Chapter Text
There was an oppressive heat in the air, stifling and suffocating. The sort that makes you light-headed, gasping for some sort of relief — but breathing was a secondary priority then, and so he held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It did not, leaving him dizzy and desperate for some sort of sick relief.
Despite everything, it was a sunny day. He stared into the light till it left behind multicoloured glares in his vision, searing an imprint on the inside of his eyelids. And he resisted that urge to blink that came without him realising: he stayed his head and let his eyes flicker from the sun back to look at Gopher Wood’s face.
He could– taste the disappointment in his eyes. Feel it like a spider crawling down the back of his shirt, like the shiver of cold fingers down his spine. The sense of foreboding before the terror and the sudden coldness; blood icing over, liquid nitrogen. It would be different if it were not something he was used to — different, if he had not been expecting it from the beginning.
If he had not been expecting it, there would be surprise too. Now there was nothing but dread.
Sunday Oak resisted the urge to shout, to cry out, instead schooling his face into a pleasant expression; an impression of responsibility and patience and kindness. Generosity. Whatever you want to call it. One hand folded behind his back, eyes golden and slightly glazed over in a manner that he knew made him look more compliant. He doubted Gopher Wood, of all people, would fall for it — but he also knew that the better he acted, the more he would approve. Even if he did not believe it, others would.
Ah, the things he would do for Father to approve. That was what he told himself, swallowing down the slightly sick sensation, forcing his eyes to stay open rather than to blink rapidly like he feels they should. Of course, they should not: it was not becoming of one to have such petty desires. It was not appropriate to want such irrelevant, unsophisticated.
“Do you understand?”, came the words, and Sunday wondered for a moment if he did.
His father’s voice was silky smooth. Considering he was adopted, it sounded surprisingly similar to his, only several cadences deeper; although, now he thought about it, he doubted that was a coincidence. Sunday presumed he had always mimicked it instinctively — with an admiration for the authority Father has, in an attempt to try and become the same. There was something slightly musical to it, in the twisting notes of the words and the slight dissonance forming at the edges.
(All suspensions must be resolved. That is what creates an ending — an unwritten musical law to create order, to create some sense of a thing that is finished – completed as it should be, melodious and even. Sunday was left hanging.)
And so he nodded — stopped complaining. “I do,” he hummed, back straight and shoulders even, perfectly aligned. “I- sincerely apologise for the previous misunderstanding. It had not been my intention: thank you for your generosity.” Sunday cursed internally himself for the hitch in his breath, for the hesitation in his speech. One minute of indecision can kill. One second of reluctance can change minds. Anything can lose an opinion, and even the poorest civilian’s opinion can be important in the face of a crowd — any moment of faltering. He refused to falter.
Gopher Wood exhaled sharply between his teeth. “All you must do is follow the rules. Understand? There will be no such leniency if such a situation happens again. I have been very generous to you; as my successor, I am kind. Next time, I will be stricter.” Sunday knows. Believes it. There was no point in attempting not to believe him. Something to do with the chill in the air.
Something to do with the bile in his throat.
He exhaled through his mouth, eyes fluttering closed for a second, and when they opened again he placed a hand on his chest. “I do not wish to disappoint — whatever you wish, I shall do,” he answered, confident and warm. “I assure you that the mistakes that have been made shall be fixed. No such things will happen again.” This time the slight embarrassment in his voice was audible, intentionally so. Only slight, of course: Sunday was meant to be above such things. One cannot be a leader if they are apologising constantly, if they are lowering themselves below those they are meant to command.
But then again, Father was not somebody who is below him. Father is the kind of person who he thought has never been below anybody at all – not only that he did not give off that impression, but the way he looked at people; practised and commanding, despite his closed eyes and the pleasant smile on his face. The same smile that was on Sunday’s.
“Good,” came the voice of Gopher Wood again. If he hadn't known him as well, he would call it sweet — something saccharine, thick on the palate like treacle. And maybe that was the right word for it: dripping with something like false hopes and dreams. In his head, he laughed sardonically. Out loud, Sunday’s expression was still as schooled as it had been before.. “Then I am sending you on an exorcism.”
Pause.
He's not sure what he had been expecting. Now he thought about it, it made sense — it had been a while since he had been sent on one, and there were some urgent ones out there that needed to be taken care of. Dangerous ones. The type that were faster than the human eye could register – moving in smooth, flowing movements like illusions. Hallucinations. The type that somebody less proficient at the job would believe was nothing but a quick kill, before they realised with their throat gaping that the kill would not have belonged to them.
The majority of the exorcists in the Family – mostly Bloodhounds – were low-ranking: weak, inexperienced and cowardly, of the sort that would see the smallest of dangers and run away. Either that, or those who had a sense of hubris: a type of bravado that made them think they were strong. Made them think they had anything against something like that, against something that could kill them without looking twice, or looking at all. And he understood, of course, it was a fine line to walk — the gap between overconfidence in your abilities and a sense of spinelessness that comes with knowing you are not strong at all.
