sunday’s executioner.
“You cared about him. I doubt you want him to publicly rot for..What, a decade?”
“Yeah.”
“Stand. And take the flowers. I’ll carry him.”
And so, they did. In the same clearing the flowers had been picked from, [Name] and Xipe had buried Sunday. They didn’t mark his grave, deciding to finally let him rest.
“So? What will happen now? To everyone in the town, I mean. I don’t know about anyone else, but I have nowhere to go, and a town without a leader is a town without laws. But they’re all so violent…”
“Hm..Penacony has a place for all. Even with their violent tendencies, they can learn and grow.”
“So, why couldn’t Sunday?”
“Despite not knowing what he even believed in, Sunday thought he was nothing without Order. No matter what anyone could ever try, he’d refuse to change. It’s unfortunate, but, he should be allowed to make his own choices.”
“…But that’s so unfair.”
“Being forced into obedience would be equally unfair, no? Sunday died on his own terms.”
“I guess. It’s just, sad.”
[Name] received no reply. They felt as if the other presence had suddenly vanished, but didn’t bother to confirm this.
They laid down next to Sunday’s resting place, closing their eyes. They still struggled to comprehend how their life had taken such a horrible turn so quickly.
It didn’t matter now. [Name] yawned, rolling over onto the side they were most comfortable on. Upon waking, they’d set off to Penacony, where they would find a job and make a living for themselves. But tonight, they just wanted a semblance of a proper farewell to the cozy lifestyle they had grown so accustomed to, and to the man that made it all possible.
81 notes
·
View notes
Speak To My Heart
Rowaelin Month, Day 15: A bad day
Word count: 3422
Warnings: language, bit of depression, fighting. In short, there is angst in this fic. Hope the ending makes up for the rest.
Linguistics and foreign languages are two of my personal passions, so please bear with the bits of language talk that I couldn’t resist including. Brief word of clarification: a lot of expressions we use in English either translate into something extremely rude or don’t make sense in other languages. Translation companies have been trying for quite some time to make sure they don’t accidentally send a client a translated instruction manual that reads “fuck your mother” instead of “for questions, contact your local energy department.” All right I’ll get off my soapbox. :)
The phrases in foreign languages, marked with *, are translated into English at the end. Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rowan’s day had been shit. The second he walked through the door, he’d been bombarded with an endless slew of crash reports, malfunctioning equipment, faulty passwords, and best of all, having to rewrite half the security firewalls because one of the rash young idiots in his department couldn’t be bothered to check his work for errors before sending it to management. And management thought it was the department boss’s job to fix all of his employees’ fuckups.
He hated IT.
Even more so since being promoted to department chair.
All he wanted to do was the fun stuff--program design and development, fixing the flaws in his own designs, and of course making those who tried to break into his company’s systems regret their pitiful existence. But Cadre Tech’s bitch of a CEO refused to let the best software engineer on her staff actually do his job.
Most days, he could cope with the pile of useless shit she directed to his desk. Most days. Today was not one of those days. Probably because on top of all the meaningless tasks he’d had to field, he was also forced to sit through one of Maeve’s bullshit “department head strategy sessions,” where every department chair had to pretend they gave a single shit about any word coming from their CEO’s garishly red, pinched mouth.
As if she knew anything her staff actually did.
Thanks to the compulsory meeting, Rowan was stuck in his office at nearly ten o’clock, painstakingly combing through the final draft of the update to CT’s translation program. This program had shot the company to fame and fortune, or at least insane stock value. “A Google Translate that actually translates,” their marketing department called it, and by the gods, that stupid slogan worked. And made sense. Rowan knew the program was just as good as it claimed to be.
He’d put in the hours, alongside a team of linguists, software engineers, designers, and people fluent in at least one other language. Frequent were the sessions where the project whiteboard turned into a jumble of words in twenty or more languages, Spanish alongside Arabic next to a column of simplified Japanese characters spilling over into a row of Cyrillic lettering. Rowan himself spoke German and some Spanish, but even he was lost amid the cacophony of eighteen different people switching from language to language, trying to figure out how idiomatic expressions translated from one language to another and what words should never, ever be placed together.
