Disclaimer: The Keys to the Kingdom series does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Garth Nix, etc.
Fills the 'amnesia' square on my trope bingo card.
Pre-slash towards the end, if you squint.
Anywhere I would've followed you
Dusk wakes up all at once, as all Denizens do. Denizens do not dream, and as such there is no lingering disorientation or lethargy associated with regaining consciousness.
Some days, there is an almost tangible wrongness about his room, even though he has had the same quarters for as long as the House has existed. He cannot articulate what is wrong - words have ever been his brother's forte - but the feeling lingers. Dusk lies in his bed, staring at his familiar-foreign ceiling, until his innate sense of duty forces him to rise and begin his day.
It is not really a day, for as his name suggests Dusk operates in the night. His daily routine is perhaps a better description; it is more precise, at any rate.
Dusk dresses mechanically, layer after layer of dark clothes to cover his pale skin. He pauses to glance at his reflection in the mirror - not a hair out of place - before exiting his room.
"You're late," Noon remarks when Dusk emerges into the common room they and their sister Dawn share. Noon's tone is neutral, but Dusk is still off-balance - no matter how often or rarely he experiences that sense of wrong, he never becomes used to it - and he feels himself tensing.
"I overslept," he lies, the words sounding clumsy to his own ears.
Noon arches an eyebrow, but he is obviously tired from his own daily routine. "I see," he says, and does not press the matter. "Our master wished to see you," he adds, pausing just inside the threshold of his room.
"Thank you," Dusk says.
Noon rolls his eyes. "Don't mention it, brother," he says, then shuts the door.
Dusk exhales, not quite a sigh, unaccountably exhausted for all that he has done nothing yet. It won't do to keep Mister Monday waiting.
"Ah, Dusk," Mister Monday says, smiling. He puts his pen down and pushes the document he was examining aside, giving Dusk his full attention.
Dusk does not know what he has done to warrant it, though he wracks his mind as he bows and offers the usual greetings.
"Sit down, sit down... How are you feeling?" Mister Monday asks, and were it not for the keen look in his eyes, Dusk would mistake the question for idle small talk.
"I... have been feeling out of sorts," Dusk confesses, setting his top hat in his lap.
"Oh?"
"Yes," Dusk says, absently tracing the brim of his hat with a thumb. "I wake up... disoriented. I do not recognize my surroundings. No, that is not quite right. They are recognizable, but there is a subtle dissonance that I cannot account for."
Mister Monday hums, neither encouragement nor disagreement.
"I am not discontent with my role, but at times I find my attire, of all things, is dissatisfying," Dusk says. It seems absurd to voice his thoughts - it's not as if he is jealous of Noon's role or anything like that, but sometimes he wishes... He does not know what it is he yearns for, only that something is lacking and he wishes for it to be fulfilled. "Certainly, I am more suited to these dark colours, and I would not wish for a different role..." He trails off, frustrated, and looks at his superior.
Mister Monday is regarding him thoughtfully, chin leaning on his folded hands. "You are welcome to change your wardrobe, if you think that will help," he says, though Dusk infers that Mister Monday doubts such a change will be at all useful.
"No, Dusk is meant for the shadows," he says, shaking his head.
"You are just as valued as your siblings, Dusk," Mister Monday says. "I hope you know that."
"Of course, master."
"I value your insight," Mister Monday continues. "Noon and Dawn stand at my right and left hands, but you stand behind - yours is a unique perspective that none else can provide."
Dusk nods. The words sound familiar, though he cannot recall who he has heard say them. "I hadn't thought of it like that, master."
This is the wrong thing to say, for disappointment briefly crosses Mister Monday's face before he schools his expression.
"I hope you will keep it in mind," Mister Monday says, smiling once more. It does not reach his eyes this time, however.
Dusk feels more lost, but he merely nods again. "I will."
Mister Monday sits back, glancing at the clock. "I see I've kept you longer than I should have. Your shift begins momentarily, Dusk."
Dusk rises, pausing only to bow to the Morrow Day before leaving the Dayroom with sure, confident strides that belie his confusion and turmoil.
Dusk commands the Midnight Visitors, those Denizens charged with patrolling the Lower House at night. Their purpose is similar in theory to that of mortal police, except that incidences of crime among Denizens are much lower than in mortal populations. The Midnight Visitors' main duty is to guard the Lower House from incursions of Nithlings, self-willed beings that bubble up from Nothing.
Nithlings seldom emerge, for the Architect is diligent about reinforcing the buttresses of the House lest any part of it should fall into Nothing. Dusk can scarcely recall the last time an incursion occurred, though of course he is glad of that fact, even if it does seem to render his purpose redundant.
He likes walking the streets of the Lower Atrium, lit only by the streetlamps and what light spills past the windows of night offices. It gives him time to think while also providing the illusion of productivity in that he is patrolling.
The sight of the orderly avenues and boulevards, deserted but for a few night deliverymen or an enterprising Piper's child, is soothing. The Lower House is an efficient machine, with any issues handled immediately by Mister Monday or his Times as soon as they arise.
Everything is how it should be, Dusk thinks with an unusual amount of satisfaction. He pauses in his walk, halfway between one streetlamp and the next. The darkness is a comforting thing, and he remains still as he considers that strange thought. Why would the Lower House be in shambles? It has ever fulfilled its function, and while it is hardly a competition, Dusk would even go so far as to say that the Lower House is more smoothly run than some of the other Demesnes, such as the Far Reaches.
Dusk shakes his head, pushing those thoughts aside, and continues his patrol.
"Are you all right, brother?" Dawn asks a few days later, catching his arm as they cross paths in the common room. Her bright eyes are narrowed with worry.
"I am fine," Dusk says, coming to a halt. And he is fine, for the most part. But that strange feeling of dissonance refuses to dissipate, though he cannot discover the reason for it no matter how he dwells on it nor how hard he tries to think on some other topic. "Merely tired. Though we have not had to deal with an incursion of Nithlings, I find myself weary all the same."
Dawn nods slowly. "I have found the lack of Nithling incursions strange," she says. "Though the Architect reinforces the buttresses so frequently, it only makes sense."
"It only makes sense but it is strange all the same," Dusk agrees.
"Exactly." Dawn frowns, then glances at her watch. "Ah, I am late. Sleep well, brother."
