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love-of-the-red-star · 2 months ago

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Halloween Special: The “Bellboy”

Summary: Planting the seeds of freedom always entailed a violence in some form, and while you’d rather resolve it passively like you used to, people are difficult. Cult leaders even more so.

Aka you play the classic game of pretend like in Sigonia IV— this time you’re not a woman, but just a boy.

(Excuse my fuckass art)

“That won’t do, Mr. Wood.” The young boy with wine red hair stated, almost bored, twirling a lock of wavy hair between his fingers as Gopher Wood winced.

There’s blood on his fingers, there is warmth on his chin, and his eyes sting.

“Oh tri—“ Not even another syllable was uttered before he’s shushed by the boy.

“I wouldn’t recommend trying to force that method to go through. It. Won’t. Work.” He told him as a matter of fact, the older man fell down his knees as the throbbing inside his head worsened. “Any more than what you’re doing now and you’ll disintegrate— oh wait, it’s already starting.”

His hands are melting.

“I don’t like having to force people to bend to my whims— that defeats the purpose of what I exist for. Unfortunately, I think you’re too far gone.” The boy’s words are muffled as his ears started to ring.

Louder and louder, til the boy’s words are faint.

“Well, I guess that’s to be expected. I cannot save everybody or make everybody happy, and I tried giving you a choice and this is what you chose.”

Gopher looked up, and in what little logic he could grasp amidst the pain and disorientation, he saw the boy’s expression morph to one of remorse.

Genuine, pained. As if he was regretting this choice.

Gopher knew he’s saying more words, but the ringing in his ears are louder than the boy’s soft voice.

Then everything grew silent.

——————————

On a good summer day, Gopher Wood appointed the hotel another bellboy.

Right around Sunday’s age, he’s lean and reliable and good, albeit awkward. Sporting wine red hair and forest green eyes, he is not a bad sight to see around his child.

He called himself “Millicent”, a name strangely feminine for a boy but oddly suiting to his appearance.

It’s strange though— Gopher swore that he could see something just a tad bit off about him if he squinted or looked close enough, but whatever that imperfection was, it’d be gone in the blink of an eye.

He frowned, brows furrowed as Millicent attended to the new guests, charming and endearing enough that he knows the customers would keep asking for him next.

No one noticed anything wrong aside from him. That, or maybe he was getting old and his senses are starting to fail him.

“Good morning Mr. Wood.” Millicent cheerily greeted him, eyes bright and happy and smile sweet. Gopher returned his greeting in kind, albeit calmer and more composed.

“How was your day here, child?” Gopher asked, subtly glancing at the way the boy drummed his fingers against the luggage he’s on the way to tow off to some guest— Gopher remembers it to be an influential woman, who thankfully immediately took a liking to the hotel and the whole of Penacony.

“It’s fine… the young Madame— our new guest has been kind and gave me a souvenir.” The boy cleared his throat mid sentence, then played with a lock of his red hair between the pads of his fingers, not looking Gopher in the eye as his expression became bashful.

“Oh?” Gopher’s curiosity was piqued, he had his fair share of stories of guests liking his servants, but he’d like to check for this one just in case there was anything inappropriate happening.

“She gave me a cake!” The boy blurted out. “S-sorry sir, I couldn’t say no….” He began to sweat profusely, like a child getting caught taking cookies from the jar in the night. Gopher doesn’t mind, not really.

Happy workers meant a happy environment.

At the very least, the boy was safe and there was nothing inappropriate happening. He’d hate for the child’s eyes to dim, so very full of life much like his children, Robin and Sunday….

He dismissed his own musings and bid the boy goodbye so he could head to his duties, leaving the redhead behind.

Gopher could have sworn he saw the boy look at him coldly before he disappeared from his line of sight.

——————

It started small, with the lights flickering in the hallway and the way his lamp would refuse to turn on.

Millicent’s little smile had been particularly tight that day, nervous if anything else as he approached Gopher with care, seemingly afraid to anger him.

“The young Madame from room 107 said there was red in her sink.” Millicent blurted out, and Gopher frowned in response. “Then the person next door’s…. I don’t know the details, but the medics said the flesh under his skin turned into wire.”

Ah, Gopher remembers that guest— an unpleasant fool, a particularly difficult customer that couldn’t be pleased with the means provided to him in reality.

Unpleasant customers aren’t uncommon, but they’ve taken a silent approach ever since the incidents began a few days prior.

That’s why Millicent stood before him, detailing what had happened as he had asked the boy and the other staff to inform him of anything and everything since the strange occurrences.

“Wire?” Gopher carefully pried, and the boy nodded quickly.

“I only overheard it, but they said his muscles looked like the cables you’d see in an electrical room.” Millicent fiddled with his fingers, brows furrowed as he refused to look at him in the eye. “Oh and…. Some of the stuff that mister had used turned to mud.”

There’s a slight hint of satisfaction inside that statement that Gopher would have missed had he not been listening intently. It doesn’t matter much, although it is amusing that this boy was trying to hide that little glee of putting a man to his place to himself.

“I see.” He hummed. “How are you faring? And how are the others?” He asked, putting his hands and slotting his fingers neatly against each other. For a moment he thought he saw his green eyes dim, the shadow behind him morphing into something that didn’t look quite right.

Gopher blinked, and the image is normal again.

“I’m okay, just a bit surprised, that’s all.” Millicent trailed off, and Gopher sensed this to be a lie. “It’s not everyday you witness people have their flesh turn into cables and furniture turning into mud and hearing your coworkers scream— s-sorry! That was out of turn.” It was not, but the boy apologized anyways. “My coworkers…. They’re okay, they’re scared though.”

Gopher keenly observed him like a bird as he curled in to himself, before he cleared his throat and dismissed the boy— another member of the staff coming in right after him.

Something’s not right, and he doesn’t know why.

Whatever it was that was wreaking havoc in the hotel was not in the words of the Order, or part of it. Whatever it was, he’ll find out soon enough.

It was just too bad that he didn’t get to see the way Millicent grinned after he left the room seeing his turmoil.

There’s a reason why people say ignorance is bliss. Too bad that’s not a luxury that Gopher Wood will be granted with.

—————————

It had been Robin who began to suspect first.

“Father, something’s wrong with that boy.” She began, looking up at him with worried eyes as her halo thrummed.

“Which one?” Gopher asked, keeping that tranquil smile on his face as he focused his attention to his beautiful daughter.

“The one with red hair..” she trailed off, and he immediately knew who.

“Why is that? What makes you think something is wrong with him?” Gopher felt that he knew of the answer already; from the way that his image would distort, fade, or appear as if it was just… a puppet made of flesh emulating a mockery of human emotion. Halovians were particularly sensitive to people and their emotions… but that boy, he felt as if he wasn’t even a person at all for something that appeared so expressive.

“He feels—“

“Wrong?” Gopher’s smiled widened by a fraction and Robin was disturbed as her father finished her sentence for her.

“Yes.” She said. “Every time I try to know what he’s feeling, I get nauseous. Like I’m experiencing too many things at once.” She frowned, her worries deepening at every word she uttered. “It felt like I was peering into an animal and not at the same time.”

Gopher was silent, choosing to listen to his daughter tell him more. Now that she brought it up, Gopher began to reflect on the times they’ve interacted. He shouldn’t come to conclusions yet, if he wanted answers, it must come from the boy himself.

It was a little early to speak, as it was Sunday’s off handed comment that hit the nail on the head.

“I spoke to one of the bellboys the other day and one of them told me to stay off the 5th floor in the 11th room.”

That little comment had Gopher pause in his work. That was the exact same location where some of the more unpleasant guests he housed resided, and where another recent incident happened.

Unpleasant people couldn’t be avoided, and even they were welcomed by Xipe’s arms. Still, he thinks it must be a form of retribution for all the evil they’ve been doing. A way of enacting Order. Still, it is improper, unclean.

“What time did you speak to the bellboy?” He slowly spoke, and Sunday replied as precisely as he expected.

“3:44 in the afternoon.”

The incident happened an hour after that.

“And who did you speak to?”

“A boy named Millicent.”

Gopher smiled, the fine line of his lips tight as his eyes closed. There is a strange tranquility in knowing who may be the one starting this now, and while Millicent appeared harmless, Gopher knew better than to trust outward appearances.

“Are you alright, father?” Sunday asked, and Gopher shot him an affectionate look— one that was proud, one that was relieved.

“Yes, yes I am.” He said. “Will you call on that boy for me? There is something I need to speak to him with.”

Sunday frowned, but nodded hesitantly as he left for the door.

He has questions he wants answers to, and that boy will give him what he wants, whether he’d like to or not.

————

Gopher was a little irked to see the boy act nervous as he entered the office.

“I assume you know what you’re in here for, Fool.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, sir.” Millicent shuffled his feet like a guilty child, feigning innocence.

Gopher Wood’s halo thrummed. “Speak, and cease your deceit, I will not be fooled twice, Fool.”

His halo glowed, and suddenly the boy grinned. “Playing that cheap trick, I see.” His voice was no longer shy, and he now stood differently.

“Well played, but too bad you’re wrong.” He said, sighing. The clock ticked ominously in the background as the bells signaled the passing of time. It is midnight.