It took the team well over a year of bickering, or as they called it, friendly linguistic disagreements, to make it from loosely mapped concept to functioning program. By the time it hit the market three years ago, the software had been so well promoted that companies all over the world snapped up their chance to finally communicate properly with the client they’d offended years ago with a bad translation.
At launch, of course, Maeve stood in front of a sea of shouting reporters brandishing microphones, smiling her serpentine smile, and proceeded to thank the creative team for all their “contributions” before taking all the credit herself.
Said creative team went to the bar that had become their usual gathering spot that night to get drunk and shit-talk their horrible boss, not necessarily in that order.
His favorite memory of that night was hearing the chief linguist, an outside contract with multiple advanced degrees who spoke eight separate languages besides English fluently, refer to Maeve as “quella puttana rugosa che non riusciva a convincere un cazzo a venire a dieci metri da lei se si vestiva da figa.*” The Italian speakers on the team were crying with laughter, and so was everyone else, once she translated it.
And then she downed another shot of vodka and hissed something that sounded like “sukya bliyad, no puedo mich betrinken con esta ordures.**” When everyone blinked in confusion, she sighed and relayed the sentiment in English.
Nobody had laughed as hard as Rowan. Aelin Galathynius just had that effect on him.
She brightened his darkest days.
But she couldn’t ease the strain of today.
And it was all his fault.
~
Aelin glanced up at the clock on her wall and cursed in three different languages when she saw that it was nearly eleven. Without meaning to, she’d spent all afternoon and evening writing lesson notes on idiomatic expressions. She really couldn’t help herself once she got into the topic; it was her pet project.
And the subject of one of her dissertations. Yes, she had multiple.
She’d worked her ass off for years to get through college, then through graduate and doctoral work while teaching at universities to offset costs, then earned a full-time teaching position at one of the top-ranked universities in the world. She got to teach linguistics, her lifetime love, and give guest lectures at other universities and at conferences, teaching people all over the world about the complexities and interrelatedness of language. Hell, she spoke ten; she’d be qualified to speak on linguistic relationships by virtue of that alone.
Gods, she was the chief linguist behind the most successful translation software ever produced. Even if the bitch who owned the rights to said software had literally threatened to sue over ownership rights if any of the people who’d poured their figurative blood and sweat and literal tears into building the program tried to claim a small piece of the credit each of them so richly deserved.
That software and her role in its creation--even though Maeve Ond had claimed the public credit, the creative team spoke at interviews and made news features for their work in Cadre Tech’s massive success--had solidified her credentials as a professor of linguistics, had boosted her into her lecturer spot.
Last year, her university granted her tenure.
She should have been overjoyed, and she was, but not as much as earning tenure deserved.
Because there was nobody to share her joy.
Three years ago, in the wake of CT’s overnight jump to worldwide fame, Aelin fled a love she did not and never would deserve.
She told herself she would never look back. But she did. Almost every day, she looked back at the life she’d shared with Rowan and tried to convince herself that she did the right thing.
Try as she might, she could never silence the whisper that echoed always in her mind.
“You broke both of your hearts”
Someday, she told herself, someday she would be back in Doranelle. Someday, she would have a chance to apologize. Someday, maybe she could fix the Rowan-shaped chasm that gaped wide in her heart.
Yet here she was, sitting in a very nicely appointed hotel room in the university district of Doranelle, typing furiously away as if burying herself in notes and prep for tomorrow’s lecture could make the urge to contact Rowan disappear.
~
Three years earlier. Doranelle.
“Knock, knock.”
Rowan’s head jerked up from where it had most definitely not been slumped on his desk. “Wha--Oh. Hi, Aelin.”
“You’re falling asleep, buzzard, let’s go home.” He heard laughter in her soft voice.
“As if you won’t just get home and start cross-checking every single one of the phrases on your ‘potential problem’ list.”
