ashoney | (no subject)

[Sunday's eyes shine golden like a cat's in fire light.]

Ah, there it is. The satisfaction.

[The fall hurt. It hurt more than anything he's ever experienced, and he deserved to feel it. Aventurine is not the one who gets to bask in his suffering, however. Only the Nameless deserve that honor; it was they who cast him from the sky.

Aventurine is an opportunistic nocturnal scavenger, emerging only after the sun has fallen to gather scraps left behind by the light. Snake. What right does he have to gloat?

Sunday winces, and a low groan steals his breath before he can snarl out any accusations.

The pain twisting through his body and soul lets him know he is awake. Nothing can actually hurt anyone in the sweet dream.

How he wishes he could go back there now. If he dreams in the cell, will he enter the Hotel's lobby? Or will he be a stowaway, risking madness with every moment he spends dreaming?

...A pointless question. The dream is no longer his, and the dreamers have all awoken. If he goes back, whether in a conventional way or not, he will be alone—a king stalking the broken streets of his fallen kingdom.

Sunday is silent, his wings curling forward then folding back as he thinks dark thoughts. Then he remembers Aventurine is crouched in front of him; solid, grinning. The waking world is more surreal than the dream.]

And now that you have your satisfaction, what will you do? Linger here to insult my pride?

[He lifts his chin to meet Aventurine's gaze.]

Or...

Shoot me?

[A pause as he reconsiders.]

Hm. No, not that... A knife across the throat seems more your style.

[ Satisfaction, is that what Aventurine feels? It is, he supposes, what he should feel, crouched before the man who'd reached slender fingers into his mind, cased the joint, and left a mess in his wake. The arrogant god-king dethroned, it should be a more delicious sight. But those chains are far too tight, and Sunday's breathing weighted by pain. How long has it been since Sunday has slept? Is deprevation a safety measure or further torment?

Aventurine ignores the slimy snarl in the pit of his stomach and holds his grin with the studied grace of a master dancer. ]

You have such a low opinion of me! [ He pretends to pretend to sound hurt. Whatever pain he does feel, he refuses to give Sunday credit. ] What could I possibly do to you that would hurt you more than you've already been hurt?

[ Admittedly, he is not immune to twisting the knife, even now. It brings him no joy. He wishes it did. Wishes he felt anything other than nebulous flaring anger at everything around them and sick pity for the not-quite-so-smug albatross. ]

There's no sport in that, little bird.

[Sunday's feathers ruffle at being called "little bird." His already distorted halo flickers miserably, but his expression remains still as carved stone.

"Just kill me," he nearly hisses. "If that is really what you came for."

Yet he can't bring himself to say it. He refuses to mewl and beg for his life, but he doesn't want to die. Maybe the sweet dream paradise failed, but he can bring eternal happiness to mankind in some other way. He just has to live through this.]

You? Heheh... not much...

Your IPC handlers, however...

They could do plenty.

[They can hand him off to the Family, where he will be tried and executed as a heretic. If he ends up in particularly vicious hands, maybe his execution will be public. The whole universe can watch the once proud Head of the Oak Family kneel before losing everything from the neck up.

The IPC will not torture him. The Family could, though. Would. Will. Despite their apparent desire to elevate the weak, not all of them were good people. They detested anything out of harmony. And Sunday, the perfect and beautiful Bronze Melodia, has spent the last decade singing a different song.

He cannot fall into their hands, not yet.

Sunday's golden eyes slip closed as he allows his wavering consciousness to reach out around him. His song is different, but his command of the Harmony is still strong. Order exists all around him. It is there in the march of civilized progress, in the development of language, in mathematics, in the very make of the cosmos. It is in Aventurine, too, in his colonies of unified cells, the rhythm of his heartbeat. All Sunday has to do is reach out, find the right string, and pluck it, sending a musical vibration through the other man.

The tuning is much more gentle than the Harmony's consecration had been. Instead of an intrusive assault commanding obedience, it is a silent request for attention.]

Release me.

[The demand is spoken without words directly into Aventurine's mind.]

Edited 2025-11-01 16:41 (UTC)

[ Familiar birdsong curls into dreamy shape in his mind. However faint, Aventurine knows that tune well. A whisper, a wish. His fingers flex and flutter. Freedom, he understands the desire, even if he's long given it up, himself. An easy enough thing to grant... until his stomach pits.

He jolts with clarity, stumbling back, teeth clenched and bared. Hands balled to fists. Aventurine's eyes flash, animal wild. For an instant, he is that boy again, shackled and branded, ready to lash out at whatever means him harm.