"Have a good day, sister," Dusk replies, continuing to his room. The curtains - a deep, nearly-black blue - are drawn tightly against the light of the artificial sun. He undresses absently, climbing into bed out of habit. As he has for the past few days, Dusk finds himself lying awake. For all that he is tired, sleep eludes him. He is restless, as if his body is unaccustomed to spending the daylight hours asleep.
Dusk clenches his hands, then deliberately relaxes them. He does not rise to pace or read or anything to settle his restless mind. He lies awake, motionless, until sleep finally comes to him.
The days pass, uneventful and unremarkable. Dusk should be content, but he remains uneasy. His siblings have become used to his constant weariness, though Mister Monday, who sees him only rarely, never fails to ask Dusk how he fares.
Dusk always leaves those meetings unnerved rather than assured, as if there is some undercurrent that he is missing or lacks the knowledge to understand. It is not a pleasant feeling, though Dusk cannot bring himself to resent his master - he knows enough, at least, to know that Mister Monday means well. And he does not berate or punish Dusk for failing to meet whatever unknown expectations he continues to miss.
A Piper's child wakes him several hours before he has to rise, perhaps an hour or two after he finally manages to fall asleep. Dusk blinks down at the small form. He thinks he recognizes her for a moment, but now he sees that her cheeks are too full, her eyes the wrong shade of brown to be- His thoughts grind to a halt, leaving him bereft and confused. This girl does not resemble any of the Piper's children he regularly works with, so why-?
"Pardon?" Dusk says, belatedly realizing that the child was speaking to him.
"Mister Monday wants t'see you, sir," the Piper's child repeats, her exasperation mostly hidden. "As soon as possible, 'e said."
"Ah. Thank you." Dusk fumbles in his dressing gown and produces a coin, which he presses into the girl's hand for her troubles.
"Much obliged, sir!" The girl grins and runs off.
Dusk wonders what the matter could be as he dresses then makes his way to the Dayroom. It is a short walk from the dwelling Dusk and his siblings share, so he does not have much time to mull it over.
"There you are," Noon says, barely looking up when Dusk enters the Dayroom. He blinks, his gaze raking over Dusk's appearance once more, brows drawing down over his eyes. "You look terrible."
"I didn't get much sleep," Dusk says, irritated.
Noon shrugs, returning to whatever he was doing - accounts, by the looks of it. "Mister Monday is waiting for you in his office."
Dusk bites back his retort about Noon being tasked with such secretarial duties and walks past without a word. It is unfair of him to take his poor mood out on Noon.
Mister Monday frowns when Dusk enters his office, though unlike Noon he makes no comment on Dusk's appearance. "I'm sorry to interrupt your rest, but there's an urgent matter that needs attending," Mister Monday says. "There is a sensitive document that I need delivered, for Lady Sunday's eyes only. I would have Dawn or Noon do it, but they are both previously occupied."
Dusk nods curtly, glad that he is not expected to exchange small talk with his superior - he doesn't remotely feel up to the task. Then again, a journey to the Incomparable Gardens hardly sounds appealing, but who is Dusk to refuse his master? He accepts the envelope, Mister Monday's rainbow seal glittering on the close, and tucks it into his waistcoat.
"Will you require anything further, master?" Dusk asks.
"If Lady Sunday has a reply, I would like you to deliver it. If not, you are free to do what you wish," Mister Monday says. His eyes are worried over his smile, and while Dusk thinks that he is probably the cause of that worry, he cannot bring himself to feel any worse than he already does about it.
"At once, master," Dusk murmurs, bowing.
Despite having to travel from the lowest portion of the House to its highest point, the elevator ride to the Incomparable Gardens takes less than ten minutes. The music, issuing from some hidden speaker, is soothing. Dusk allows himself to close his eyes, trying to gather his composure.
"Do you have an appointment?" a smooth voice inquires when Dusk emerges from the elevator onto the terrace of the Elysium that serves as Lady Sunday's office. The speaker has dark eyes, darker even than Dusk's own, and his green hair is nearly black. Were it not for his silver tongue, Dusk would mistake the man (Denizen, he mentally corrects, utterly confused by this strange thought) for his Incomparable Gardens counterpart.
"I do not," Dusk says.
"Ah, so it is a social call. I thought you were one of the Originals," Sunday's Noon says, visibly losing interest.
"Mister Monday charged me with delivering a private missive to Lady Sunday," Dusk corrects. He has no idea what to make of Sunday's Noon's strange words.
Irritation crosses Sunday's Noon's handsome face. "Monday, is it," he mutters, almost to himself.
"Mister Monday," Dusk says sharply, a bit appalled to hear himself speaking in such a manner to a superior. On the other hand, even if this Noon is the highest Time, he remains beneath the lowest Morrow Day and should not be so disrespectful.
Sunday's Noon raises his eyebrows, studying Dusk in silence. His expression plainly conveys that he is unimpressed by what he sees, and it takes a conscious effort not to draw himself up under that scrutiny. Dusk owes this Time nothing, and he stares back though it is more difficult than he expects. Sunday's Noon's eyes resemble nothing so much as staring into the Void, or how Dusk imagines such a thing would be, for he has never done so himself.
Then, abruptly, Sunday's Noon looks away. He picks up the telephone and says, "Lady Suzy, there's a certain Dusk here to see you," in a tone that is entirely too sardonic to be addressing the one who is second only to the Architect.
There is a door set in the hill, cleverly concealed in the foliage, and it suddenly bursts open, causing Dusk to jump, startled.
"That better not be a joke, Sunday-" Lady Sunday stops when she sees Dusk standing there.
Dusk cannot recall ever meeting her - he has little contact with the other Demesnes for these sorts of tasks usually fall to Dawn or Noon - but she looks strangely familiar.
But too old, he thinks, which does exactly nothing to clear up his confusion.
Sunday's Noon coughs, his chair scraping loudly against the grass, somehow. It is enough to drag Dusk from his confused daze. "I'll go move the sun, shall I?" he says, his voice a mixture of amusement and annoyance. He disappears before Lady Sunday says a word, leaving Dusk alone with the Morrow Day.
"N- Dusk," Lady Sunday says, smiling. "What brings you to the Incomparable Gardens?"
It takes Dusk a moment, but then he remembers. "Mister Monday sent me to deliver this missive." He pulls it out and hands it to her.
Lady Sunday blinks, looking momentarily crestfallen. Dusk stifles his irritation - does he truly disappoint everyone's expectations? - and adds, "He asked that I remain should you have a reply. If not, I will not take any more of your time, Lady Sunday."