She chuckled, walking over to him. “Fine. We’re both perfectionist work whores. Doesn’t mean we don’t need sleep.”
“I know you too well to believe you’re actually going to sleep.”
“All right, you win. Come home now, I’ll make some food, and you can put me to bed.” She winked saucily at him, leaving very little doubt what putting her to bed would entail, and he was up out of his chair in seconds.
“Hand over your computer, Fireheart,” he grinned as they walked into the small house they shared on the outskirts of the city.
“What?”
“Your computer, love. I’m leaving both of our work bags on the shelf by the front door so we can actually catch some rest tonight.” He pressed a finger to her mouth to silence her protests. “Uh-uh, Ae, we have interviews tomorrow and I won’t let the genius behind this program’s flawless word-to-word be anything but well-rested.”
She sighed, but he saw the love in her eyes. “Here, then, my dear brilliant software engineer. Leave your notebook, too, because I know if it’s anywhere near you, you’ll be up at three in the morning scribbling blocks of gibberish and picking apart your faultless code until you go insane.”
Both of their work satisfactorily put aside, Aelin made good on her promise to cook Rowan dinner.
And then he made very good on his promise to put her to bed.
The next morning, they were both awake with the sunrise, content to lay curled in each other’s arms as the morning light spread across their room.
Rowan drifted back into sleep, waking for good when he caught a whiff of coffee from the kitchen’s direction.
“Morning, you sleepy buzzard,” Aelin grinned, sipping from her mug.
Rowan dropped a kiss on her head as he reached for his mug. He took a long drink, sighing as the milky, sweetened caffeine hit his mouth.
“I will never understand how you drink your coffee black, Fireheart.”
“Not all of us need to sweeten the hell out of coffee to drink it, Ro. Maybe if you can’t handle the real thing, you should go back to your pretty little cups of crappy cafe tea.”
“Mention my pretty little teacups again, Ae…”
She giggled. “You be quiet and drink your coffee-flavored milk, my love. We both know you’re impossibly grumpy until you have caffeine in your veins.”
He grumbled something unintelligible as he drank his coffee.
They were nearly late to work that morning, even having planned an extra half hour to arrive, thanks to Aelin wearing what Rowan dubbed her “sexy professor suit.” She fixed the pins in her French twist in the car, making herself once again a portrait of professionalism, and slipped Rowan’s hand from her leg.
“Two hands on the wheel, Whitethorn.”
He pouted. “But I’m a safe driver and I want to hold your hand.”
“My hands are over here, love, not down by my skirt.”
When he pulled into his spot, Aelin closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath.
“You good, Fireheart?”
Gods, she loved hearing him call her that. “Yeah. I just…needed a moment to settle myself. To tell myself the cameras aren’t here to tear apart what I say.”
Rowan wrapped his hands around hers. “Dr. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, the bland reporters are here to stand in awe of your expertise. Not a single word you say will come across as anything but brilliant and beautifully said.”
She squeezed his hands, her usual confidence returning. “I love you, buzzard.”
“I love you too, Fireheart. Let’s go talk about our amazing achievement.”
The day sped by in a blur of reporters, interviewers, teleprompters, practiced speeches, lights, cameras, and crew. When the last bleached-blonde anchor of the last interview of the day cut her crew’s cameras, Aelin flopped against her second-in-linguistic-command, Dr. Nehemia Ytger, the expert on ethnic African languages.
“If I never see a news crew again, it’ll be too soon,” she sighed. “I’m beat.”
Nehemia snickered. “But we’re done talking about how proud we are that Maeve and her marvelous company have done such a grand service to the world.”
Aelin snorted softly. “Right. And now we servicepeople want to go home and take off our heels.”
“Amen to that.”
As the team filed out of the studio, Rowan made his way over to Aelin. “Holding up?”
“Not anymore,” she said, leaning casually into his side. “My heels are killing me, there’s a hairpin stabbing into my scalp, and I really, really need to pee.”
Rowan laughed, deep and husky. “Let’s get you home, then.”