But it's just a caged bird before him, bruised and beaten and delirious. Aventurine finds his breath, masters himself, swallowing the lava that had rushed to the surface and hiding that bitter, biting part of him away. In the next second, he's standing straight, relaxed. He adjusts his tie, smooths down his sleeves, refusing to meet Sunday's eye, now. ]

Nice try, but bad form, Sunny. If you're going to make it in this brave new world, you're going to need to learn that you're a pawn now, not a bishop.

[ He spares the former Bronze Melodia a withering glance, then takes a step back, toward the dark room's solitary door. ]

What interest does a fallen religious idol offer the IPC? None. And you don't even realize you're freer than you've ever been.

[Aventurine jolts back at his mind's touch, and he feels the gently vibrating string go still, then fall away from his grasp.]

Heh...

[A laugh rolls bitterly from Sunday's chest as he slumps weakly in the cell's uncomfortable metal bench. The chains binding him pull at his body, forcing him back upright. Have the cells always been this horrible, he wonders. Is this where he'd been sending Penacony's unfaithful? Maybe he does deserve this.

Aventurine's last comment drags another humorless chuckle from his lungs.]

Free? I am not free...

[A small part of him remembers toppling from the heavens and feeling something deep down in the core of his being break. Within his soul, a sheet of tempered glass fractured into a thousand blades of light, and a fiery beast sprang loose from behind it. What that creature could have been, he doesn't know. It is hard to imagine any aspect of himself as free when all he sees are the dark walls of a prison cell.]

If a fallen sun is of no use to you, then it shouldn't matter if I am alive or dead, right? So what is the point of keeping me here?

[Demanding his release is better than having it offered to him out of misguided charity. It is certainly better than begging. So, for the sake of his dignity, he keeps at it.]

[ It's not often that Aventurine makes a bad bet, but he supposes he's done so here. Penacony's fallen Bronze Melodia has given him nothing but grief, climbed into his mind and not apologized for the mess he made. When considering the state Aventurine left the Sweet Dream in, he personally thinks them even. So, why is he even still here? It's the tuning, probably, still stuck in his mind like chewing gum in hair.

Aventurine leans against the doorway, one step closer to freedom, and crosses his arms over his chest. ]

How should I know? [ He shrugs one shoulder. ] But if you're not the customer, your the commodity, and I can think of one person interested in buying your freedom.

[ Sunday is bound up as much by his pride, his straightened tie and perfectly pressed trousers way of being as he is by these strange chains. Nothing he says is going to break through that, Aventurine realizes. And so, he shoves himself away from the doorframe. ]

Word of advice? Figure out how to make yourself more valuable so she doesn't have to pay the difference.

Edited 2025-11-04 05:24 (UTC)

[Sunday is sinking deeper into himself, allowing pain and despair to drown out all other sensations. Only in agony is he kept awake.

Then Aventurine says something that rouses the fallen sun from his maudlin stupor.]

...Robin?

[His wings spread rapidly, shedding downy silver feathers that drift to the floor around him. Fear grips his lungs until it is difficult to breathe. When he finally manages to speak, the music is gone from Sunday's voice and replaced with a tight, worried tone.]

No. My sister is virtuous and kind. I am the one who committed the crime and I am the one who should pay the price. I know you IPC bastards bargain with more than coin or credits. Don't... Don't let her pay for my freedom.

[He'd promised himself he wouldn't plead, but he is pleading now. Now that a life far more valuable than his own is on the line. The IPC will not kill Robin, he knows that much. But they could easily rob her of her happiness.]

Please. If there is any goodness in your stone heart, do not let her buy my freedom. I'll... make myself valuable. What do I have to do?

[A sharp breath rattles from his throat as he lifts his chin to meet Aventurine's eyes. Their gazes meet only for a moment before Sunday feels disgusted with himself and this display of weakness. Almost reflexively, his wings fold forward over his eyes, severing their gaze and shielding him from the sight of his prison and his once-pawn who now has power over him. ]

[ What was he thinking? He shouldn't have come here. He shouldn't have done this. It seems they just don't make monsters like they used to. Sunday may feature in the nightmares that have dogged him since his dip in Nihility's river, a many-eyed beast, bright and beautiful and cleanly brutal, but he just doesn't compare to the cold, animal terror of watching someone bound and chained beg for the only thing they have left. It is instantly and completely disarming.

Aventurine wrinkles his nose. ]

Come on now. She has free will.