She frowns, sliding one fingernail beneath the seal and opening it. "Just call me Suzy. Guess we'd better take this official business to my office..." She walks back through the door, obviously expecting Dusk to follow. Before he can enter, however, she sticks her head back out. "Sunday! Bring some tea and those biscuits!" she shouts.
Dusk stares at her with undisguised confusion.
"It's easier to just call him Sunday," Lady Suzy explains, though that really does not explain anything.
"I'll take your word for it, Lady Suzy," he says.
She grins and punches him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, N- Dusk! So, sit down. Tea shouldn't be that long."
Dusk sits in one of the two chairs set before her desk, remaining silent as she peruses the letter. Her office is rather more cluttered than Dusk would have expected; certainly Sunday's Noon's desk was spotless, and the terrace as well. Here, however, there are books and rolls of parchment stuffed haphazardly into shelves, uncapped inkwells serving as paperweights for piles of documents on her desk, stacks of office supplies lying in the corners... In short, it is utter chaos.
"Hmph," Lady Suzy says, tossing the letter aside. She regards him keenly; as ever, Dusk feels that he has failed some test that he is not even aware of. "You don't remember anything."
"What," Dusk snaps, "am I supposed to remember." His hands are clenched, shaking faintly as he glares at Lady Suzy.
She flinches, obviously startled by the force of his anger.
"I don't think the restoration was a success," Sunday's Noon says before she gets a chance to reply, appearing out of thin air bearing a tray with the usual trappings for tea.
Dusk sits back abruptly, shocked at his own behaviour.
"It is just like the Reaper... He came back as something between an Old and New Denizen," Sunday's Noon finishes.
Old and New Denizens? There are no such things. There are only Denizens, which are classified according to their role and relative ability.
"I told you not to use the Improbable Stair for trivial things," Lady Suzy says, not addressing either of the Times' words.
"It was faster than going up the terraces. I wouldn't want your tea to get cold," Sunday's Noon replies, balancing the tray in one hand and simultaneously clearing a space on the cluttered desk with the other.
"You wouldn't want your tea to get cold," Lady Suzy mutters, glaring at the tray. Dusk notices that there are three settings for tea.
"Is that not what I said?" Sunday's Noon smiles, though it is not an especially pleasant smile. "Sugar, Monday's Noon?"
"One spoon, please," Dusk says. Then, belatedly realizing the mistake and very much aware of Lady Suzy's stare, adds, "It's Monday's Dusk."
"Is it," Sunday's Noon says indulgently, handing him the cup of tea.
Dusk can feel his left eyelid beginning to twitch, a nervous tic that reveals itself when he is especially stressed. Alone in the Incomparable Gardens, running on very little sleep and in the company of two beings he does not understand, Dusk finds himself very stressed indeed.
He takes a fortifying sip of tea, which is just the right temperature and mixed exactly to his tastes. For some reason, that only puts Dusk more on edge.
"Stop bullying him, Sunday," Lady Suzy says sternly, snagging a cup of tea for herself.
"I am merely making small talk," Sunday's Noon says loftily. "So few Denizens speak to me these days."
"Wonder why that is," Lady Suzy mutters. "After you were so rude to Monday."
Dusk draws himself up, frowning.
Sunday's Noon sighs, settling into the other chair with the third cup. "May I inquire as to the nature of this private missive from Mister Monday?" His tone is solicitous, but Dusk does not think it genuine.
"You already guessed, didn't you," Lady Suzy says, sipping ill-temperedly at her tea.
Sunday's Noon makes a noncommittal noise, though his gaze is focussed once more upon Dusk.
"Did you wish to reply," Dusk says, turning pointedly to Lady Suzy. Nevertheless, he can still feel the weight of Sunday's Noon's stare.
"Mm? Oh... S'pose I should," Lady Suzy says thoughtfully. "Maybe if Art..."
"You forget what happened to the Reaper," Sunday's Noon says stiffly.
"... True," Lady Suzy concedes, sounding apologetic. "Maybe it'll resolve itself."
"That's what I thought the first time," Sunday's Noon says.
"Well, what else would you suggest I do?" Lady Suzy retorts.
Sunday's Noon shrugs elegantly. "Must you do something? I doubt there is anything to be done, in any case."
Lady Suzy scowls at him, then turns to Dusk. Her expression softens to something Dusk can only identify as fond, though he knows not what he has done to merit it. He must be misreading her, surely. "I imagine you have duties in the Lower House to attend to. Send Mister Monday my thanks, but I have no further reply at this time."
Dusk rises and bows, pausing only to set his now-empty teacup on the tray before letting himself out.
The voices are not particularly loud but Dusk is used to unbroken silence - Monday's Times are the only beings who are present in their lodgings with any frequency, and both Dawn and Noon are typically out when Dusk sleeps - so they wake him anyway.
By now, he is used to how unused to his room he is, so Dusk barely pauses before rising. Perhaps one day he will even come to think that his room is fine as it is; for some reason, the thought isn't as comforting as he feels it ought to be.
He recognizes his siblings' voices, though there is a third that he does not know. The words are muffled by the door, indistinct.
It is strange that all three siblings should be present at once, and Dusk feels disquiet at the thought. He dresses quickly and opens the door to the common room. His siblings are sitting at the seldom-used dining room table, having tea with-
Dusk's thoughts stutter, skipping over the name he wanted to use. It is like a word on the tip of his tongue, nearly voiced then suddenly gone but for the frustrating sensation that it had been there only moments before.
"Ah, Monday's Dusk," the Architect says, smiling. He has a pair of glasses with dark lenses perched atop his head and his clothes are rather more casual than Dusk would have expected from the Creator of the Universe.
"Milord," Dusk murmurs, bowing.
When he straightens, his siblings are gazing at him with poorly-concealed worry. He sits across the Architect, accepting the cup of tea Noon slides to him with a mutter of thanks.
"I was just saying to Dawn and Noon that my friends call me Art," the Architect says.
Dusk nods. The name does seem familiar, though not quite right- which is unsurprising, given how Dusk's life has been going lately.
The Architect leans back, sipping at his tea and not bothering to hide his scrutiny of Dusk.
"Is... 'Art' short for anything?" Dawn asks carefully, attempting to divert the Architect's attention.