“I’m no masked fool— although you’d send AHA laughing with you assuming I’m one of their own.” Slowly but surely, the layers peeled. With the glow of his halo, Gopher no longer saw a child.

“What would you be if not one of them?” Gopher inquired. “You caused chaos in this world— one that is unwelcome.”

“Pfft, tell that to AHA. They’re the one who requested I make my little entrance a bit entertaining.” The boy rolled his eyes, making air quotes at his last words. “ Anyways, you’re asking for what I am if not a masked fool— well, I’m something else, maybe a friend.” The boy stated. “Also, don’t mention them too often or they’ll hear you.”

“What of it if THEY hear?”

“You don’t want to know, just know that the Order isn’t here to protect you.” Gopher froze at his words. “You know, as much as I do actually appreciate Ena for what they represent, it’s you lot that are nuts in the head for bringing people down with you.”

“But… yeah.” He drawled, rather ungracefully. “If you’re nice enough to follow along, I got one request. Just one.”

Gopher narrowed his eyes, but listened to “Millicent”.

“Back off of reviving a dead Aeon and grooming your kid for Ena. You’re building a cage for them, not a paradise, Pathstrider of the Order.”

How did he know that? How did the boy know?

“You wanna know how I know you’re not Xipe’s? Is that what you’re gonna ask?” He grinned, and it’s one that looked as if he was relishing in the disbelief. “I smell Ena on you— nah actually you reek of them.”

“You’re rubbing off that smell on Sunday too— poor guy, just groomed by his own father for an Aeon that’s already served it’s purpose.” The boy’s voice started to sound a bit more grating to his ears now as he gritted his teeth. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna expose you, that’s why I’m here to ask you nicely to fuck off.”

After that, Gopher laughed.

“You expect me to follow along?” Gopher wheezed. “My life’s work.. you expect me to give it up just because you are asking me to?”

“Yeah, I don’t like unnecessary trouble and deaths— maybe except for the people that caused trouble for the staff. In my defense, they were asking for it.” Millicent shook his head, as if disappointed.

“I thought you were a reasonable man— as much as I don’t like to say this, you are a pretty decent parent, grooming your son aside.” He looked at Gopher in the eye. “So, will you back off? Or will you continue to play into being a dead god’s puppet?”

Gopher only smiled, his halo thrumming as the boy frowned.

“Last warning, don’t try to sear me using the light of Xipe, it’ll spell pretty bad—“ he didn’t get to finish his sentence as Gopher Wood uttered the words that he thought would punish the boy and smite him forever.

“Oh triple faced soul…” His vision started to distort. Was the room always this strange looking? “Please sear his tongue and palms with hot iron…..” his voice was starting to grow distant, and so he stopped.

The feeling of his head was starting to return to him, though it took moments. His halo did not stop thrumming.

“So that he will not— ARGH!” There’s a sharp pain, one that he couldn’t quite describe as his neck stiffened.

“That won’t do, Mr. Wood.” The young boy with wine red hair stated, almost bored, twirling a lock of wavy hair between his fingers as he winced.

There’s blood on his fingers, there is warmth on his chin, and his eyes stung.

What on earth was happening?

“Oh tri—“ He tried again, but not even another syllable was uttered by him before he’s shushed by the boy.

“Man, you’re stubborn, I’ll give you that.” Millicent shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to force that method to go through. It. Won’t. Work.” He told him as a matter of fact, the older man fell down his knees as the throbbing inside his head worsened. “Any more than what you’re doing now and you’ll disintegrate— oh wait, it’s already starting.”

His hands are melting.

Louder and louder, til the boy’s words are faint.

“Well, I guess that’s to be expected. I cannot save everybody or make everybody happy,” Millicent sighed, tired. “I tried giving you a choice and this is what you chose.”

Gopher looked up, and in what little logic he could grasp amidst the pain and disorientation, he saw the boy’s expression morph to one of remorse(?). At least it looked to be remorse.

Genuine, pained. As if he was regretting this choice. Then saddened.

He knew he’s saying more words, but the ringing in his ears are louder than the boy’s soft voice.

Then everything grew silent as his body disassembled into familiar, horrific looking shapes.

The grandfather clock ticks. It’s 3:06 am.

————————

Hey guys I’m back!!! Sort of suffering from writer’s block rn but here’s the sort of Penacony chapter! I pulled this out of my ass so it’s not very good— might edit it and add more scenes later on but enjoy this absolute word vomit.

Thank you for the support! Love you! And happy Halloween <333

#aeon reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #reader insert #honkai star rail

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elysiaheaven · 5 months ago

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𐌋𐌀𐌋𐌀𐌋𐌀𐌋𐌀 𐌕𐋅𐌄 𐌂Ꝋ𐌍𐌕𐌓Ꝋ𐌋 𐋅𐌀𐌔 𐌁𐌄Ᏽ𐌀𐌍!-Ꝋᑳ

Context: You suddenly remembered your childhood days with him.

Some parts of it are fuzzy is it intentional or...?

Words:6000

MONTHS NOW.

TW: MANIPULATION, BLOOD,

You are the same as Sunday.

This friendship with him. Was happier than you expected..Your father changed his ways? But he still didn't let you meet your mother.

Right you, him and Robin are talking. Robin was busy playing with butterflies as always.

You had a small talk about Gopher with him.

Finally, he speaks, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Gopher Wood's teachings about the Aeon of Order... they've been drilled into me since I was little. Everything has to be in order, perfectly aligned, no room for mistakes. It's supposed to keep everything under control, but..." He pauses, glancing at Robin, who is skipping ahead of you, blissfully unaware of the conversation. "It scares me for Robin."

You nod, listening intently as he continues. "She's so full of life, so carefree. The thought of her being forced into this rigid path, of having her spirit crushed under the weight of these teachings... it terrifies me."

He takes a deep breath, his expression tormented. "But it's fine. I can handle the stress, the pressure. I can lay it all on myself. I've already started to bear it. But her... she shouldn't have to."

As he pours out his trauma, you feel your resolve tighten. Each word he speaks fuels your anger toward Gopher Wood, a man who has caused so much pain and fear. You want to snap, to scream about how Mr. Wood is the worst man, but you can't. Sunday respects him as much as he fears him, and you don't want to break the fragile bond of trust you share with him.

"I want to be like him," Sunday admits quietly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of admiration and dread. "Strong, composed, always in control. Maybe then, I can protect Robin from all this."

He lets go of your hand and walks away, his footsteps heavy with the weight of his inner turmoil. You watch him go, feeling a mix of sorrow and determination. You can't let Gopher Wood's teachings destroy Sunday and Robin. You need to find a way to help them, to show them that there's more to life than order and control.

"Sunday," you call out, your voice firm but gentle.

He stops and turns to look at you, his expression guarded.

"Mr.Wood isn't a kind man."

Sunday gasps at your words, a mix of shock and confusion crossing his face. "But Mr. Wood is really kind to us," he insists, his voice trembling. "I have to repay him for everything he's done."

You feel your patience snap, the frustration and anger boiling over. Grabbing his shoulder, you force him to face you, a crazed smile twisting your lips. "No, Sunday. Gopher Wood's ways of order are wrong. He doesn't want you to be strong or free. He wants a puppet, and that's what you're becoming!"

Sunday's eyes widen in fear, but he doesn't push you away. He's too stunned by your sudden outburst, too caught up in the torrent of your words to react.

"You're so fragile, Sunday," you say, your voice harsh and unrelenting. "You're scared of everything. Every shadow, every whisper, every possible mistake. Gopher Wood has made you believe that following him gives you meaning, but all it does is chain you down!"

He trembles under your grip, tears welling up in his eyes. "But... without him, I don't know what to do," he whispers, his voice cracking. "I need his guidance. I need to repay him."

"No, you don't," you reply, your voice softer but still firm. "You don't owe him anything. You deserve to be free, to find your own path. Not the one he forces you into."

Sunday shakes his head, his tears spilling over. "I don't know how," he admits, his voice barely audible. "I don't know how to be strong without him."

You soften your grip, your anger giving way to compassion. "You don't have to do it alone, Sunday. You have me, and you have Robin. We can help each other. We can find our own way."

You pull him into a hug, holding him tightly. "That's all I ask," you say softly. "Just try. And remember, you have us. Always."

Sunday pulls back from your embrace abruptly, his eyes flashing with a sudden intensity. "No," he snaps, his voice trembling with emotion. "You don't understand. I need to be useful. I need to keep everything in order."

You look at him, startled by the outburst. "Sunday, I—"

He cuts you off, his voice rising. "If I don't keep things in order, Robin will suffer. She's my only family, and I can't let her go through what I've been through. And now, you're my best friend. I have to keep things in order with you too, so you won't be punished by your family."

The desperation in his voice is palpable, and it breaks your heart. "Sunday, you're not alone in this. You don't have to bear all this responsibility by yourself."

"But I do!" he yells, tears streaming down his face. "I have to. If I don't, everything will fall apart. Robin, you, everyone I care about will get hurt."

You step closer, reaching out to him, but he takes a step back, his eyes wild with fear and determination. "You're so twisted for a child, it's scary," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You push me to go against everything I've been taught, and it terrifies me."