Three. There were three of them there that were of any use whatsoever, and that was including Sunday himself. Four, once, of course, but– three now, and now was what mattered. (No point in dwelling on the past. All he needed to do was make sure no such mistakes like that ever happened again – at least, not if he could do anything about it.)
He and Ms. Ellis and Mr. Krieger. They would be a formidable united opponent, if one considered the idea that they would ever work together. But Sunday had only seen their faces perhaps once or twice – or, no, more than that. Their faces on posters together, captioned with “Believe Today, Live Tomorrow!”; a tight-lipped smile and nod at meetings led by the Family Heads, with Sunday being intended to sit in two seats at once – Exorcist and Head. Two in one deal.. If that counted – then he knew them very well, perhaps. Ah, well.
He breathes deeply, and returns to the point, knowing there is no good in keeping people waiting. An exorcism. Right. Sunday knew – by exorcism, he meant something risky, and he had no complaints with that. He hadn’t died on one of them yet, of course; and after all, it was his job: better they sent someone experienced than someone careless and untrained and breakable. (The word young came to mind. All things considered, he ignored it.) Him, rather than somebody who would mess the job up and end up needing him to be sent out to rescue them anyway. Them, or their body. Either worked.
And so he nodded, one hand moving behind his back in that familiar uncomfortable way. “Of course,” he said, words short enough to be confident but not to be clipped. Calm enough to be reassuring, but not lazy. A perfect balance. “Where shall I be going?”
No matter what Father told him, Sunday trusted he would be fine. The worst options would be far away, or dangerous to travel to – and danger was not something he was unaccustomed to, anyway. With the same amount as, if not more exorcisms under his belt than Ms. Ellis and Mr. Krieger whilst being years younger than them – could it be called overconfidence if he had grounds for it? After all, the saying went, “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”
This was abysmal.
There was no way he could ever have prepared for what in Ena’s name this was.
Sunday stood there – if stood was the word, arms curled around himself in a petty attempt to stay reasonably warm and hair soaking wet from the rain, resembling some sort of drowned rat. Perhaps something you found scuttling through the gutter, not one of the Family’s most prized exorcists. Up to his ankles – his boots! The leather was past salvaging by this point – in mud, drenched to the bone and shivering violently.
Ah – whatever. Whatever! “I am above such worldly desires,” he mumbled, to himself more than anything – not that there was anybody to listen to him, except perhaps those poor soggy rats that were offended by being compared to him too. No, no, not quite right. Not even a rat would be stupid enough to be out in this weather. He wouldn’t have blamed them for offense taken, either: in his reflection sitting in a puddle, broken by the disturbance of the slowly lightening rain, Sunday did look rather awful. Blue-grey hair plastered to his face; his wings tucked in around it, and those feathers would take an awfully long time to dry off; too many layers of clothes sticking to his skin, and the most deadpan expression he’s seen in a good long time. He considered using another set of his wings to shield his face from the rain, and decided against it. It was easier to wipe rain off skin than to wring out feathers.
“Above such worldly desires,” he repeated to himself whilst mourning the loss of his boots, pulling his foot out of a particularly slimy bit of mud and placing it down within another. It sank down halfway to his knee this time, and he wondered if it would be appropriate to start crying. He’d quite have liked to. “Blasted– secret mud pockets–” and why were they always deeper than they looked? Days like this, he wished he could fly with his ear wings, after all, looking ridiculous included in the deal.
The Family’s greatest exorcist. Conquered by bad weather. Perhaps he should have considered changing his name and identity; or have pretended to be a hermit in the woods. “Pleasure to meet you; I’m Monday,” he tried, through gritted teeth and a grim expression on his face. Of course this was what happened to him. Just his luck, really. “Nobody likes me –” because who does like Mondays?, “–I have no friends –” a bug scuttles away like he’s a maniac, and he can’t blame it – “and I’d really like some clothes that don’t absorb all the water in a mile’s cursed radius.” He kicked a rock. It rolled about two feet, before stopping at a pathetic halt.
He waited.
It sank into more mud. Maybe starting to cry was the best idea. (At that moment, it felt like it.) Even the last conversation he had before setting off was no comfort: any comforting words he attempted to remember fell on his own deaf ears now.
“Leaving again?” she had asked, tone motherly and comforting like it always was – like it always had been. Sunday had nodded, let a small smile fall onto his face in a way that he hoped was reassuring. He was not scared, of course: it was not his first exorcism, and hopefully it would not be his last either. What a positive mindset, Sunny. She had not waited for him to answer verbally – instead, she had placed a hand on his back, and he straightened his posture instinctively. “Ah, well. I wish you luck; it will all go well, I am sure of it,” she said, words kindly.