"It is. Can you guess what?" the Architect asks, eyeing the three of them thoughtfully.
"Ar-tor," Noon says suddenly, with the air of epiphany. He stiffens, glaring of all things at the Architect. "You-!"
"It's Arthur, actually," the Architect interrupts mildly. Noon's mouth is working, his expression thunderous, though no words escape. "I am not Arthur any longer, though."
Arthur, Dusk thinks. He feels as if the name should mean something to him. It sounds right, but why? However, the meaning does not immediately manifest itself and he puts it aside, meeting Dawn's worried glance.
"Milord," Dusk says, "have we displeased you?"
"No," the Architect says slowly, and rather unconvincingly at that. "And please call me Art."
"Art, then," Dusk acknowledges dutifully. "Why have you taken Noon's voice?"
"Noon and I have to talk in private," the Archi- Art says, rising. Noon does the same, jerkily, as if he is being compelled to move rather than doing so on his own power.
"He has duties yet to complete today," Dawn says, her gaze darting from Noon to Art.
"It will not be a long talk," Art assures them. Dawn does not look any more assured than Dusk feels. Before either of them can think of any further protests, Art leads Noon away.
"... What was that?" Dawn says quietly, staring at the closed door to Noon's private room.
"I don't know," Dusk says, frowning. "How did Noon know about Art's name?"
Dawn shakes her head. "I don't know," she murmurs, echoing Dusk's words back to him.
"I can't help but feel that, although there is nothing tangibly wrong, things are not as they should be," Dusk says quietly.
Dawn nods. "Noon and I feel the same... Though it does not affect us to the same extent it does you," she adds.
"You do not feel as if you are forgetting something important?" Dusk asks.
"No. The way affairs in the Lower House are just seems... off," Dawn says.
"That too," Dusk mutters, taking a sip of his tea.
The siblings lapse into silence. Dusk cannot guess at the direction of his sister's thoughts, but he spends the time turning recent events over in his mind.
Nothing makes sense. Mister Monday's attention is logical, even if Dusk is the least of his principal servants; but that Lady Suzy and Art should have unknown expectations of him is incomprehensible. Dusk has no inkling of what they want from him, and they have given no indication either. It is... unpleasant, to say the least.
Thirteen minutes later, Art and Noon reemerge. Art seems as serene as before; Noon, disgruntled, though nowhere near as furious as he had been.
"I'll be attending to my duties, if you have need of me," Noon says stiffly, addressing the words solely to Dawn. He does not look at Dusk at all as he takes his leave.
Dawn and Dusk exchange worried glances but Art's presence prevents them from following their brother and asking what had transpired.
"Is there anything you would like to ask me?" Art inquires.
There are a great many things Dusk would like to ask. He hardly knows where to begin.
"How were you someone else before you became the Architect?" Dawn asks. "You created the Secondary Realms and the House."
"What I tell you now is not to be repeated," Art says. "With that in mind, do you still wish to know?"
Dusk sips at his cooling tea. "Are we allowed to discuss this after? Or can Dawn and I never speak of it again, even to each other."
Art tilts his head, looking thoughtful. "You can discuss what I tell you amongst yourselves. Noon also knows, as do Mister Monday, Dr. Saturday, Sunday and Suzy."
"Lady Suzy is Sunday," Dusk says slowly.
"Ah. Right. Sunday's Noon, then," Art amends. "If you attempt to speak of it with someone who is unaware, you will be... prevented."
Dawn nods. "Very well. I would like to know, Art."
"As would I," Dusk agrees.
Art tells them.
The space known as the House is actually the New House, recreated after the first was swallowed by Nothing. Art is not the first Architect. Art was once a mortal named Arthur. Lady Suzy was once a Piper's child. Rather than being a designation for a specific class of Denizen such as Dawn's Inspectors of Dusk's Midnight Visitors, Piper's children were so named because a son of the Original Architect, the Piper, had brought mortal children into the House. The Original Architect had had three sons with her counterpart, the Old One: Lord Sunday, the Mariner and the Piper. Only Sunday yet exists, and he is currently Sunday's Noon. Of the billions of Denizens that had populated the first House, less than a dozen remained or had been recreated. Monday's Dawn, Noon and Dusk were destroyed along with the first House, but they were somehow brought back. Art had tried to make them New Denizens while retaining their original selves; their lack of memory of the original House meant that he had not been entirely successful. However, Noon had just regained his memory, so perhaps there is hope for them too.
Art tells them many other things besides, and when he is done Dusk can only stare mutely, barely able to process everything he has been told. Parts of the telling had seemed absurd and familiar in equal measure, though they had not triggered any dormant memories; still, it is enough to convince Dusk that this seemingly farfetched account must be the truth.
"But why did you only bring us back?" Dusk finally asks. He takes a sip of tea, long gone cold, and grimaces.
Art shrugs. "I thought Monday could help me bring you three back the most faithfully." Something like regret passes across his face then. "Everyone else would have been caricatures, shaped to my own expectations rather than true representations of who they really were. I couldn't stand the thought of that."
"How do you know we are not?" Dawn demands. She seems rather more upset than Dusk, who simply feels numb, overwhelmed.
"I would want you to accept what I say without question," Art says. "I would want you to trust me. You don't trust me," he points out, but he sounds rather more pleased about it than anything.
Dusk says as much.
"Yes, it's much better than I thought it would be," Art says. "I'm glad that people question me. I thought that everyone agreeing would be better, but that sort of unthinking obedience isn't what the House needs."
The door opens, admitting his brother. "You're still here," Noon says, stopping just inside the doorway and glaring at the back of Art's head. From anyone else it would have been a whine, but his voice is rather too harsh for that.
"Well, the House is mine," Art says reasonably, not even turning to face Noon. "But you're quite right, I think I've spent too long here. There are projects that need overseeing, I should check on the other Demesnes..." He gulps down the rest of his tea and climbs to his feet. "Oh, no, don't bother," he adds, when Dusk makes to rise, and disappears onto the Improbable Stair a moment later.
Dusk abruptly realizes that both of his siblings are glaring at him.
"Do you remember?" Noon asks.
"No," Dusk says at the same time as Dawn goes, "Yes."
"Ah," Dusk mutters, disappointed. That would explain Dawn's anger, however. He wonders what it is about remembering rather than being told that would trigger such strong emotions, as it had with his siblings.
"He didn't tell you everything, either," Dawn says. "You-" Her breath catches in her throat and she dissolves into a coughing fit.