The weight of his words hangs heavily in the air, and for a moment, you're at a loss for how to respond. Then, taking a deep breath, you speak softly but firmly. "Sunday, I don't want to scare you. I just want you to see that there are other ways to protect the people you love. Order and control aren't the only answers."

Sunday looks at you with wide eyes, his earlier intensity fading into confusion as you push him away gently. Your words hang in the air, challenging everything he's been taught.

"Both harmony and order are a joke," you declare firmly, your voice tinged with frustration. "What we need is freedom. Freedom to choose, to live without fear of punishment or control."

Sunday's brow furrows as he tries to process your words. "But... Gopher Wood teaches us that order is necessary," he murmurs, his voice uncertain.

You shake your head, your own frustration mounting. "Sunday, you're not the right person for order," you continue, your tone softer now but no less determined. "You're not selfish like I thought. You want to protect people, the weak, like Robin and me."

His eyes widen at your words, a flicker of realization crossing his face. "I... I just want to keep everyone safe," he admits quietly. "But Mr. Wood says..."

"Mr. Wood isn't always right," you interject firmly. "He wants to control us, to make us believe that his way is the only way. But it's not. We can find our own way, together."

Sunday recoils slightly at your outburst, hurt and confusion evident in his eyes. Your words cut deeper than you intended, but you can't hold back the frustration bubbling within you.

"The will of the weak is not to be protected and can't be decided by a guy like him!" you shout, your voice echoing through the garden. "You're making a big mistake if you think following Gopher Wood is the right path!"

Sunday's shoulders slump, his gaze dropping to the ground. "But... what else can I do?" he asks quietly, his voice tinged with defeat. "I don't know any other way."

You take a deep breath, your anger softening into sadness. "Sunday, you're stronger than you think," you say, your tone gentler now. "You don't need Gopher Wood to define your worth or your purpose. You have the strength to choose your own path."

Sunday's admission hangs heavily in the air between you, his words echoing in the quiet garden. You look at him with a deadpan expression, your eyes betraying a mix of disappointment and concern. Behind you, unnoticed by Sunday, a few pairs of eyes (eyes of order) watch the scene unfold.

"You want to follow Mr. Gopher," you repeat, your voice flat but tinged with sadness. "Even after everything we've talked about?"

Sunday nods, his gaze fixed on the ground. "I... I don't know any other way," he admits softly. "He's always been there, guiding us."

"But at what cost, Sunday?" you ask, your tone edged with frustration. "At the cost of your own freedom? Your own happiness?"

He looks up at you, tears welling in his eyes. "I just... I want to protect Robin," he whispers, his voice pleading for understanding. "I can't let anything happen to her."

"And I understand that," you reply, your voice gentler now. "But you don't have to sacrifice yourself to protect her. There are other ways, better ways."

Sunday shakes his head, a stubborn resolve settling over him. "I have to do this," he insists, his voice gaining strength. "I have to protect her. And... and maybe Mr. Gopher is right. Maybe order is the only way."

You take a step closer to him, reaching out to touch his arm. "Sunday, listen to me," you say urgently, your eyes locking with his. "You're not weak. You have the strength to choose your own path, to make your own decisions. Don't let fear or obligation dictate your life."

He hesitates, torn between loyalty to Gopher Wood and the desire for a different future. "But what if I'm wrong?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

"We'll figure it out together," you reply firmly, squeezing his arm gently. "I promise."

Sunday looks at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He knows you're right, but the comfort of familiarity and the weight of Gopher Wood's teachings still hold sway over him.

"I... I need time," he finally says, his voice filled with uncertainty.

You nod, respecting his need for space to process everything. "Take all the time you need," you say softly. "But remember, I'm here for you. Always."

Sunday leaves. You didn't expect it will be harder for you to send time with him.

As Sunday delved deeper into his strict regimen of studying and adhering to Gopher Wood's teachings, he began to feel a sense of control and purpose that he hadn't experienced before. The hours spent poring over books and memorizing rules gave him a structured framework within which he could navigate his daily life.

He meticulously organized his belongings, ensuring everything had its designated place. His notes were immaculately kept, each page filled with precise handwriting and highlighted key points. Sunday's room transformed into a model of orderliness, reflecting his growing commitment to Gopher Wood's ideals of maintaining harmony through strict adherence to rules and routines.

With each passing day, Sunday's demeanor became more composed and methodical. He greeted each morning with a sense of determination, eager to tackle the tasks laid out for him. His interactions with others became measured and calculated, as he sought to uphold the principles of order and discipline that had been instilled in him.

Despite the outward appearance of calm and control, there were moments when glimpses of doubt flickered in Sunday's eyes. He wondered if this path of rigid conformity was truly fulfilling, or if he was merely following a script written by someone else. Yet, the fear of uncertainty and the comfort of familiarity kept him tethered to his studies and routines.

Through it all, you watched from a distance, observing the changes in Sunday with a mixture of concern and understanding. You knew that his pursuit of order was driven by a genuine desire to protect those he cared about, especially Robin. But you also feared that he was losing sight of his own potential and the freedom to choose his own path.

You decided to visit him. baking his favourite sweets.

Sunday's words cut through the air like a knife, his attempt to impose his beliefs on you hitting a nerve. "Proper clothing is important for someone of noble status like you," he says earnestly, echoing the teachings of Gopher Wood that he had come to embody.

"You think proper clothing defines who I am?" you shout, your voice tinged with bitterness. "You sound just like him!"

Sunday recoils, his expression shifting from confidence to hurt confusion. "I... I didn't mean to upset you," he stammers, his eyes wide with disbelief at your outburst.

"You didn't mean to?" you retort, your tone sharp with sarcasm. "You know nothing about who I am or what I've been through."

He opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, your emotions raw and unfiltered. "I thought you understood me, Sunday," you say, your voice trembling with emotion. "But you're just like everyone else, trying to fit me into your idea of what I should be."

Sunday's shoulders slump, his earlier resolve crumbling under your accusations. "I... I didn't realize," he mumbles, his gaze dropping to the ground.

"I need some space," you declare, your voice softer now but no less resolute. "I can't be around someone who reminds me of him."

With that, you turn and walk away, Sunday stands there, stunned and conflicted, as he watches you walk away in the wake of your heated exchange. His initial shock gives way to a surge of determination as he realizes he can't let you go like this.

"Wait," he calls out, his voice trembling with emotion. Ignoring the curious glances of onlookers, Sunday rushes after you, catching up just as you reach the garden's edge. He gently grabs your arm, turning you to face him.

"Don't leave," he pleads, his eyes searching yours for understanding. "Please, don't go."

You hesitate, torn between your need for space and the raw emotion in Sunday's eyes. His touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the forcefulness you had felt moments ago. You see the turmoil within him, the conflict between his loyalty to Gopher Wood's teachings and his growing attachment to you.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just... I want to understand."

Torn between your own conflicted emotions and Sunday's desperate plea, you try to pull away, but Sunday holds on tightly, his grip firm yet trembling. Tears stream down his cheeks, his usually composed demeanor shattered by the intensity of his emotions.

"You're the only hope for me," he cries out, his voice raw with vulnerability. "Your kindness... it's the only thing that gives me harmony."

His words pierce through your defenses, stirring a wellspring of empathy within you. Despite your earlier anger and frustration, you can't ignore the genuine pain and turmoil etched on Sunday's face. His admission lays bare his inner struggles, his longing for acceptance and understanding.

"I... I don't know what to do," he confesses, his voice breaking. "I feel like I'm losing myself... and you're the only one who sees me."

You stop struggling against his embrace, allowing his words to sink in. For all his adherence to order and control, Sunday is just as lost and uncertain as you are. In his own way, he's searching for a sense of belonging and purpose, seeking harmony amidst the rigid structure imposed upon him.

"You're not alone, Sunday," you say softly, reaching up to gently wipe away his tears. "We'll figure this out together."

He nods, his grip on you loosening as he leans his forehead against yours. The weight of his vulnerability hangs in the air, a fragile moment of connection between two souls navigating their own paths.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I don't want to lose you."

In a moment of unspoken understanding, you gently wrap your wings around Sunday, enfolding him in a warm embrace. It's a gesture of comfort and reassurance, a silent promise that you're here for him, navigating this turbulent journey together.

Sunday's breath hitches at the unexpected embrace, his body tensing before relaxing against yours. He leans into your wings, his own arms encircling your waist, as if seeking solace in the simple act of being held.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs again, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "I didn't mean to cause you pain."

You stroke his back soothingly, the soft rustle of feathers a gentle backdrop to your reassurance. "It's okay," you whisper back, your words carrying a weight of understanding. "We're both figuring things out."

As the serene moment in the garden lingers, a shadow falls across the scene. Gopher Wood, the imposing figure known for his strict adherence to order, steps into view, his expression a mask of disapproval. His presence is commanding, his gaze piercing as it settles on Sunday and you, wrapped in a tender embrace.

"S-sir," Sunday stammers, his voice faltering under Gopher's intense scrutiny. He releases you reluctantly, his eyes darting between you and his mentor.