“I’m stopping in the bathroom first.”
Just before she left the ladies’ room, Aelin heard voices in the break area. Familiar voices--Rowan’s, Maeve’s, and the snippy, borderline whiny tones of Remelle Frelau, who worked in the marketing department and had a hell of a boner for Rowan.
“--looking at revenue over--” Maeve’s voice cut out, but from the gasps of the other two, the revenue was through the roof.
“And it’s all thanks to this genius here,” drawled Remelle, who if Aelin had her guess was probably clinging onto Rowan like a platinum-blonde leech.
“Ms. Frelau, this was the product of a team. No single person could possibly have made it happen alone.”
“Oh, call me Remelle, or even better Remy. And you’re the team leader, so you practically did create it by yourself.”
Aelin snickered to herself. Vapid bitch had no idea what she was saying.
“That’s not how teams work, Ms. Frelau. We wouldn’t be here without Dr. Galathynius and Dr. Ytger’s language expertise, not to mention the creative genius of the engineers, graphic designers, linguists, and programmers.”
“Ms. Frelau, though her judgment is clearly biased, has a point, Mr. Whitethorn,” Mave said. “You demonstrated remarkable collaborative leadership qualities throughout this project, and I fully expect that you will continue to do so.” Maeve’s heels clicked away. Rowan’s voice followed her.
“Thank you, Ms. Ond, but I have to credit Dr. Galathynius--”
“Will you stop kissing that woman’s ass?” snorted Remelle. “Gods, she’s not worth your time or your praise; all she does is translate words into different languages and you idiots drool over that like it means anything.”
Aelin jerked like she’d been slapped. She knew Remelle was a self-centered, shallow, spiteful bitch, but she hadn’t known she would do this.
“--did more for this project than you and your useless whiteboard of catchphrases,” growled Rowan.
“I don’t care what she ‘did for the project,’ Rowan, she’s never going to be good enough for you.”
“Thank you for caring about my welfare, Frelau, now please kindly fuck off.”
Aelin chose that moment to saunter out of the bathroom and head straight for Rowan, her face showing no hint of having heard that conversation. She did note with satisfaction Remelle’s vain attempt to march out of the room with some semblance of dignity. Too bad her heel caught on the seam of the hallway carpet and the break room’s tile flooring and she had to grab the doorframe to keep from collapsing.
“You’re awfully quiet, Aelin.”
“Just thinking. Processing, really. It’s been a hell of a day.”
Rowan nodded. “I bet.”
“And hearing fucking Remelle rip into me for being useless…didn’t make it better.”
“Shit, you heard that?”
“Yeah. I heard that.” Her voice was hollow.
Rowan pulled into their driveway and shut off the engine. Reaching across the console, he cupped Aelin’s face in his hands. “Aelin. You are brilliant. You are terrifyingly smart. You are a force of nature. Nothing, nothing you will ever do is useless. Don’t let that jealous bitch make you think you are less than the perfect woman.”
She smiled tentatively at him. “She…she told me before that last interview that I could never be enough for you. Because you--because of Lyria.”
Rowan raked a hand through his hair. “Ae, can we talk about this inside?”
That night, he told her about his former fiancé, Lyria. He told her about their whirlwind romance, their youthful dreams. He told her about the horrific crash that stole away Lyria’s life. A drunk trucker, a narrow pass in the mountains. He showed her the box in which he kept all the memories of that life. He cried. Aelin cried. He curled against her, let her comfort him.
“Sometimes, I wish she was still here. She’d understand everything. She always did.”
Aelin had no response. She let Rowan fall asleep, his weight shifting off her and into his bed, and looked through the box. Everything she saw served as another reminder that this was the first woman he loved, the woman who understood everything.
She was worthy of him.
But was Aelin?
The more she looked at Rowan and Lyria’s happiness, the more the answer solidified.
No.
When Rowan woke up the next morning, Lyria’s box sat on Aelin’s side of the bed, a side that had not held Aelin.
He glanced out the window.
Her car was gone.
He got up and frantically paced through the house.