"Sister, are you all right?" Dusk asks, alarmed.
"Stop trying to talk about it," Noon says. "It won't work, he really doesn't know."
"What else can there possibly be?" Dusk demands.
Noon smiles, but it is rather colder than Dusk is accustomed to. "Plenty."
"Brother-"
"Don't you have duties to attend to?" Noon asks.
"I- yes," Dusk says, forcing himself to hold Noon's cold, accusatory glare. He retrieves his top hat from his room and leaves their lodgings; even after the door closes behind him, he imagines he can still feel his siblings' heavy stare.
So things had been different in the original House - that explains the dissonance Dusk had thought he was imagining. Despite this, he still has trouble sleeping and even though he knows the reasons behind his disorientation, it is hardly alleviated.
Dawn and Noon are noticeably colder to him now. Dusk wonders what he has done - had done? - to earn their animosity; whatever it was, it must have been terrible. His siblings are civil but they seem to spend more time together, subtly excluding Dusk without making a production of it. Their schedules are different enough that it is hardly noticeable, but Dusk knows they are doing it all the same. It is useless to ask, for they cannot speak of it to him.
The only one he dares ask is Mister Monday, who remains as bafflingly welcoming as ever. The Morrow Day smiles when Dusk asks for a moment to talk and immediately urges him to enter the office.
Dusk sits, unable to keep his hands still. His thumb traces the brim of his top hat restlessly, betraying his agitation. There are dark bags under his eyes, he knows, and his temper is fraying. His Midnight Visitors are on tenterhooks around him, although he tries not to take his ill mood out on them.
"I have done something," Dusk says, staring down at the carpet. "Or I had done something, in the old House. I don't know what, and Dawn and Noon cannot tell me, but I betrayed their trust." When he risks a glance at his master, Mister Monday's expression is frozen. "I- You remember, do you not, master? What did I do? How can I make amends?"
"Yours was not the betrayal," Mister Monday says, but he does not meet Dusk's eyes. "And it is unfair of your siblings to hold what happened against you. I will speak to them-"
"-no, please," Dusk says quickly. "I don't- I do not wish for them to be punished or anything like that. Everything is fine. I merely wish to understand."
Mister Monday's expression is disbelieving. "You are obviously distraught."
"I wish to understand," Dusk repeats. "But I suppose you are under the same restrictions as my siblings... I will have to wait until I remember, then I will find a way to regain their trust."
"You did not do anything wrong, Dusk," Mister Monday says.
"As you say," Dusk murmurs dully. "I must check on the Midnight Visitors." He flees, unable to bear Mister Monday's company any longer.
If he truly did nothing wrong, why was his master so earnest to assure him as much?
A few days later, Mister Monday sends Dusk to the Upper House to consult Dr. Saturday. Apparently Dusk's continued ill health - there is no other word for it, though the concept of health is hardly applicable to Denizens - is cause for enough worry that Dusk's master wishes for him to be checked by the foremost sorceror of the House. Dusk is merely glad that neither of his siblings are around to witness that conversation.
The elevator opens on a deserted hallway. There is only one door, opposite the elevator, with frosted glass. Dusk checks his watch - he is exactly on time - and knocks on the door.
"Just a moment!" a masculine voice, pleasant enough that it can only belong to a very superior Denizen, calls. A bluish blob approaches, distorted by the glass, and a moment later the door opens to reveal a tall Denizen clad in tasteful blue clothes. His face - his entire head - is covered with animated tattoos.
"Ah, N- Dusk," Dr. Saturday says, peering through cracked spectacles at the Time. On his cheeks, an image of a lookout on a ship suddenly spots an island. "Is it that time already- but of course, I have lost track of time again."
The sorceror leads Dusk into the room, which seems to take up the entire floor. There is an area just inside the door that obviously serves as Dr. Saturday's office, though it is not partitioned off from the rest of the massive space. There are all sorts of objects for experiments, rows of bookshelves off to the side, arrayed seemingly without reason around the office area.
"It's a bit messy," Dr. Saturday says, bypassing the desk and leading Dusk to an examination table. He peruses various documents stacked upon it before shoving them off and gesturing for Dusk to sit.
Dusk sits.
"How have you been?" Dr. Saturday asks, puttering around looking for something.
"As well as could be expected, I suppose, considering," Dusk says. He is supposed to know this Denizen - formerly Dr. Scamandros, Wednesday's Dusk, according to Art - but he really doesn't.
"Considering?" Dr. Saturday says distractedly, rapidly rifling through a filing cabinet that does not seem to contain any files. Junk, certainly, from what Dusk can see from this angle, but no files.
"Considering everyone expects me to remember the events of the original House but won't tell me what I am supposed to remember, specifically. And whatever it is must be awful because my siblings loathe me and I don't know why."
Dr. Saturday straightens, another pair of cracked spectacles in his hand and an owlish look on his face at the vehemence of Dusk's words. "Ah. That is, well, unfortunate." He tries to shut the drawer but the junk within has been displaced enough that it no longer closes properly. Scowling, he shoves the junk down and kicks it shut.
Dusk laughs bitterly as the sorceror approaches. "That's one word for it."
"Without you, things could not have turned out as they have," Dr. Saturday says carefully, setting the second pair of glasses on his forehead.
"But things are better, aren't they?" Dusk asks.
"They are," Dr. Saturday agrees. He blinks, studying Dusk in silence for several moments. "Do you dream?" he asks.
"Denizens do not dream," Dusk says.
A tattooed ship crosses the bridge of Dr. Saturday's nose and suddenly runs across a reef, toppling and shedding hapless sailors as it goes. Is Dr. Saturday surprised?
"New Denizens dream," Dr. Saturday corrects him. "Strange, that you should have memories of how things were for Old Denizens but no memories of actual events."
"I wish I remembered!" Dusk snaps, tensing.
"I believe you," Dr. Saturday assures him, unbothered by his rudeness. "It is merely... odd." He tilts his head, still scrutinizing Dusk. "Do you know if your siblings dream?"
"I don't. We don't really talk anymore, not since they remembered," Dusk says.
Dr. Saturday makes a thoughtful noise. "I did not dream at first either. I was still wholly an Old Denizen when Art brought me back, before we decided on the changes to be made. New Denizens can dream, for one thing," he adds when Dusk opens his mouth to ask about the changes. "We feel more passionately, as mortals do. We have the same capabilities as mortals, though we are not as creative. We can have sex, though I do not think many take advantage of this."