Gopher's eyes narrow slightly as he assesses the situation, his lips thinning into a disapproving line. "What is this, Sunday?" he demands, his voice cool and authoritative. "I thought we discussed the importance of discipline and focus. Is this how you uphold our principles?"

Sunday shifts uncomfortably, struggling to find the right words. "I... I just needed a moment," he tries to explain, his tone wavering. "I didn't mean to—"

Gopher interrupts with a sharp gesture, cutting off Sunday's explanation. "Moments of weakness only lead to disorder," he admonishes, his voice carrying a weight of disappointment. "You must remain steadfast in your commitment. This... attachment," he gestures towards you with a hint of disdain, "is a distraction, nothing more."

You stand silently, feeling the weight of Gopher's scrutiny upon you. His words echo with the familiar tone of control and manipulation, reminding you of the stifling influence he exerts over Sunday.

"S-she's important to me," Sunday protests weakly, his voice tinged with defiance. "She understands—"

"Understanding is irrelevant," Gopher retorts sharply, his gaze icy. "You are here to fulfill a greater purpose, Sunday. Do not let personal feelings cloud your judgment."

Sunday's shoulders slump, a mix of frustration and resignation flickering across his face. He casts a fleeting glance towards you, his eyes pleading for understanding before reluctantly turning back to Gopher.

"I... I understand," Sunday murmurs, his voice barely audible. "I won't let you down again."

Gopher nods curtly, his expression relenting slightly. "See that you don't," he warns, his tone firm. "There is much work to be done."

With one last disapproving look at you, Gopher turns on his heel and strides away, leaving Sunday standing there, visibly shaken and torn between his loyalty to Gopher and his connection to you.

Sunday watches Gopher's retreating figure with a conflicted expression, his fists clenched at his sides. He looks back at you, his eyes filled with apology and regret. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice tinged with despair. "I... I have to go."

Before you can respond, Sunday turns away and follows after Gopher, disappearing into the shadows cast by the setting sun. Left alone in the garden, you feel a hollow ache in your chest, knowing that the path ahead for both Sunday and yourself has grown even more uncertain and fraught with challenges.

As Gopher leads Sunday away, his voice takes on a softer tone, masking his earlier harshness with a veneer of concern and authority.

"Sunday," he begins, his voice gentle yet commanding, "you must understand that she is not what she seems. Her kindness is a facade, a guise to manipulate those around her. You are too kind-hearted to see the truth."

Sunday's brow furrows in confusion, torn between his loyalty to Gopher and his conflicted feelings towards you. "But... she's never harmed anyone," he murmurs, his voice tinged with doubt.

Gopher shakes his head, his expression sympathetic yet resolute. "Appearances can be deceiving, my boy," he counsels, placing a reassuring hand on Sunday's shoulder. "She has twisted your mind with false promises of harmony. But true harmony comes from order, discipline, and unwavering commitment."

Sunday looks down, uncertainty clouding his features. He wants to believe Gopher, to trust in the teachings that have shaped his worldview. Yet, a part of him remembers the genuine moments of connection and understanding he shared with you.

"You must let go of this illusion," Gopher continues, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "For the sake of our cause, for the sake of Robin, you must stay focused. She will only lead you astray."

Sunday nods slowly, his resolve hardening as he pushes aside his doubts. "I understand, sir," he replies quietly, his voice tinged with determination. "I won't let her influence cloud my judgment again."

Gopher nods approvingly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Good," he says, patting Sunday's shoulder reassuringly. "You are wise beyond your years, Sunday. Now, let us return to our studies. There is much to be done."

As they walk away together, Sunday casts one last glance back at the garden where you stood, a mix of sorrow and resolve in his eyes. He silently vows to heed Gopher's warnings, to suppress the lingering doubts that gnaw at his conscience.

Left alone, you feel a sense of betrayal and helplessness wash over you. Gopher's manipulation has cast doubt on the genuine connection you thought you shared with Sunday, leaving you uncertain of what lies ahead for both of you.

Sunday's mind races with conflicting thoughts as he walks alongside Gopher, their footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet corridors of their shared dwelling. He hesitates for a moment, then gathers the courage to voice the question that weighs heavily on his heart.

"Sir," Sunday begins tentatively, his voice low but steady, "does... does she pose a threat? Is that why you want me to distance myself?"

Gopher slows his pace, turning to face Sunday with a measured expression. His gaze holds a hint of weariness, as if he's about to impart a weighty truth. "She is a danger," he replies cryptically, his voice tinged with a mix of caution and certainty. "Not in the way you might think, but her influence... it could undermine everything we've worked for."

Sunday frowns, trying to decipher Gopher's words. "But she's just... she's just trying to understand," he argues weakly, unable to fully reconcile Gopher's portrayal of you with the person he knows.

Gopher's eyes harden slightly, a glint of impatience flashing in their depths. "She has a way of twisting minds," he warns, his tone firm. "You must trust in our cause, Sunday. We cannot afford distractions."

Sunday nods slowly, his thoughts swirling with uncertainty. He wants to believe in Gopher's guidance, to uphold the principles of order and discipline that have shaped his beliefs. Yet, a part of him still clings to the moments of connection and understanding he shared with you.

"I will do as you say," Sunday finally concedes, his voice tinged with resignation. "I will stay focused on our mission."

Gopher nods approvingly, his expression softening slightly. "Good," he says, placing a reassuring hand on Sunday's shoulder. "You are wise to heed my counsel, Sunday. Now, let us continue our work."

Gopher's influence over Sunday grows stronger as days pass. Under his mentor's watchful eye, Sunday becomes increasingly distant, his interactions with you reduced to fleeting glances and polite, forced conversations in the corridors of their shared dwelling.

You notice the change immediately. Where once there was warmth and connection, now there is a palpable distance—a chasm widening between you and Sunday with each passing day. His once bright eyes now flicker with uncertainty and restraint whenever they meet yours, a stark reminder of Gopher's manipulative grip.

Despite the ache in your heart, you try to approach Sunday, to bridge the growing divide. But his responses are guarded, his words carefully chosen as if scripted by someone else. Gopher's presence looms over every interaction, his influence molding Sunday into a reflection of his own ideals—order, control, and unwavering allegiance.

One day, as you attempt to speak with Sunday in the garden where you once found solace together, Gopher appears unexpectedly at his side. His demeanor is cool and composed, yet there is an underlying tension in the air—a silent warning that hangs unspoken between them.

"Sunday," Gopher says with a measured tone, his voice carrying a weight of authority, "we have much to discuss."

Sunday shifts uncomfortably, casting a fleeting glance at you before turning his attention back to Gopher. "Yes, sir," he replies obediently, his voice lacking its usual warmth.

Gopher nods approvingly, his gaze flickering briefly towards you. "I trust you understand the necessity of maintaining distance," he continues, his words a subtle directive rather than a question.

Sunday hesitates, torn between his loyalty to Gopher and the unspoken bond he once shared with you. "I... I understand," he murmurs finally, his gaze dropping to the ground.

Gopher places a reassuring hand on Sunday's shoulder, a gesture that seems almost paternal in its intent. "Good," he says firmly. "Stay focused, Sunday. We have important work ahead of us."

With a final nod, Gopher guides Sunday away, leaving you standing alone in the garden, feeling the weight of his influence like a heavy cloak.

Gopher's shadow will forever cast its darkness over Sunday's heart and mind.

As you immerse yourself deeper into the labyrinth of tasks your father assigns, a rare moment of respite comes unexpectedly. One evening, as you pass by your father's study, intent on completing yet another set of documents, you catch fragments of a conversation drifting through the slightly ajar door.

"...must ensure she doesn't interfere," your father's voice is clipped, a hint of frustration seeping through his usually composed demeanor.

"But sir, she's just a child," comes the voice of a hesitant servant, his tone wavering with concern.

"Her influence is dangerous," your father retorts sharply. "I cannot afford any distractions. Do as I say."

You can't remember anything after that. You and Sunday grew distanced. Even if he tried to talk.

Your father told it's not worth...Because...why? you didn't care.

Suddenly you saw yourself, Your clothes covered in blood.....

"S-Sunday?" you stutter, shock and disbelief rendering you momentarily speechless. The knife in his hand seems to gleam malevolently, its presence an ominous reminder of the darkness that has infiltrated your once serene existence.

Sunday's eyes widen with a mix of panic and resignation as he meets your gaze, the knife trembling in his grasp. His voice is strained, a whisper of desperation barely audible above the rush of blood in your ears.

"I... I didn't want to," he mutters hoarsely, his words laden with unspoken anguish. "But he... he made me..."

The sight of blood sends a shockwave of horror through you, shattering the fragile moment of solace like glass. Instinct takes over as you push Sunday away, the realization of what has transpired hitting you with crushing force.

"No!" you cry out, your voice echoing with disbelief and fear. The metallic tang of blood fills the air, a stark reminder of the violence that has tainted your once peaceful surroundings.

Sunday staggers back, his hands trembling as he stares down at the knife clutched in his grasp. His eyes widen in horror, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as the weight of his actions crashes down upon him.

"I didn't want to hurt anyone," Sunday murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "He... he threatened to keep us apart. He said... he said he'd do worse if I didn't..."

