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The sound of a beautiful symphony led by an organ echoes throughout Penacony Grand Theater; a haunting tune befitting the large and desolate space. Not a single living soul can be seen wandering around, its only occupants being a few memory zone memes and malfunctioning dream troupe members.
Walking the paths they trudge along proves to be of no challenge, for they cower in fear at the mere sight of him. Perhaps it’s due to the rapidly fading remnants of his former influence over everyone and everything residing in Penacony, but he dare not question it. He fears knowing the reason wouldn’t quell the demons plaguing his psyche, but rather encourage them to sink their vicious claws in even deeper; allow them to leave scars that won’t heal, even outside the dreamscape.
It’s a miracle he’s even able to step foot in the theater, with him being a wanted fugitive and all. After his fall from grace he’d been whisked away by a pack of thirsty Bloodhounds awaiting his inevitable contact with the ground; far away from the dream he’d been blindly chasing up and up into the clouds. He still remembers the chains encasing his wrists, cold and unforgiving, tethering him to the walls of a room so dark it felt as if he’d been trapped within his own shadow.
His mind had wandered during those hours, days - perhaps even weeks of captivity. It had wandered and wandered, back to the moment his mentality had started to fester, up until his eventual shameful descent to defeat.
As he walks the golden-rimmed red carpet, he allows his mind to wander once again, back to when he and Robin were both little kids, only just saved from a planet riddled with war and despair. Though their shared luck had brought them to Penacony, the pain they’d sustained along the way wasn’t as easily forgotten.
Every night, when the lights were off and the artificial sun started to set in the dreamscape, Robin would come to him and allow her tears to finally fall; a steady downpour of translucent pearls dampening his gifted white vest, still a few sizes too big. In response, he’d stifle his own tears in favour of drying hers.
Hearing his sister’s muffled cries clawed at his insides, leaving cuts and scratches along his delicate innards. They’d bleed, leaving trails not dissimilar to the wet trails left on Robin’s cheeks. A secret hidden behind a layer of skin, one that only he would ever be aware of.
As he steps onto the abandoned stage, a familiar melody plays in his mind. It was one he’d often hum when his sister’s suffering would keep her from sleeping, one that she begged him to sing for her night after night. To her, it was merely that: a simple melody with no accompanying lyrics. Sunday had chosen to keep those words locked up deep inside his own heart.
It’s in front of the closed curtains with an audience consisting of a set of eerie dolls and countless illusions, eternally dancing behind tinted windows, where he finally hums the melody paired with its lyrics; a set of words that not even the Aeons’ ears have been graced with.
‘Little robin, cease your fruitless fight.
Let your wings rest, like a slumber’s most gentle bite.
Once more, allow your fate in my hands.
For this endless dream, I shall guide us to an eternal dance.’
After his lullaby comes to an end, he’s met with a tangible silence, so stifling it threatens to suffocate him. Even the orchestra’s never-ending harmonies fade into obscurity as a singular painful realisation drowns out everything else.
His sister won’t ever get a chance to hear these words sung to her with his voice.
He’s not stupid, knew that the moment that wretched woman opened the door of his cell - armed with nothing but saccharine words which barely masked the bitterness that lay underneath - that something terrible must’ve transpired. When she promised him freedom in the form of a trade-off, with his side of the deal already predetermined, he’d had this sinking feeling his sister must’ve somehow gotten involved. He’d prayed that it was his paranoia - or insanity, as that filthy mutt would’ve called it - acting up, but alas. The deities he had once given up everything for no longer heed his call, and good fortune would never again be his.
That sorry excuse of a poem, handed to him by Jade, only seemed to confirm his suspicions. The first thing he did with his newfound ‘freedom’ was discard that cursed notebook somewhere amongst the outskirts of Dreamflux Reef, hopefully to never be found again.
He’d been condemned to a life of eternal separation, forced to leave the path he’d become intimately familiar with behind in favour of treading one filled with uncertainties and a fate yet unknown. All of this had been decided on his behalf, without his consent nor his input. His future, signed away by a contract void of his own signature.