Dusk looks at him blankly.
"Well, there are other changes but they are hardly relevant now. You do seem more passionate," Dr. Saturday continues. "But you don't dream..."
"What is there to dream about," Dusk mutters, looking away. He glances at the chaos of the room disinterestedly; it is better than meeting Dr. Saturday's incisive stare.
"I do not always remember when I dream," Dr. Saturday says. "Perhaps it is the same with you. Dreams are strange things. They often do not make sense; other times, they manifest close enough to reality that one mistakes them for such. Sometimes I dream about events from the first House; perhaps it is the same with you. That could explain your disorientation - you cannot remember the details of your dreams, but the impressions are enough to confuse you."
"How do you know about that?" Dusk demands.
"Mister Monday told me," Dr. Saturday says. "He is worried about you. You do look unwell."
"Well, I'm sure this will help," Dusk says scathingly.
Dr. Saturday sighs. "I can understand your anger. But Art has made it so none of us may speak of what happened with those not in the know. Since you do not know what you- what happened," he amends quickly, "then none of us can tell you. Art could tell you, but I do not think he will. He omitted it for a reason. You will have to remember on your own."
"Is that all?" Dusk asks. "You think I dream of the past, which is why I am disoriented. Perhaps I will recover my memories of the original House, though I have yet to regain anything. I do not think knowing this will help with the disorientation."
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Dr. Saturday says, removing the second pair of spectacles and stuffing them into his breast pocket. "I do not know how to help you. Humans could prescribe medication to help one sleep, but there is no equivalent for Denizens, I'm afraid."
Dusk nods. "I see."
"If you ever want to talk... I am aware that I have only frustrated you further, but perhaps I can be of help in the future. Do not hesitate to call, or come see me in person," Dr. Saturday says, stepping back to allow Dusk to stand.
"Thank you," Dusk says; Dr. Saturday does not remark upon the obvious insincerity in his voice and they walk out of the room in silence.
"Good luck," Dr. Saturday says, as they wait for the elevator.
That isn't ominous at all, Dusk thinks. He nods in acknowledgement, but thankfully the elevator arrives before the conversation can continue.
The doors slide shut, but Dusk hesitates to press the button for Monday's Dayroom. There are other people he can ask, without resorting to asking Art, who probably won't tell him anyway.
Dusk reaches up, all the way to the top, and presses the button for Lady Suzy's office on the Elysium.
Sunday's Noon glances up only briefly, then returns to the task at hand when he sees who it is. "You again," he says, sounding bored.
Dusk glances around the terrace, but it seems otherwise deserted. "Are you busy?"
"I could be, if this is going to be unpleasant," Sunday's Noon says, looking up again, this time with undisguised suspicion.
"I imagine it will only be unpleasant for me," Dusk says, walking over.
Sunday's Noon raises his eyebrows, obviously intrigued. "Do tell," he drawls, gesturing. A chair sprouts from the ground in front of the desk. Dusk sits in it carefully.
"I don't remember the original House," he says without preamble. "I did something, but no one will tell me what. Mister Monday and Dr. Saturday say it wasn't something bad, but my siblings hate me."
"Siblings," Sunday's Noon mutters, scowling. "They are a disagreeable breed."
Dusk doesn't comment on that; he has no idea what kind of relationship the former Lord Sunday had with his brothers, nor does he wish to know. "Was it... terrible? I know you can't tell me what I did, but I need to know if I committed an unforgivable sin."
Sunday's Noon blinks, then suddenly starts laughing. "That is an interesting choice of words. No, what you did was hardly a sin, Monday's Dusk," he says. "I can't say we ever met in any meaningful way before the advent of the New House, but I imagine you did what you thought was for the best. As ever, people are bound to disagree when it comes to something like that."
"So you disagreed," Dusk surmises.
"I hardly cared, at the time. You - the entirety of the Lower House, for that matter - were far beneath my notice," Sunday's Noon says bluntly. "But yes. I came to... disagree with what you did." He leans back, a thoughtful expression on his face. "However, if Mister Monday can forgive you then I see no reason why your siblings cannot."
"I went against my master?"
"You-" Sunday's Noon stops, frowning. "I cannot say it. I can understand your reasons for doing what you did, shall we say."
"That is not comforting," Dusk says.
"Oh," Sunday's Noon deadpans, "I was unaware you were seeking comfort. If so, Lady Suzy is in her office."
Dusk tenses at the thought. No. He has had enough people assure him that what he did was justified. He would rather have this condescending honesty than... that.
"He'll probably come back soon," Sunday's Noon muses.
"Who-?"
"I mean, it's been years. His family is dead. That girl is dead. I don't know what else is keeping him from the House, except perhaps his anger," the other Time continues, ignoring him. He taps his fingers against his desk thoughtfully. "Unless..." He falls silent, gazing at some fixed point that Dusk cannot fathom. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to take a message to Mister Monday?" Sunday's Noon asks, abruptly refocusing on Dusk.
"I could," Dusk says, frowning. "Who were you talking about?"
"Perhaps you'll find out," Sunday's Noon says pleasantly, producing a piece of parchment and a pot of green ink. His writing is, unsurprisingly, elegant. Dusk cannot read the words upside down, but there's no mistaking the graceful flow of his letters.
The Incomparable Gardens are never silent. Dusk can hear crickets chirping, the rustling of leaves and branches in the wind, distant voices rising up from the surrounding Beds. The scratching of Sunday's Noon's quill over the parchment is more immediate, though hardly loud enough to drown out the rest of the sounds.
A few minutes later, Sunday's Noon blots the ink dry and folds the parchment with brisk, practiced motions into an envelope. He produces a bit of green wax for a seal and presses a thumb to it.
"There," Sunday's Noon says, pushing the envelope across the desk to Dusk.
He picks it up, briefly examining the seal; rather than the thumbprint he was expecting, there is an elaborate, cursive 'S', with a much smaller 'N' beside it pressed into the wax.
"Will that be all?" Dusk can't stop himself from asking.
Sunday's Noon smirks; there is a sharp, almost predatory look in his eyes that Dusk does not like. "I believe so, Monday's Dusk. Now leave. I have work to do and the sun won't move itself."
Dusk inclines his head and departs for Mister Monday's office immediately.