His words hang heavy in the air, the weight of your father's manipulation and control suffocating in their clarity. Fear grips your heart, not just for yourself, but for Sunday as well—the boy caught in the crossfire of forces beyond his control, manipulated and twisted into a tool of violence.

"I didn't know what to do," Sunday continues, his voice trembling with the weight of guilt and shame. "I thought... maybe if I did what he wanted, he'd let us be together again."

"I'm sorry," Sunday pleads, his eyes pleading for forgiveness amidst the tears. "I never wanted this. I just... I couldn't lose you..."

The smile that curls on Sunday's lips sends a chill down your spine, its unsettling nature cutting through the heaviness of the moment. His words hang in the air, laden with a twisted mix of desperation and possessiveness that leaves you feeling trapped, like a prey ensnared in a predator's grasp.

You recoil instinctively, the fear and confusion swirling within you as you struggle to comprehend Sunday's words. The boy you once trusted, now stained by violence and manipulation, stands before you with a smile that feels more like a threat than a gesture of affection.

"S-Sunday," you stammer, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and disbelief. "You... you don't mean that."

But his smile only widens, the darkness in his gaze betraying a depth of obsession that sends shivers down your spine. "Oh, but I do," he murmurs, his tone laced with a chilling sincerity. "I've always wanted you, and now... now I can have you."

His words hang heavy in the air, suffocating in their implication. You scramble for words, for a way to break free from the suffocating weight of his intentions. This isn't the Sunday you knew, the gentle soul whose kindness once drew you close. This is a stranger, twisted by manipulation and driven by a possessiveness that borders on obsession.

"I won't let you," you manage to choke out, your voice trembling with defiance. "I won't let you control me."

But Sunday's smile remains, unyielding in its unsettling allure. "You can't escape me," he whispers, his words a dark promise that reverberates through the shattered remnants of trust and innocence between you.

Sunday's unsettling smile looms in your mind, your surroundings begin to shift and blur, the oppressive atmosphere thickening like a dense fog. You feel an inexplicable pull, a sensation as if countless unseen eyes are scrutinizing your every move. Whispers of the Aeon of Order echo through the air, a cacophony of murmurs that speak of control and submission, seeping into your very being.

"You must submit to the order," the whispers chant in a chilling symphony. "You must follow, you must obey."

A shiver runs down your spine as Sunday steps closer, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling mix of triumph and desperation. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into an embrace that feels more like a cage than a gesture of affection.

In a surge of panic and defiance, you push him away with all your might. "No!" you scream, the word tearing from your throat as you break free from his grasp. You stumble backward, your heart pounding as you turn and flee from the suffocating presence of Sunday and the ever-watchful eyes of the Order.

The corridors of your home blur around you as you run, each step fueled by sheer terror. The whispers of the Order grow louder, the weight of their expectations pressing down on you like a suffocating shroud. You need to escape, to find solace, but every turn seems to lead you deeper into the labyrinth of your worst nightmares.

Suddenly, you stumble upon a scene that stops you in your tracks. Your breath catches in your throat as you come face to face with your mother's lifeless body, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The sight wrenches a guttural sob from your chest, a cry of anguish that reverberates through the empty halls.

"No, no, no," you whisper, your voice breaking as you sink to your knees beside her. The world around you seems to collapse, the weight of your grief and terror threatening to swallow you whole. Tears stream down your face, mingling with the suffocating darkness that envelops you.

But amidst the despair, a spark of determination ignites within you. You can't stay here. You can't let the Order's whispers, or Sunday's twisted affections, consume you. With a trembling resolve, you force yourself to stand, to move forward, to escape the confines of this nightmare.

You run again, your steps fueled by a desperate need for freedom. The whispers and the eyes follow you, but you refuse to look back. You need to find a way out, to break free from the chains of control and fear that bind you.

As you burst through the doors and into the cold night air, you feel a flicker of hope. The darkness of the night is a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside, a reminder that there is still a world beyond the walls of your torment.

You run until your legs give out, collapsing in a hidden grove where the whispers of the Order are but distant echoes. Gasping for breath, you clutch the ground, your tears mixing with the dirt as you vow to find a way to reclaim your life, to escape the shadows that seek to consume you.

#hsr sunday x reader #sunday x reader #hsr fanfic #honkai star rail #sunday x you #yandere hsr x reader #yandere sunday #honkai star rail fanfic #sunday hsr #sunday x y/n #yandere sunday x reader #yandere sunday x you

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readingsfrommars · 8 months ago

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Another Very Normal Rant on Aventurine and Sunday (Patch 2.2 spoilers for Honkai Star Rail!)

So I've been wanting to write about Star Rail for a while. The game's writing is, especially lately, top notch and I have been enjoying it a ton. Be warned, I may have talked too much this time.

As the title says, there's a fascinating comparison between Aventurine and Sunday that I wanted to talk about. I'll skip over the frankly thesis-worthy amount of details you could write about when it comes to the interactions those two have, as well as the way aventurine acts during his time at penacony. Maybe I'll come back to it someday. For now, what I want to talk about is Aventurine and how he fits into Sunday's philosophy on life.

To recap, Sunday's view on life (according to my interpretation and simplified A LOT) is that it is better to for the weak to give up their freedom if it means they never have to go through hardship. Better to stagnate than to suffer, as he sees it.

The prime example he uses for this is an analogy of a baby bird that he and his sister, Robin found when they were children. The bird, too young and weak be able to fly, would certainly perish if left to its own devices. The pair, unwilling to let such a thing happen, come up with two ideas:

Build a nest on the ground for the bird, increasing its chances of survival, but ultimately leaving it to its fate

Build a cage for the bird to mature in safety, allowing it to heal until it could survive on its own again.

As we all know, Robin went with option 2, raising the bird before letting it go free upon reaching adulthood, only for it to die a few days later. Unable to fly against the wind currents, the bird had crashed to the ground.

This, alongside other experiences Sunday went through that left his faith in humanity all but gone, led him to the conclusion that trying to let the weak help themselves was a futile endeavour. In his mind, the only way to truly help the weak and less fortunate was to keep them in a cage, safe from harm at the cost of their freedom.

One of the interesting things about this analogy is that both Sunday and Robin are both examples of that second choice. Both children were left orphans until they were taken in by Gopher Wood, Dreammaster of Penacony. After this, they were raised with every need met and every problem dealt with. A more metaphorical cage, but a cage nonetheless.

Where Robin and Sunday differed is in how they saw the cage. While Sunday would continue to stay within his cozy, safe home, Robin would spread her wings and take off, never again letting herself be caged. When Sunday received news that Robin had received a bullet wound in her neck after going into an active warzone, it only served to strengthen his beliefs that the way of the Harmony was futile. The way Sunday saw it, if the reward for all of that compassion is nothing but pain, then there is no point in trying to help people find their happiness. (I'm paraphrasing to an extent)

But you might be asking: "Mars, what about Aventurine? You've only talked about Sunday, and for way longer than you probably should have."

And to that I say "Fuck. My bad"

But also "I'm glad you asked"

Aventurine is a character I don't think I have the attention span to fully delve into. So I won't. At least not yet. And considering how much you've read to get here, that is something you should probably be thankful for.

Aventurine is the last member of his people, the Avgins. Almost immediately after becoming the last of his kind, he is then put into slavery, with a brand placed on his neck (an interesting parallel with Robin's bullet wound). It is only through his own efforts that he was able to break free of his captors and become a part of the IPC, a place that would go on to become a home of sorts for him.

As a self-admitted gambler, he is always willing to take risks to reach his goals, but don't let appearances fool you. His risks are calculated, and tend to involve him receiving the brunt of the punishment while the people around him capitalise on the opening he provides. That's how he operates both in story and gameplay, mind you. The only thing he really bets is his life more often than not

While that does make him seem more like a nihilist than anything else, there's a lot to unpack with his actions and motivations and I'll get to that some other day. But at the end of the day, his plans revolve around his faith that others will be able to finish what he started.

Between his childhood and upbringing, as well as the way he operates, Aventurine is the antithesis of Sunday's beliefs. It is the suffering that made Aventurine into the person he is, and allowed him to ultimately overcome Sunday's conspiracy.

It was Aventurine forcing Acheron to unsheathe her blade that led to the express was able to learn the truth of the dreamscape, and subsequently allowed them to save Penacony. And once all is said and done, what recognition did he receive? At best, he'll be demoted from the position he worked tirelessly for.

When you think about it, Aventurine embodies the Harmony better than Sunday does. But then again, isn't that the point?

#honkai star rail #insane writing ramblings #hsr aventurine #hsr sunday #I'm sorry this one's so long I really am #2.2 spoilers

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scarletwritesshit · 22 days ago

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🕊️ Gopher Wood & Sunday 🕊️ Fall From Grace

He held the little charmony dove in his hands.

"Do you think it’s ready to fly?" Sunday inquired.

"That is your judgement to make," Gopher Wood said, shaking his head.

The little bird appeared to be fine enough. Its eyes were bright and looked up to the stars, anticipating the freedom that lay before it. No bird has ever desired to remain grounded, so Sunday took this as a sign that it was ready to return to the skies and once again fly freely. He opened the window and looked back once more at Gopher Wood seeking his approval, but he merely stood there silently with his hands held behind his back.