He spoke, then. “Of course,” Sunday answered. “I have faith in my abilities: I do hope everyone else does too,” and he let out a small laugh. His shoulders and chest did not move in the way that laughter usually creates, but he blinked till his eyes ached but brightened, and that seemed to be enough confirmation for her. “I will see you on my return?” He offered, and she nodded with a hum.
“I hope I will be the first you see when you come back.” She laughed too, melodically, and he inclined his head in a bow; she did the same, black hair falling over her shoulder as she did. “Then you should set off. The escort is waiting for you now.” From the shuffling footsteps behind him, she was right – there was no time to lose, anyway. Especially not now.
Sunday bowed again, and smiled slightly. He did not look back.
Her kind words then did not help him now – they hadn’t made a massive impact then, either, but it was all in the facial expressions, and if she was comforted then so was he. There was something quite definitively morale-lowering about knowing everything in your bag was soaked through; presumably his notebooks were past salvaging now, though a little part of him hoped there was a chance. If nothing else, he could at least use it as– papier-mâché. Ugh. If he wanted to do crafts, he would have been a member of the Nightingale Family.
Everything would have been so much easier if the escort hadn’t presumably been brutally murdered.
Of course, that sounded worse in context than it did in his head – but it had been quite the odd occurrence, all the same. They had taken a carriage: easier than walking, after all, and the escort (a Bloodhound called Corey and an exorcist in training) was good at managing horses, and so Sunday had figured it would all go smoothly. They weren’t intended to travel like that all the way there: that would look suspicious, and so Sunday should have been dropped off nearby before reaching any towns in order not to alert anybody.
They stopped suddenly.
It wasn’t graceful – screeching to a halt suddenly, leaving Sunday sliding around in his tiny, uncomfortable wooden seat inside the carriage. However inconvenient it was, though, it was more comfortable than the seat of the escort outside– and so he stopped complaining, whether in his head or otherwise.
There was a sense of a gaping nothing.
Nothing would have been so eerie if it were not for the sudden silence. For the next ten, twenty seconds, they did not move: he could not hear Corey or the horses moving, and the forest did not stir once. His breathing came quickly and heavily, eyes flicking around in the dim yellow light that the lantern attached to the inside of the roof provided. Nothing changed, his breath condensing like fog in the cold air.
Feeling slightly sick, Sunday placed his hand lightly on the handle of the door, flinching at its icy coldness even through his gloves. Like a rehearsal, he muttered to himself – “Don’t ask questions,” voice raspy and tense. “Don’t think about why it’s cold. Don’t ask questions. This is all THEIR intention, as they have written it.” The thought brought him some frosty semblance of comfort.
Breathing as evenly as he could, he opened the door slowly.
Outside, there was nothing but darkness and the rain that was beating down on the roof of the carriage and the ground. Rain that, as far as he could not remember, was not there before the silence. Sunday blinked, reaching into the carriage to detach the lantern from the ceiling, grasping for nothing and his hand falling away through the empty space where the lantern was not. Where the lantern should have been, and was five seconds ago. Instead, ignoring it, ignoring everything, he stepped out, eyes adjusting to the darkness – trying not to think about what happened to the lantern, and how it was so dark when as far as he could recall, it was around 4 in the afternoon. Ten minutes ago when he had looked out of the window, the sun was beating down on them, even through the carriage – he had been staring into it again, letting his eyes tear up.
“Hello?” he called. No answer. Walking around the front of the carriage, he called out again, waiting for Corey to respond. “Are you there? Please, speak to me.”
Again, there was only silence.
The lantern lay on the floor in front of him. Sunday blinked rapidly again, picking it up and letting it illuminate the horses and the man that were not there. That should have been there. That, again, were there less than half an hour ago, and now were not. The space in front of the carriage where they should have been empty, the horses’ harnesses lying on the floor, half-buried by grass and leaves that should have taken more than twenty seconds to fall. He swallowed thickly. Corey had been friendly to him, letting him keep the window wound down and chatting to him intermittently throughout the ride. He was not the most talkative of men, but he was kind. His younger brother – eight years old, orphaned – was waiting for him at home, close despite the age gap, or perhaps thanks to it.
He checked his watch.
It was 10pm.
Perhaps if he did not think about it, then it did not exist. Sunday inhaled – exhaled – breathed heavily, eyebrows creasing. There had been no footprints leading away from the carriage, no hoofprints, no sign that anyone had existed except for the carriage abandoned in the darkness of the trees and the harness that he had put carefully inside it in case anyone came to check. Although the rain could have washed them away – it should not have been that fast. It should not have taken that short of a time for nothing to remain.
And so he was walking now – little less than a bag, two changes of clothes and a few books which were most likely unusable now with him. And hope, of course, however much he could be considered to have.
He continued onwards.