His master reads the letter in silence, brows drawing lower and lower the further he reads. He is frowning quite a lot by the time he sets the parchment aside, at just such an angle so the folds prevent Dusk from reading anything.
"Are you truly so discontent?" Mister Monday asks at last. Dusk looks at him blankly and Mister Monday winces. "Ah. I see."
"What did the letter say?" Dusk asks.
"Denizens' very beings are no longer inimical to the Secondary Realms," Mister Monday says. "Sunday, that is, Sunday's Noon suggests a holiday."
"What," Dusk says blankly.
Which is how Dusk finds himself standing in a park, clad in the current fashions of Earth and feeling terribly exposed for it. He had never really appreciated the Victorian fashions favoured by in the House before, but they are vastly superior to these tight-fitting... jeans and the baggy shirt.
"I thought holidays were supposed to be relaxing," he mutters to himself, but forces himself to start walking along the path. Mister Monday could still be watching him through the Seven Dials for all he knows, and he supposes he should try to take advantage of this so-called holiday while he can.
He pulls the hood of his aptly-named hoodie up, which makes him feel a bit better, though it earns him some suspicious glances from the humans sharing the path with him. Apparently wearing a hood on such a beautiful day is not done. Dusk is unused to operating in the middle of day, especially in the Secondary Realms. It seems that in addition to making Denizens' presence safe, Art has also lifted the hour-long restriction on Times visiting the Secondary Realms.
If Dusk ignores the way the humans give him a wide berth, the walk is almost... pleasant. There are children laughing, a lower hum of adults conversing and, every so often, the excited barking of a dog. He sits briefly on a bench and watches children clambering about a brightly-coloured structure until the vaguely hostile glares of supervising parents drive him away.
It is a large park, Dusk reflects as he passes into a more heavily-wooded area. The air is cooler here, the sounds of humanity muffled by the distance and the trees. People bike or jog or run past alone or in pairs, brief interruptions of sound before the wild settles back in, disturbed only by Dusk's soft footsteps.
Another runner approaches from the opposite direction but Dusk pays them little mind. There is a family of squirrels in the tree just off the path, and he observes them with interest, tilting his head up to see. His hood slips off his head, but he ignores it too.
The runner passes him, then pauses, footsteps slowing to a halt.
"Noon?" The voice is slightly different than he remembers, deeper, tone disbelieving, but he knows who the speaker is before he turns around.
Arthur Penhaligon is older, of course. Mid-thirties, though it must have been half a century at least since he returned to Earth. Longer, surely, if Sunday was telling the truth about his family and Miss Leaf being dead. He resembles Art and yet is totally different. There is a scar on his chin and lines around his eyes but he is totally familiar, utterly recognizable as the boy he helped become the Rightful Heir and Ruler of the House.
He remembers-
watching Mister Monday fall into sloth and the Lower House with him
gifting a poor, hapless Inspector Fourth Grade with a snuffbox
raising his blade to his brother so that Arthur could get to their master
saying "I would like to stand in the light," and stealing what was rightfully his brother's
arguing with his siblings, hiding his doubts (surely Dame Primus had a reason for taking so long to set things right, surely)
teaching Suzy Turquoise Blue, Monday's Tierce, how to fence
finding Monday's body, blue blood still leaking from the wounds that killed him
abandoning the Lower House as Nothing swallowed it, fighting in the Upper House and reaching the Incomparable Gardens
watching in horror as Nothing destroyed his comrades, having mere seconds to contemplate this before
-everything.
"Noon-!"
He remembers nothing more.
Dusk- Noon- He wakes up in an unfamiliar room, but that is nothing new. It is smaller than he is accustomed to, decorated not in the shades of black and grey as his room in the Lower House is, nor in the bright yellows and reds of the room he'd occupied in the old House, as Monday's Noon.
(But he was Arthur's Noon, really; Monday had had nothing to do with it by then.)
This room is painted light blue, with white blinds and several cluttered bookshelves along one wall. There is a desk with a sleek contraption that he recognizes as a laptop - new technology is being introduced to the House, but slowly. Slumped in the desk chair is Arthur Penhaligon, his neck resting at an awkward angle, mouth hanging open slightly. Arthur's chest rises and falls evenly as he sleeps.
I didn't remember because I didn't want to remember, he realizes. He hadn't wanted to remember the House as it was, ruined and still beautiful, all the Denizens that he knew that were now gone, destroyed because he had helped a portion of the Will escape. Oh, he can justify it all he wants but billions of beings are gone because of his actions and nothing can change that.
It is a strange and terrible thing, realizing that oneself is a coward.
His eyes feel hot; they sting, and he curls up on his side, back to Arthur as the tears begin to leak out. He has never cried before. Under other circumstances, it might have been a novel experience. He presses his face into the pillow, which can smell only of Arthur, and bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, determined not to make a single sound.
"Noon?" It comes out sleepy, a little confused.
"That is not my name," he says, voice ragged and wet. Futilely, he pulls the covers over his head, as if that can block out the cold reality of... everything.
"Dusk, then," Arthur amends, sounding more alert.
But Dusk does not sound right either. He had willingly forsaken that name and it is wrong to be addressed as such now.
"Don't call me that. Leave me alone," he demands.
Arthur mutters something that sounds like it's my house but there's shuffling and the sound of footsteps, so he assumes Arthur has stood up. "I'm going to make something to eat. You can come down if you're hungry."
He doesn't reply. The door clicks shut quietly behind Arthur. He doesn't know how long he lies there, weeping, but at some point he must fall asleep.
He wakes up, heart pounding and soaked with sweat. He throws the blanket off his head, squinting in the light streaming through the window. He is whole. Safe.
He had been consumed by Nothing in a moment, with no time to register it happening much less experience any pain, but it seems that with his memories have come dreams and nightmares that he now has the luxury of recalling when he wakes. The sensation of being slowly disintegrated by Nothing, imagined or not, is hardly something he wishes to experience again.
The laptop is gone, though the door is still closed. He wonders if Arthur took it with him when he left the first time or if he returned to retrieve it while he was asleep.
... He should apologize.
He stands up, runs a hand through his hair. It is damp with sweat and probably sticking up in all directions now. He grimaces at the thought and realizes that he is clad only in the t-shirt (grey, of course) and the pair of boxers that Monday had supplied for this holiday.