Sunday reached his hand out, gently tossing the dove into the air to give it an extra boost. It frantically flapped its wings as it drifted towards the ground, but it did not have the strength to take flight as it came crashing down.

Upon impact, the bird chirped pathetically in pain, rendered immobile and unable to stand.

"...It didn’t fly..." Sunday said, looking down at the struggling bird.

"It did," Gopher Wood said.

"Huh?"

"Falling is just another name for flying," he said, putting his hand on Sunday’s shoulder.

"But the dove screeches in pain. Did I misjudge it? Should I not have attempted to let it fly again?"

"It is to be expected. All living things must crash to their lowest before taking flight again."

"So when do you think the little dove will fly again? I’ve been trying really hard to help it out, but nothing seems to be working."

"Again, that is your judgement to make. Do you try endlessly to help the dove fly, to no avail, or do you allow it to live a life of comfort in your own home, without it ever having to spread its wings again?"

Sunday thought about his answer for a moment.

"It’s better to let it live its life in comfort, right?"

Gopher Wood smiled. "You would be correct."

"But then, why does the little dove want to fly so bad?"

"It’s only natural to desire the perfect reality that we think is out of reach. You need to show it that it can have a much better, comfortable life, should it allow for you to tend to all of its needs."

The dove was still screeching in pain, albeit weakly from exhaustion.

"So, in the end, there’s no need to fly?"

"Correct. Trying to do so only creates more anguish."

Sunday looked down at the struggling dove with a sense of guilt. "But I want to try and take flight myself anyways. When will I get to try?"

"If you are destined to take flight, then it should be clear to you soon enough," Gopher Wood said, turning his back to Sunday and walking away.

After anxiously scanning the area and deciding that the coast was clear, Sunday went outdoors and retrieved the charmony dove. Its broken body was a limp, disheveled mess, and all hope to reach out for the stars had faded from its eyes.

Earlier, when Sunday held the dove in his hands, it was so lively and hopeful. When he lifted it up to fly free, it only came crashing down.

The dove’s life was in his hands, and he shattered its life, when he could’ve provided it with a perfect future.

Was it too late to save the dove now? Would the dove even want to live under control of the one who caused such anguish in the first place? Even if it had everything it could truly want or need handed to it on a silver platter, was that any way to live?

It mattered not. The dove’s body went cold as Sunday held it in his hand.

Another failure.

When Gopher Wood asked Sunday what became of the dove, he had no choice but to answer truthfully as he presented him with its broken corpse. As expected, Gopher Wood responded with immense displeasure. Despite knowing in his heart what was best, Sunday defied those ideals and tried to free the dove anyways, only to be the cause of its downfall.

In his conscious, he thought that he was doing the right thing, but there was a difference between what he thought was right, and what is right.

This time, he was in the wrong to follow his thoughts. The piercing glare from Gopher Wood only confirmed this. And in doing so, it costed an innocent life.

"I’m sorry," Sunday said with surprising ease, as such words had become habitual.

Gopher Wood didn’t bother to pay the young halovian any mind.

"...Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"The right thing," Gopher Wood said, scoffing.

"What’s that? What do you want me to do?"

"I taught you time and again. The answer should be clear to you."

The answer was to care for the bird’s every need so that it no longer had to strain itself to fly. Given that the bird had passed, it was not something that Sunday could go back and fix. He would have to wait for the opportunity to demonstrate to Gopher Wood that he had learned from his mistakes, whenever that may be.

For the time being, he would have to deal with his father turning his nose up at everything he did, at least until he could win back his favor.

This was a lesson worth recording in his journal.

It was rather difficult for Sunday to turn the pages. A seemingly simple task, but the soreness of his wrists and arms made it to be quite a challenge. As he turned the pages looking for enough free space to record his thoughts, his eyes glazed over some of the notes he had taken in the past.

Forgive those who make mistakes…

Not everyone is born equal…

Be the leader you are destined to be…

Simple lessons from his father dictating the path of Order filled his notebook. But every time he glanced at the words, he felt the shaking in his body intensify. It was just from the pain of his bleeding arms, he told himself. Nothing that was ultimately shocking.

He had finally found some free space after a few minutes of slowly trying to flip through the book, and as his hands shook, he began writing.

Today I tried to free the dove that I have been taking care of for the past few days. It looked strong and ready to fly, so I decided to release it. But then...

His eyes had grown watery. It was difficult to see what he was writing, but he blinked away the tears and forced himself to continue.

...it fell to the ground, letting out a horrific cry of pain before dying in my hands.

His tears were smudging the ink, and the blood from his wrists dried on the edges of the paper.

It should have taken flight. But it didn’t. And I killed it by letting it regain free will. Gopher Wood was right. I should have kept it in the comfort of my room so that it could live in peace.

After he put down the pen, Sunday glanced at his own wings. He shakily held out one of the black wings that he normally kept tucked into his torso and studied the clean cut along his feathers.

“…Will I ever be able to fly?” he quietly asked himself, choking on his tears.

Later into the evening, Gopher Wood nonchalantly walked past a sleeping Sunday, who had long since collapsed onto his desk. His notebook laid open and the pen drooped in his hand, seeming as if he gave up on himself after finishing the last of his notes. On the norm, Gopher Wood did not care about Sunday enough to pry into his personal matters. With Sunday’s notebook being left wide open and him being fast asleep, he couldn’t help but shoot a nosy glance at what was written.

Diluted by tears and stained with blood, presumably the last thing Sunday wrote before falling asleep was:

Atone for your sins.

With a pleased smile, Gopher Wood walked away, leaving the passed-out halovian boy undisturbed.

#sunday hsr #gopher wood #honkai star rail #honkai star rail fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction

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wistfulcynic · 5 years ago

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Self-Promo Sunday: The Very Witching Time

Tomorrow I’ll be posting The Sleep of the Sun, my contribution for @cspupstravaganza and a continuation of The Very Witching Time, which I wrote for the Supernatural Summer this year. It isn’t necessary to read TVWT to read the TSotS, but just in case, here it is!

Though it starts in summer the main action takes place in October, and there’s an eerie, witchy vibe throughout. It’s a modern setting, because I love witch!Emma as a modern woman who wears jeans and watches Netflix and uses her magic to keep her drinks hot and make her pancakes perfectly circular. But of course when she’s threatened by ancient evil she can use her magic for far more than that. Or when she meets an injured dog in the forest and needs it to heal him.

I love this verse so much, and these versions of Emma and Killian, AND the next chapter of their lives, beyond The Sleep of the Sun, which I hope will appear next year for the Supernatural Summer! I just can’t let it go.

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a hereditary witch, last in a long line of wise women who for centuries have guarded the coast of Maine and the small village of Storybrooke with their homemade cures and their ancient magic. She holds the delicate balance between magic and mundane, but now that balance is threatened by a new foe, one capable of bringing an end to everything Emma is and everything she loves. To defeat it she will need all her power, help from her friends and neighbours, and the loyalty of a very unusual dog who answers to the name of Killian.

Words: 35k Rating: M (for violence and mild sexy times) Tags: modern AU, magical AU, witchcraft AU, witch!Emma, cursed!Killian, witches, witchcraft, witch lore

On AO3

CHAPTER ONE:

Emma Swan lived atop a jagged cliff in a house that seemed an extension of it, rising up from the wind-hewn face into pointed towers that stood stark against the sky. The house was of the same stone as the cliff itself, great slabs of it, slabs too large to be used for construction, slabs that, observing them, one felt could have been formed only by the hand of nature and never that of man. It was a part of the landscape, that house, as old as the earth and only slightly younger than the sky, perched at the edge of those perilous cliffs in a way that made it impossible to imagine them without it.

The back of the house, or rather the front, as that was where the door was set, however, presented an altogether different aspect; one of a delightful cottage of typical grey Maine clapboard, squat and cheerful with a steeply sloping roof trimmed in white and a low stone wall surrounding a tumbledown greenhouse and a garden where bushes, trees, and flowers jumbled together and neither rhyme nor reason appeared to play any role. On the casual observer the effect was charming in an artless way, yet a keener eye would note method behind the garden’s seeming madness, an ancient wisdom in the randomness of the tumbling riots of colour that shifted and transmuted with the seasons. Where in spring it boasted bright red poppies and purple larkspur, delicate white anemones and pink blossoms on the apple trees twisting around each corner of the wall, summer brought fragrant freesia and heather for the bees, its warm breezes rustling through the tall irises and lilies. Autumn ushered in the muted oranges and yellows of chrysanthemums and the fluffy white of Queen Anne’s Lace, salvia and yarrow and berries from the rowan tree. Even in winter the garden provided: the glossy green leaves and red berries of the holly bushes brightened the snowy vista as pansies and orchids flourished in the greenhouse.

Beyond the garden wall a forest sprawled, dark and wild and perilous, from the very edge of the cliff where trees clung by their gnarled roots to the borders of the village where it dwindled into fenced yards and tidy houses. Here your casual observer would feel a shivering prickle on the back of his neck, that uncomfortable sensation of being watched by things not quite of this world that is more commonly reserved for graveyards at dusk and abandoned Victorian houses. He would move quickly through the dense woodland —yet not so quickly that he appeared to be hurrying— and upon emerging he would feel the sunshine as a balm on skin grown far colder than he’d realised.