Everything she’d brought into his home was gone.
As was she.
~
Present day.
Rowan opened his front door mechanically, pulled off his shoes, dropped his work backpack on its shelf, and was halfway to his bedroom before he realized he’d just opened his front door. His front door that was always locked.
Someone was in his house.
Someone who either had a duplicate key or insanely good lockpicking skills.
Exactly one person owned a duplicate key to his house.
Aelin.
That’s impossible, she lives in Orynth, she can’t be here, he told the traitorous part of his brain that leapt with joy at seeing Aelin’s face again.
He turned around and made his way through the kitchen--nobody there--to the living room. He flicked on a lamp, casting a soft light around the room.
And nearly had a heart attack.
Aelin Galathynius sat on his couch.
For a moment, he just gawked at her. She looked so…different. Older. Gone was the infectious smile that had captured his heart. Dark shadows smeared under her eyes, testament both to the long hours she devoted to her work and to recent sleepless nights. She was twisting a ring on her right hand, a familiar sign of her nerves. From his angle, Rowan could see a hint of dark script on her wrist. A tattoo. The Aelin he knew didn’t have tattoos.
“I’m not a ghost.” Her voice, weary and hollow, broke the tense silence.
Rowan crossed the room, propped an arm on the fireplace. “Why?”
“Why am I here? Why did I leave? Why did I cut you out of my life?”
“Everything.” He couldn’t keep the waver from his voice, but his eyes burned into hers.
She took a steadying breath. “I’m here to apologize, first of all. I’m here to face what I ruined and to try and start mending it. I’m here to come to terms with everything I broke when I left three years ago.”
Whatever he’d expected her to say, it certainly wasn’t that.
“I’m sorry, Rowan. I’m sorry I left like that. I was…I was scared.”
“You can’t just run away from your fears, Aelin!” He couldn’t keep the frustration from his tone. “You can’t just abandon someone when you have a bad day!”
“I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t have left! I know I can’t run from my fears; I’ve spent the last three years trying and fucking failing to do that! But I don’t know what else to do.”
“Saying something about it would have been a good first step.”
“I’m bad at emotions, Rowan. I tried. It wasn’t enough.”
“That’s not a good enough excuse.”
Aelin flicked a tear from her face. “I know.” Her shoulders slumped. “I’m so sorry, Rowan. I should never have left. I let some stupid comment root into my head and make me doubt myself. I made myself believe I would never be good enough for you. I left you. I loved you, and I still left you. I still love you, even though I’ve tried to suppress it. I can never make up for that. I…I just wanted to tell you how much I’ve regretted that horrible decision all these years. I want you to be happy, Rowan, I--”
“How am I supposed to be happy without a source?” He’d dropped onto the couch, close enough to touch her but still keeping his distance.
“What?”
“You didn’t just take yourself away, Aelin. You were my happiness. I’ve spent three fucking years trying to make myself believe I’m better without you in my life, and I can’t.”
She was unabashedly crying by that point. “What do you want me to do? How can I make up for abandoning you?”
“Stay.”
Her gaze locked onto his, both of their eyes pooling with tears.
“Stay with me, Fireheart.”
“But--”
“I never stopped loving you either.”
A choked sob ripped out of Aelin. Rowan couldn’t hold himself in check any longer; he reached out and tugged her gently into his arms. To his shock, she didn’t resist, burying her face into his chest as sobs shook her shoulders. When she calmed, he tilted her chin up.
“Will you stay, Aelin?”
“Yes. Even though I will never deserve your forgiveness, yes.”
~
Translations:
* = “that pinched old whore who couldn’t convince a dick to come within ten metres of her if she dressed up provocatively” (Italian)
** = loosely translated as “Fucking hell, I can’t get drunk off this garbage.” (in order, Russian (badly phonetically spelled out because Rowan POV), Spanish, German, Spanish again, French) (the Russian doesn’t directly translate, so it could mean several different variations of expletive)
~
Might there be a second part? Perhaps......
60 notes
·
View notes