Some holiday, he thinks uncharitably, then regrets it. He is the reason Monday died. That Monday has apparently forgiven him for it is... unthinkable. He is undeserving of such forgiveness. His siblings' cold shoulder was letting him off easy.
His jeans and hoodie are folded up on the desk, he sees. He dresses quickly. There are significantly less layers to these 'modern' clothes than the Victorian attire still prevalent in the House, so he supposes that is one thing the current Earth fashion has going for it.
There is a mirror hanging on the back of the door. He studies his reflection in the mirror. How long was he unconscious or asleep? The bags under his eyes seem to have lessen, though he still looks like he could use more sleep. The redness lingering around his eyes is new. His brows and lips are pulled downward into a frown which he cannot shake no matter how he tries to relax his features. After a few moments, he gives up and moves on. As expected, his hair is a mess. He smoothes it down with more success and then tells himself to stop stalling.
He finds himself in a short hallway at the top of a set of stairs. There are two other doors, one leading to a modest bathroom and the other to another bedroom, this one more sparsely decorated than the one he had woken in.
Did Arthur put him in his bedroom?
He pushes the baffling thought away and descends the stairs. There is the faint scent of something cooking; his stomach growls at the thought, although he is utterly unaccustomed to hunger. It was always optional in the House, and he had never lingered in the Secondary Realms long enough to be affected by such a thing. In truth, he had thought it unnecessary for Denizens; perhaps this is another of Art's modifications for the New Denizens.
Arthur is seated at one end of a messy dining room table, one knee drawn up to his chest as he taps away at the laptop. There is a used plate at his elbow, the crusts from one half of a sandwich and the partially eaten second half sitting upon it. A half-drunk glass of water is on the other side. The rest of the table is covered in documents, though they are in orderly stacks and presumably organized in some method known to Arthur.
He pulls out the chair beside Arthur, the legs scraping across the hardwood floor. Arthur startles, his elbow hitting the glass; he catches it before it can spill.
"Thanks," Arthur says, offering him a small but genuine smile.
"I'm sorry for startling you," he says, setting the glass back on the table, out of reach of Arthur's elbow.
"Don't worry about it," Arthur says dismissively, returning to the screen. "Let me just finish this up."
He nods, sitting patiently as Arthur types out something or other. He takes the time to gather his thoughts as he studies the room. It is not immaculate, though neither is it a mess. Tidy, he thinks. There are various knickknacks on shelves and tables, an eclectic collection that he finds charming. The place is not as put together and coordinated as a dwelling in the House might be, but he finds he prefers this obviously lived-in house.
"Hungry?" Arthur asks, closing the lid of the laptop and turning to regard him fully.
"A bit. I can cook something," he says.
"No, no." Arthur waves him off, rising. "I've got some leftovers or I can make you a grilled cheese. I don't have much else kicking around right now, though."
He follows Arthur into the kitchen anyway. (He would follow Arthur anywhere; this has not changed.) "Anything sounds good."
Arthur grins crookedly, one side of his mouth rising. "You never were demanding," he says, but it is neither judgement nor compliment; merely a statement of fact. It does not sound like Arthur wants or needs an answer, so he says nothing in response to that,
"I'm sorry for my behaviour earlier," he says as Arthur bends to rummage around in the fridge. Arthur is still wearing the loose t-shirt and equally baggy sweatpants he'd been wearing for the run in the park; his shirt rides up and his sweatpants barely cling to his hips, exposing a section at the small of his back; for some reason, the sight makes his mouth go dry.
"Don't worry about it," Arthur repeats, coming up with a bowl of something. "I called the House. This prick named Sunday's Noon explained what's up." He kicks the door closed and wanders over to the microwave.
"Do you know who he is?" he asks, scarcely knowing what he is saying, only that he should say something to hide the strange direction his thoughts have taken.
"Sunday's Noon? No, should I? I assumed he was a 'New Denizen'." Arthur leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as the food heats up.
"He is the former Lord Sunday," he says.
Arthur blinks rapidly, obviously surprised. "... Huh. That explains why he was such an asshole. How many did he bring back?"
"I don't know. Myself, Dawn and- and Noon," he says, stumbling over what to call his brother. "Dr. Scamandros, the Sorcerous Supernumerary that helped Suzy... Fred Gold. The Reaper. And Mister Monday, of course."
Arthur nods thoughtfully. "He lied to me too, you know."
"... Oh?"
The microwave dings and Arthur removes the bowl, cursing a bit and quickly placing it on the counter. "Hot," he mutters, pressing his fingers to his mouth.
The Denizen drags his eyes away from the scene and starts opening drawers, searching for cutlery.
"Second- yeah," Arthur says, when he opens the correct one. "Grab some for me too? I'm kind of hungry still."
Arthur divides the food - spaghetti - up into equal portions and they eat at the counter, despite there being a perfectly serviceable dinette a few steps away.
"Yeah, he lied about me being mortal," Arthur says between bites. He sounds bitter but resigned. "I guess I can see why, but... I don't know. He told me I wouldn't get sick, which was fine. I never liked my asthma anyway, and getting sick wasn't great. But I thought I would live a mortal life and die." He falls silent, staring at the wall opposite them.
"You were both very young," he points out carefully.
Arthur looks at him sharply, startled. "... You're right," he says. "I suppose I just thought... Because he was the Architect and he looked older and everything... But it's not as if he had any more experiences than I did."
He does not reply, for it sounds as if Arthur is thinking aloud more than addressing him, and concentrates on finishing his food.
"Well, it was a bit of a shock when I hit thirty and stopped aging, anyway," Arthur finally says, rueful.
He chuckles. "I imagine it was."
Arthur sets his empty plate aside, grinning in return. "So, what should I call you?"
He puts his own plate down, thinking. He is not Monday's Noon any longer; in any case, his brother is Noon once more, and it would sound wrong to ask to be called Noon. He is also not Monday's Dusk, the one who was beneath his siblings and stood in the shadows or the recreated one with no memory of his past.
But Denizens are not immutable and static any longer. Why should he be? There is no reason that Monday's Dusk cannot continue to move forward; he is already changed, something new. Not necessarily improved, though perhaps something more.
"Dusk, I think," he says. "I know what I said before, but-"
"-OK. Dusk," Arthur repeats easily. "So tell me about the New House, Dusk."
Dusk smiles at him, helplessly, and does.
A/N: Smutty, slashy coda forthcoming... not that I think anyone will want to read that orz