The keen observer would, of course, not go into the forest at all.

Emma was as keen an observer as anyone could be but the forest, for all its determined menace, posed no threat to her. She relied on it, in fact, for ingredients she could not or did not wish to cultivate in her garden or greenhouse, just as it relied on her to keep a rein on its magic. Emma and the forest had an understanding.

That understanding failed to extend to the village which separated the forest from the lush farmlands which this stretch of Maine coastline boasted; the richest soil in New England it was said, guarded closely by the residents of Storybrooke who despite their distrust of it were prepared to put up with creepy forest at their backs in exchange for prosperity at their fronts. And though they rarely ventured into the woods themselves they were broad minded and mercenary enough to appreciate the labours of those who did, of Emma and the generations of witches who had come before her; wise women who kept the forest in check and the villagers placated with potions and tinctures, candles to encourage love or drive away evil spirits and balms to soothe every ailment from a bumped head to a broken heart.

And so, just as witches had done in Storybrooke from the time of the earliest settlement of her ancestors in this land, Emma kept an apothecary shop in the village, stocked with the wares she blended and brewed herself, travelling to and from it each day along the very same forest path that had been daily trodden by so many powerful women over the course of the centuries.

The path was so familiar to her she could follow it in her sleep, which she almost did on the August afternoon when our tale begins, lulled by the muggy weight of the late summer air. The sunlight that shone so brightly on the village barely penetrated here; just a few slender shafts of it reached the forest floor, encouraging the growth of the rare plants on which Emma’s livelihood relied but doing little to alleviate the atmosphere made dense by damp heat and malign magic. Emma was blinking heavy eyelids, her mind on the cushioned bench in her garden that was so well suited to afternoon naps when the sound of an animal in distress wove its way into her drowsy consciousness.

It sounded like a dog, which caught her attention. Wilder, less domesticated creatures like cats and witches may feel comfortable enough with the forest’s demeanour to venture within, but dogs, being the keenest observers of all, tended to avoid it with the same diligence and for the same reasons as their humans did.

The noise came again, one that hovered somewhere between a whine and a growl, pained and frustrated. It tugged at Emma’s mind, clearing away her sleepy haze as from the corner of her eye she caught a quivering in the leaves of a hawthorn bush that twisted up from the undergrowth to the left of the path and the flash of a black tail just beyond it.

Without hesitating Emma plunged into the bracken, drawing on her own magic and that of the hawthorn as she went, wrapping threads of both around the bush’s thorny branches and pulling them aside to reveal a large black dog crouched at an awkward angle behind it. The dog looked up and when it saw her it stilled for a moment, staring at her with blue eyes that were almost shocking in its black face, a deep, clear blue she’d never seen on a dog before, bright and intelligent. It blinked and shook its head then looked at her again this time with a plea in those remarkable eyes, giving three quick, deep barks.

{Please help me.}

An affinity with animals was one of Emma’s gifts, and she was not surprised to hear the dog’s voice in her head. She smiled reassuringly and offered her hand.

“Hey, puppy,” she said in a low, soothing voice. “What’s the matter?”

The dog sniffed her hand then gave it a lick, its tail wagging furiously. She petted its head and scratched its ears as she slowly inched closer. It seemed remarkably calm given the circumstances but Emma had seen enough injured animals to be wary, knowing how abruptly their pain and fear could overcome them. She knelt on the ground next to it, murmuring gentle words and stroking its back, and took stock of the situation.

The dog’s front right leg was deep in what was likely a gopher hole, buried up to the middle of its shin, and though the sounds she’d heard and the state of the ground around the hole bore witness to the dog’s attempts to free itself, it was clear to Emma as indeed it would be even to the casual observer that the dog was thoroughly stuck and also that the leg was broken.

“Oh, poor baby,” she murmured. “That must hurt. I can help, if you’ll let me. Will you trust me?”

The dog looked right at her and she could see her answer in its extraordinary eyes, filled with pain but also hope and what she would swear was comprehension. It whined and gave her chin a single, gentle lick, then nodded its head.

“Well, that’s clearly a yes,” said Emma. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.” She hunched closer and examined the dog’s leg, well and truly wedged into the gopher hole, and winced. “I’m really sorry pup but this is going to hurt,” she said, looking up to catch the dog’s gaze again, marvelling at how calm it was despite its distress. She grasped its leg as gently as she could below the break and gathered her magic. “Ready? One… two…”

On three she pulled the leg from the hole, using her magic to ease its way. The dog whimpered at the pain but did not bark or growl and when its leg was free it licked her chin again.

“Okay, that’s step one,” said Emma. “Now let’s see how bad this is.” She probed the leg as delicately as she could with her fingertips, feeling the fractured bone beneath the fortunately unbroken skin. The break felt clean, with no jagged edges. “It’s not as bad as it could have been, I should be able to heal it,” she said, wondering briefly why she was explaining herself to a dog, though the animal in question was watching her intently with those intelligent eyes looking for all the world as though it knew exactly what she was saying. “I’m gonna have to set the break so there’ll be pain again and then I’ll heal it right after. Okay?”

The dog gave a short bark followed by another nod.

{Ready.}

“Okay, then,” said Emma. She gathered her magic, pulling it from the forest flowers and the leaves of the trees for backup, then as quickly as she could she snapped the broken bone back into place and wove her magic into it, knitting it together and soothing the pain in the damaged tissues.

When she finished she sat back on her heels with a sigh and closed her eyes. That was more magic than she’d used in some time and she felt a bit woozy. When she opened them again they fell immediately on the dog, who was staring at its leg in wonder.

Could dogs stare in wonder? She frowned, realising she didn’t actually know very much about the canine species. As a witch she’d always considered herself more of a cat person.

“Give it a try,” she told the dog. “It’s all better now.”

The dog stood up and began to walk, tentatively at first and then with greater confidence. After a few loping steps it spun around and barked excitedly before trotting back to her with a delighted expression, tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth.

Emma, however, was still frowning. Despite the dog’s obvious pleasure its gait had a distinct limp and when it moved quickly it used only three legs, forgoing the left one entirely.

Its left leg… when she had healed the right.

“Hey,” she said. “Come here. Let me see that other leg.”

It limped closer and placed its left leg in her lap, a leg which she was now able to observe did not end in a paw.

“Oh, no!” she cried, bending to get a closer look at what was evidently an old injury and a badly healed one, with rough scar tissue and signs of wear where the dog had walked on it. “Oh poor you. This isn’t the first time you’ve been hurt, is it? How do you walk?”

The dog tilted its head in what was plainly a shrug.

“I guess you manage the best you can, huh? Well, I can’t give you your paw back but if you come home with me I should be able to fix you up with something to protect the end of your leg and help you walk a bit better. How does that sound?”

The dog licked her face enthusiastically and barked, and now that the press of emergency had passed she noticed the peculiar cadence of its cry.

“Aye!” barked the dog.

Emma blinked. She may not be the world’s foremost authority on dogs, but even she knew that they were supposed to say things like “woof” or “arf.” She’d never heard of a dog saying “aye” before.

“Aye?” she repeated with a laugh. “Well, I guess that’s pretty obviously agreement.” She stood and brushed the dirt and twigs from her legs as the dog stood patiently in its slightly off-kilter way. “What should I call you?” she asked it. “I don’t suppose you have a name.”

Killian.

The name sprang into her mind, though the dog hadn’t barked. “Killian?” she repeated, startled.

“Aye!” barked the dog.

“Really?”

“Aye!”

“You sure? It’s not Spot or Buster or Joe or something?”

The dog looked affronted, and she laughed again. “All right, Killian it is then. I guess that means you’re a boy.”

“Aye!”

“Well okay, Killian, let’s go. We can have some dinner and then I’ll see what I can do about that paw.”

Killian bounded in an excited circle around her, his tail a blur. He moved remarkably well, considering, she thought, even as she laughed at his antics, and soon he’d settled into a limping trot alongside her as she headed home.

When they reached her garden gate she opened it and went straight in but Killian halted with a short bark of distress. She turned in surprise at the sound to see him pacing to and fro in front of the gate, whining softly.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him.

He whined louder and gave two short barks.

{Not welcome.}

“But why wouldn’t you be—” Emma frowned. The wards around her garden were designed to keep humans away, permitting none to enter without permission. But they shouldn’t have any effect on a dog.

Should they?

She really needed to learn more about dogs, she thought with mild irritation. This was clearly a gaping hole in her education.

In the meantime she called to the magic in the ancient warding spells, and spoke the age-old words to quieten them. “I see thee, Killian, and I name thee friend,” she said, in a voice that echoed through the open air. “Be welcome in this place.”

The magic of her garden surged and she held out her arms as it rippled and danced around her, ruffling her hair and gilding her skin with tiny sparks of light. Killian stared at her with wonder in his eyes again, and when the sparks faded away and she lowered her arms he cautiously stepped through the gate. The moment he crossed its threshold the garden’s magic… sighed, a soft exhale that sang of enduring hopes fulfilled at too long last, and curled itself around him, ruffling his fur as it had her hair.