[ He cannot resist making the jab, matching insult for insult. And then feels a little nauseous over it right after. Aventurine flattens his palm on the top of his hat, tipping the brim down to obscure his eyes. ]

The Aeons are going to war, and you don't really care for any of them, right? A guy at rock bottom with nothing to lose, and still you're lucky enough to be of interest to influential people. [ He doesn't even have to work for it. Privileged brat. ] So, take a chance. Pick a side. The one you think will help her most.

[ Aventurine rests his knuckles against the heavy metal door separating them from the rest of the world, ready to free himself from this waking nightmare. ]

As for the songbird... I'll give her a nudge toward safety. [ A pause, a scowl. ] For her. Not you.

["For her," is all Sunday can ask for. Aventurine has spun the truth into lies before, but he wouldn't harm Robin. Sunday has to believe that.

Slowly, hesitantly, he parts his feathers just enough to glance at the Stoneheart.]

...Thank you.

[The luminous golden eyes that peer out from between silver pinions are still those of the Oak Family's Head. Still bright and full of fire. But the sly, predatory gleam isn't there. Instead, there is sorrow and uncertainty.

He isn't the everburning Sun anymore. He is a man.

Stripped of his wings and bound to the earth. He isn't sure if he'll ever get used to this, but he has to try for Robin's sake. And for the sake of his promise.

The feathers close, obscuring his face once more as he sits back with a low hiss.]

[ Sisters who catch and carry every burden, who face more, work harder, and think faster than anyone gives them credit for, who take care of foolish brothers that fail to see just how resilient they are -- they deserve more than a flat roll of the dice. Sunday is right. She doesn't deserve to suffer for his sins.

Aventurine tries not to think of who waits for him in the next aurora, who was not there on Nihility's other side. He can't -- and won't -- shield Robin entirely, but there's a path through this that benefits everyone, he is certain.

Not even out the door, and already his mind buzzes. Time is limited, but a few messages to the right folks should set the ball rolling. Lines form between links in the great web of Penacony, something takes shape in his imagination, a big payoff... or a considerable bust. He likes his odds. Maybe Jade will even forgive him overplaying his hand in the Sweet Dream.

It's here that he catches a glimpse of Sunday, that soft little bird hidden beneath the Bronze Melodia's wall of haughty arrogance. Another good bit of advice, he thinks, would be for Sunday to break that little bird's neck and bury it outside, deep, where no one can dig it up and exploit that weakness. But he doesn't say that. ]

Relax, lean into your restraints. It hurts less. [ A pause, he works his jaw. ] And the next time they put them on you, tense up as they're secured.

[ Now, finally, he raps his knuckles on the metal door. Clang! Clang! Clang! It's especially loud in this awful, dark room. His eyes stay fixed on Sunday, hiding away again, as he waits to be set free. ]

[For a long time, Sunday remains still, as if he hasn't heard anything.]

Hm?

[Another bitter laugh rattles from his throat.]

Ah, right. You've been in chains before, haven't you?

[Now that he is the topic of conversation, the cynical ice returns to his voice and his shoulders square again. He can be arrogant about his own life and safety.

Beneath his feathers, a wry grin snakes across his lips... then quickly dissolves. Aventurine doesn't deserve this sort of bitter treatment, not when he is offering to help Robin.

So Sunday relaxes into the restraints and feels some pressure ease off his body. Not enough, however. Not nearly enough. The pinch of metal even through the fabric of his clothes makes him uncomfortable. The weight of the chains dragging on his limbs is miserable.

His head aches, and his back feels too tense.

But maybe a prison cell is supposed to cause discomfort.

As a youth, he thought cages were safe. Not every cage is safe.]

You're right. [He says finally, not bothering to part his wings from his face.] It doesn't hurt as much.

[ Even now Sunday retreats into his pride, shielded by tattered wings and a broken crown, though they offer no real protection at all. It'd be funny, this former beacon of lawful virtue clinging to his own deadly sin for a scrap of dignity, but Aventurine is too aware of how painful it is to have each layer so carefully peeled away. There is a tired part of him that wishes he could simply delight in the misfortune of someone who'd so thoroughly wronged him, but the shape Sunday takes now is closer to knife than swordsman; responsible for a great many wrongs, but crafted by others' hands to serve that purpose.

Ngh. If only things were simpler, but they're all hell bent on staying in character until the theater burns down, it seems. Aventurine looks away when Sunday speaks, unsure of why he's chosen this moment, after everything, to fluff the truth. ]

You're an unconvincing liar, little bird.

[ There's a hint of amusement in his voice. It's what he leaves Sunday with, a soft drop of something close to sunshine, as the metal door swings open with a heavy, aching whine, and the Stoneheart of Stratagems leaves his tormentor behind to send a few messages and spin fate's wheel for all of them. ]