Yet, after what some would deem a heated argument, he accepted Jade’s offer. Which is why he’s able to stand here now, on the stage of Penacony Grand Theater, with no shackles tying him down.
After all, it must’ve been his sister who had initiated the deal with the… lovely lady Bonajade, which means this was an undoubtedly painful sacrifice for her to make, as well. In order to honour the price she paid for the both of them, he’ll treasure his freedom and hold up his end of the deal.
With steps that never lost their confidence, Sunday strides over to the edge of the stage, overlooking the endless abyss beneath. He’d brought a little something to mark the start of this new chapter: a worn notebook bearing the symbol of an unblinking eye.
It was one he kept on his person at all times, no matter the destination. It served as inspiration - as the guideline for his philosophy, yet also as a constant reminder to not make the same mistakes THEY had made.
Grant them eyes, grant them truth, establish values and become order and law - yet, grant them meaning, and that is when you’ve marked the beginning of your fall.
How ironic, that such a fate had befallen him nonetheless, even after he tried so hard to not repeat history. Perhaps it’s within THEIR established order that the road of a shaper will end with their eventual demise. Who’s to say?
His hands tighten around the leather bound book in his hold as a dry chuckle escapes his lips. No matter - it’s all behind him now. No point in dwelling on what ifs. He throws the book to the edge of the stage, watches as it just barely manages to avoid tumbling off into the abyss below.
Though he still holds THEIR ideals close, he has no choice but to cut his chapter in history short. Call it wishful thinking, but perhaps this way there’ll be a future pathstrider to take his place.
Next comes his jacket, a gift from his… former father. Through the years he’s gone through the effort to continuously have it tailored to fit, despite Gohper Wood’s protests that he’d simply purchase him a new one. His gloved hand glides across the motifs symbolising Ena the Order, carefully woven into the fabric alongside a blue tassel, representing his status as a member of the Oak Family.
His purpose had been made clear to him when his adoptive father dressed him in his new clothes, and so, it went beyond simple sentimental value - wearing it felt like a constant reminder, giving him a goal to strive towards.
In the process, it’s become stained with filth that even the dreamscape can’t cleanse. The foul imagery follows him into reality, gloating over his every loss and mistake - but no longer. With a hand that trembles minutely, he holds the piece of fabric over the pit leading to nothingness and lets go.
His gloves come off next, like a crow going through the process of moulting - he sheds his layers one by one, condemning them to an eternal fall, where they’ll be found by none.
His jewellery soon follows. Unsteady hands unclasp his garter belt, his earrings, his rings - nothing will be spared. He continues on until he’s left standing in merely his black undershirt and trousers; not a speck of gold adorning his person nor any trace of his former self save for his Halovian halo.
He feels light, as if he’s awoken from a winter slumber and allowed himself to shed months worth of built up filth. His wings feel freshly preened, no longer weighed down by the metal they were previously burdened with. His second set of wings, normally hidden beneath his pristine white jacket, take the opportunity to stretch. They’re an unsightly crow’s black pair, clipped at the edges; a stark contrast to the beauty of his sister’s.
He lets the place where he’d fallen from his seat atop the throne become his new starting point - the place of his rebirth.
“Have you finished what you came here for, dear Sunday?”
Sunday glances over his shoulder, “Lady Bonajade, I don’t recall calling for your assistance. I’m perfectly capable of leaving on my own.”
Her heeled boots make little noise as they walk along the carpeted floors. A polite chuckle leaves her lips, “When I make a deal, I make sure to see it through to the end. The Bloodhound Family are a finicky bunch, and I’m not risking you falling into their clutches again. An IPC ship is awaiting us outside, whenever you’re ready.”
Her words feel like poison, tinted with a certain finality he’s not ready for. Despite his own wishes, he knows he has no choice.
For his sister, he’ll search the galaxy for another means to make their shared dream come true.
‘To break free from chains and come anew’, that’s what you said back then, wasn’t it?
“I… I’m ready.” He says, eyes making contact with venomous blue as he turns around. “Let us depart.
‘To chase our dreams that we've declared.’