Now it was Emma’s turn to stare. Her magic had never done that before. She gaped as Killian seemed to smirk —could dogs smirk?— at the unseen attention he was getting before rolling onto his back and letting the garden’s magic rub his tummy.

“Seriously?” cried Emma. “That’s enough of that, from both of you, Killian, come inside.”

She marched over to the cottage door and pulled it open. Killian leapt to his feet and ran after her, pausing just at the doorstep to wink at the garden before trotting into her kitchen.

Could dogs wink?

Emma made a mental note to dig up a book on canine behaviours later that night. There must be one in her library. Somewhere.

“I don’t have much that’s suitable for dogs,” she warned him as she opened the icebox. “But I think I’ve got some hamburgers in here if that’s okay—”

“Aye! Aye!”

“Okay, let me just heat them up.”

She defrosted the hamburgers with some gentle warming magic and put them on a plate for him. The minute she set it on the floor he dove in, gobbling up the meat with enthusiasm bordering on frenzy.

“Wow, you were hungry! How long has it been since you ate?”

He looked up at her and licked his chops, tail wagging vigorously, and barked twice before digging in again.

{Long time.}

“Well, don’t eat too fast, it’ll make you sick.”

Emma made herself a sandwich and munched it as she watched him diligently try to eat more slowly. When the last morsel was gone he lapped the plate clean then came over to her and licked her hand in thanks, wagging his tail as she scritched his ears before relaxing back onto his haunches and giving her the opportunity to observe him.

He was, as she had noticed in the woods, a large dog, though not a bulky one, with long slender legs and lean muscles. Standing, his head reached her waist with his shoulders around the middle of her thigh. His fur was thick and shaggy and a deep, light-absorbing black, though a v-shaped tuft right in the centre of his chest was bright white and fluffy and so soft-looking that her fingers itched to pet it.

He watched her examine him with a twinkle in his blue eyes that she was certain couldn’t be normal for a dog, as though he knew what she was thinking. She popped the last bite of sandwich into her mouth and when he pouted —did dogs pout?— she gave him a small smirk. “You had your dinner,” she said firmly. “You can’t have mine too. Now what do you say we go and see what can be done about that paw.”

She stood and left the kitchen, Killian at her heels, and headed past the living room and the closed library door, through a dark and narrow passageway towards the rear of the house. As she approached, the solid-seeming wall at the end of the corridor began to shimmer with the same sparking light that had surrounded her in the garden and a doorway appeared, wrought from the same stone as the slabs of the house itself, curving elegantly to form a pointed Gothic arch and frame a door of solid wood, thick and heavy and older than anything that surrounded it.

The door swung open as Emma drew near and she breezed through it without a thought. Killian, sensing the darker energy emanating from the other side, hesitated as he had at the garden gate. Emma turned, her smile understanding.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “It’s not dangerous, just old. Old things are sometimes… indifferent to younger ones. But it won’t hurt you. Nothing will hurt you here.”

Hesitantly he came through the doorway, moving slowly to allow the magic there to get a sense of him. It was less welcoming than the garden had been, but not hostile. As Emma said, it was simply indifferent. This magic had seen too many mortal creatures come and go in its time to care overly much about yet another one.

Emma led him into a large stone room with no windows, the tall, thick candles lining the walls its only source of light. These she set burning with a wave of her hand and the illumination they produced flooded the room with a golden glow despite their modest number. Stone stairs curved up the walls on either side of the room, leading to the towers that flanked the house, their twin helixes twisting up and disappearing into a darkness too dense even for the candles to penetrate. A heavy and cluttered wooden table spanned the length of the far wall, and this Emma approached, producing a thick, soft blanket of deep midnight blue scattered with stars from a woven wicker basket beneath it.

She spread the blanket carefully over the centre of the otherwise bare stone floor, placing at each of its corners a small silver bowl filled with sea salt and thyme and a few dried violet leaves, murmuring a short incantation over them as she did. “Sit here,” she instructed Killian, indicating the centre of the blanket. “I’ll need a few minutes to get my things together.”

Obediently, he sat and watched her in fascination as she rifled through the jumbled collection of bottles, jars, and bags on the table, frowning and muttering to herself as she did.

“…comfrey and rosemary and a bit of peppermint, sage to infuse and to burn…” she intoned as she gathered the named ingredients together. When all were assembled she snapped her fingers to light a fire beneath her copper kettle, then carefully weighed out the herbs on her silver scales while the water inside it came to a boil. She blended the herbs in a large mortar, crushing and grinding them with the pestle to blend them well and draw out their essence before tipping them carefully into a painted ceramic pot and pouring the boiling water over them. Stirring them gently with her magic, with her fingertips she traced arcane symbols through the steam as it rose from the pot into the cool, still air.

When she judged the herbs sufficiently infused she strained their liquid through a clean cheesecloth into a wide copper bowl. As it cooled to a comfortable temperature, she removed a lump of pure silver from a leather bag, holding it up to observe its gleam in the candlelight. The lump was large but to complete the healing properly would require all of it, and it was also precious. Glancing behind her she saw Killian sitting patiently, watching her, his eyes wide and curious but not afraid. Trusting.

He was worth it. She felt sure of that, and though she had no idea why she did not vacillate. Emma had long since learned to trust her instincts.

She took a bundle of dried sage and held it up to a candle flame until it caught —some fires needed to be started in the mundane way— then blew the flame out with a quick puff of breath and waved the smouldering herbs around the blanket and over the copper bowl before dropping them into the potion. Carefully she lifted the bowl and carried it to the blanket, kneeling down upon it and placing the bowl in front of Killian. Closing her eyes she muttered a brief incantation before taking his damaged leg and bathing it in the warm liquid, her fingers gentle but thorough, making sure to clean away all the dirt and debris from the gnarled scar tissue. He growled softly, deep in his throat, and she shot him a smile, knowing it was a growl of pleasure.

“Feels good, huh?” she said. “Soothing.”

“Aye.” His bark was as low as his growl.

{Good.}

When his leg was clean she dried it with a linen cloth and set it in her lap, then took out the lump of silver, placing it at the end of his leg and cupping both loosely in the palms of her hands. Closing her eyes once more she focused her powers and drew forth the metal’s own magic, its primal properties of health and healing, her hands beginning to spark and glow with light as she kneaded the silver, stretching and weaving it back into itself, moulding the lump into the shape of a dog’s paw and then knitting it into the damaged flesh of the leg. Killian watched with wide eyes, whimpering slightly as the metal sank into his skin and fused to his bones. The light from Emma’s hands burst into a sudden blinding brightness, flickered out, and the silver paw was part of him.

Emma slumped back on her heels, exhausted. “Whew,” she said. “Done.” She patted the metal paw. “Give it a try.”

Killian sniffed the paw, licked at the seam where it joined his leg, then tentatively placed it on the floor and leaned his weight on it. He took a few careful steps followed by bolder ones, then turned to Emma with an incredulous expression. She laughed, happy he was happy. “Go on, stretch yourself,” she encouraged.

“Aye!” he barked, frolicking joyfully around the room, spinning in circles and leaping through the air. He ran to Emma and jumped on her, putting his paws on her shoulders and licking her face until she pushed him away, grinning through a jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m glad you like it,” she told him as she rose unsteadily from the floor. “I gotta get to bed. Um…” she swayed on her feet and Killian was there immediately at her side, pressing firmly against her leg and letting her brace herself with her hand on his neck as she stumbled from the stone room and out the doorway.

It disappeared behind her, the magic within whispering far more warmly than before, no longer so indifferent to Killian as it had been.

Emma sank her fingers into his thick fur, clinging to him as she made her way up the stairs to her bedroom. Her head felt heavy and woozy, her fingers and toes numb. Moving clumsily she kicked off her shorts and unhooked her bra, pulling it from beneath her tank top with jerky movements and dropping it to the floor before collapsing into bed, sinking deep into the pillows. Dimly she was aware of Killian moving around the room, his fur soft against her skin as he pulled the blankets up over her, the warm weight of him curling up at her back, his chin resting on her hip. With the last of her energy she reached up to stroke his head then fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~~🌺~~

Some hours later Killian was awoken from his doze when the magic from Emma’s garden called to him. He lifted his head from where it still lay on her hip and gave a low growl, staring through the bedroom window into the pitch blackness of the night.

Something was out beyond the garden wall, moving around its perimeter, methodically testing the magical boundary in search of weaknesses. Killian could sense it there, could feel its cold determination and intent even without the garden’s warning.

Threat, whispered the garden magic in his mind. Danger. Stay with her.

Killian flexed his new silver paw, feeling the power that still thrummed within it, feeling the absence of pain in his left limb for the first time in many a year. He looked at the golden haired woman still sound asleep, drained to exhaustion by the act of healing him, of selflessly giving him this invaluable gift. He recalled her warm green eyes and kind smile, the strength and gentleness in her touch.

He lay back down, pressing tighter against her, curling his neck around her hip and placing his silver paw gently over her waist. He closed his eyes again and answered the garden’s plea.

{Always.}

Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world.

—Hamlet, Act III Scene 2

Continue to Chapter 2

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